William Cooper does not rub fake into his proud member, it turns out, I know, because I saw it.
I was seated next to him at dinner. Cooper, it quickly7 became clear, was very much on for it: what started off as mildly flirtatious banter, of the kind you might have with your husband’s half-gaga great-uncle, turned into something rather fuller on as the evening progressed and the claret flowed. I went along with it: everyone enjoys being flirted with, and I haven’t had anyone flirt with me for ages. Not exactly subtle, though, Mr Cooper’s flirting, consisting as it did of double entendres, compliments addressed to my bosoms and much flashing of his weirdly white teeth. Funnily, the harder he flirted, the more I found myself flirting back (the wine helped, as did his face). His technique may have been unspeakably naff, but in the half light, he really looked pretty sexy.
And then it was pudding: a cheese plate, passion fruit crême brulée and imported figs. I’d turned to my left to speak to George Bigsby ( I was right about Tree: absolutely riddled with allergies to wheat, dairy, fish and alcohol, poor thing) when i felt my calf being stroken by somebody’s foot – somebody’s cashmere-sock-clad foot, by the feel of things. I stared at George, who stared back somewhat blankly, and then turned my head to my right. William Cooper winked, and carried on stroking. The stroking was oddly vigorous –like having a good rubdown – rather sensual, but none the worse for it. Looking around the table, I noticed that everyone was deep in conversation. I turned back to William to say something – I wasn’t sure what – but one look at his face left me (and this is quite a rare occurrence) absolutely speechless. Cooper was performing cunnilingus on a fig.
From the book Don’t you want me? By India Knight
