Flint is leaning over the bathtub, elbow-deep in a bucket.
‘It’s still really watery,’ he says. I watch as he stirs the mixture with his hand and arm. It’s been a couple of minutes and we’re palpably anxious.
‘Oh,’ says Flint and his face lights up. ‘That’s it.’
He scoops bright green slime from the bucket and lets it drop decadently back down. I stick my fingertips in. It’s warm and viscous and intriguing.
Half an hour or so earlier, we were staring at a deflated paddling pool in Flint’s living room. Big enough to fit about four people relatively comfortably, it took some inflating. One of us worked his foot-powered bike pump while the other watched nervously, before taking over for a while.
This evening is a long time coming, and the frisson of anticipation raises my hackles. The admin involved in setting up the situation only serves to add to the tension. We methodically lay dust sheets on the floor and also leading to the bathroom, blow up the blue and white paddling pool, and adjourn to mix the slime in a bucket in the bath. We huddle together, near giggling and watching as it coagulates, occasionally prodding it to check the process. It’s intimate and bonding, and we’re not even naked.
Flint broached the subject carefully over some months at the beginning of our relationship. Exploring kinks was an important part of our conversation as I eased into a regular sex life after years of not being able to. I was an empty notebook; Flint had a vivid imagination. There were teasers along the way: talk of “oils” and “writhing” and an unspoken “thing”. I was patient until he was ready to share.
If you’d told me even six months ago that one day I’d be about to fuck in a paddling pool filled with green slime, I would have been worried about how intensely my life was about to change. Turns out, it’s normal. Not the green slime bit, that’s a bit off-beat, but the transition from celibacy to ragingly active wasn’t a huge deal. Sex is both an incredibly important part of life and the most inconsequential thing. I’ve experienced a dead bedroom and BDSM, and adapted pretty solidly to both. I had to learn what I want from a sex life. I want it to be fun and relaxing and intense and overwhelming and everything in between – even the times when nobody comes, or you’re too tired to fuck, or you just want to cuddle, or you can’t be bothered. To feel safe in my desire, unjudged and supported.
We’re kneeling in the paddling pool wearing just our underwear, shivering a little with both apprehension and chill.
‘Do you want to go first?’
He dips a measuring jug into the bucket of slime and pours it over me. I’m initially surprised by the warmth, and I gasp as it pools briefly on my head before the weight of it flattens my hair and drips down my face. Flint looks utterly blissful. I glance down to see that he is so hard. The slime continues to trickle down my shoulders and onto my breasts. I rub it in and it coats my body, slippery and obscene.
It’s my turn with the measuring jug. Neither of us can stop gasping involuntarily; these are entirely new sensation for us both and it’s a little hard to take in. I pour some down the front of his boxer briefs and give him a squeeze. We press our bodies together and kiss, wriggling against one another and delighting in the fun, naughtiness and decadence of what we’re doing.
When you break it down to bare bones, fucking in a paddling pool full of slime is pretty similar to fucking in a dry bed – just with added elements, like when cinemas show films in 4D. I suck his cock, although he initially resists, worried I’ll have to taste the slime. I’m pretty sure it’s non-toxic, so I’m unbothered. I’m more worried about the potential yeast infection I’m letting myself in for, but it turns out this stuff is golden on that front too. And it acts as a pretty good lube. We don’t do anything wild, we’re just enjoying our bodies with an extra sensation.
Maybe I’m being a bit too glib about this. Flint tells me this has been the one big thing he’s wanted to do ever since he realised it turned him on. He was more nervous than I was, because, if things hadn’t been amazing, it could have ruined his most overarching fantasy.
There’s a moment where I lie back in the slime and drip it over my body, reveling in its silvery feel, and I look up at him for a second. It’s like an arthouse film; everything feels like it’s in slow motion and he’s smiling – maybe laughing – with me as I’m really feeling myself, the situation and living, without pressure or expectation, in the moment.
The aftermath is messy and slippery, we slide our way to the bathroom and shower off. We wipe down the walls, clean the paddling pool and check his flat for slivers of bright green. I feel different now. Now, sometimes, I dream of an unknowable silkiness and a sepia-toned smile.