We Went Home for a Hookup and Started Arguing About Toasties

Tamsin kissed me beside her fridge, pressed right up against me with her fingers under my belt, and my stomach responded with a noise no decent person would mistake for encouragement.

She pulled back. "Have you eaten?"

"Chips. Earlier."

"How much earlier?"

"Before I met you and became distracted."

We were both forty. We'd spent three hours flirting and arrived at her flat with very clear intentions. Unfortunately, my body wanted cheese first.

She offered food, and I offered an opinion

"Toastie?" she asked.

Easy question. Sensible answer: yes, thank you. Instead, I watched her pick up the mayonnaise. "What's that for?"

"Outside of the bread."

"Butter goes outside."

Tamsin turned around slowly. "You've been here eight minutes, Daniel."

"I'm comfortable expressing myself."

"Apparently. Make your own, then."

We washed our hands and stood at opposite ends of a very small bench. She used two cheeses, tomato and pickles. I used one cheese and the moral certainty of a man who'd never been challenged.

"Tomato makes it soggy," I said.

"Keep talking. You're making yourself less likely to get fucked."

I stopped talking. Briefly.

The competition delayed things

We cooked one each, then split them. Mine was good. Hers was also good, and that was irritating.

"Well?"

"Nice."

She took a second bite of mine. "Very plain."

"Large bite for something so disappointing."

We stood against the bench, eating. She had a crumb on her cheek. I pointed, and she wiped the wrong side. So I moved in and brushed it away, and this time, when we kissed, my stomach kept its bloody opinions to itself. She tasted like pickles, and I've never been so turned on by a pickle in my life. Her thigh slid between mine.

Then she whispered, "Mine was better."

"That was a cheap tactic."

"It worked."

We wrote scores on an old envelope. Crisp bread. Melted cheese. Would eat again. Tamsin added a category: "How much the cook deserves to be taken to bed."

"Biased," I said.

"You're welcome to withdraw."

I gave her full marks.

We found out why we cared so much

Her dad used to make them on Sundays from whatever was left in the fridge. My mum made plain cheese toasties after a rotten day, with no questions until I'd eaten. Tamsin looked at my remaining half, and then at me.

"All right. I understand yours."

"And I admit the pickles work."

"Fuck. Significant evening for you."

I washed the pan. She dried it, and then she put down the tea towel, and took hold of the front of my shirt.

"Finished arguing?"

"For now."

"Good. Come here."

We didn't make it out of the kitchen for the first bit. That small bench turned out to be just the right height, and a lot more sturdy than it looked. I'll say this for a woman who knows what she likes: she doesn't leave you guessing. She'd told me exactly what to do with my mouth before I'd got her jeans off, and she rated that too. Full marks, she said, once she could speak. Would eat again.

Two days later, she invited me back. "Dinner's sorted," she wrote. "I have other plans for you."

I promised not to bring bread. I did leave some good butter in her fridge, though. The mayonnaise question remains unresolved.

More after-hours reading

Read about the date interrupted by a doona cover, or our real guide to talking about staying over after a hookup.