We spoke the same language, but with so much unidentified slang and different accents, I had to ask people often to repeat what they were saying. And they the same for me. But not with him. He was well travelled, traveling to the US many times for his work, so he had a adapted ear and did not require a American like myself to repeat myself too often. And thank God for that, because it was tiring and a constant reminder how far from home I was. It had been in this very pub were we first met. I had heard about the British tradition for having a couple pints with mates after work. I ventured in one night after work alone, feeling and looking painfully out of place. I sat at a small empty table near the bar and when the bar maid came over to ask what I wanted, I pointed over to a rowdy crowd of young men at the end of the L-shaped bar. They seemed to be having a blast, so I asked for, "Whatever they were having." The waitress raised her eyebrows and hesitated, looking at my small frame.. Last night I climaxed and it was the most overwhelming experience but I guess that in my inexperience I cannot replicate it now. I have to concentrate hard as I try to dial Dr Carter as my burning desire makes it hard to co-ordinate on the buttons and to my disappointment I get his ansaphone. I leave a message telling him that something has gone terribly wrong with yesterday's treatment and can he please ring back immediately. Meanwhile I concentrate on the task in hand, the serious business of trying to bring relief to my demanding pussy. The morning drags slowly on with straining, prodding and pushing punctuated by groans, wails, occasional banging from next door's wall and my increasingly desperate calls to the the doctor but he just isn't returning my calls. Finally when I am considering going round on the off chance, the phone rings. I find it very difficult trying to tell him the problem. I blush and stammer trying to explain that my body is on fire and I can't stop "touching.
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