The Meaning of Sex

Lucky With My Loves

2012-01-26T18:23:00.000+00:00

Lying in bed, half-sleepy, waiting for the alarm to go off, dreamily thinking about women.

The sense of Laura still working its warm magic, our secret exchanged glances, her smile, her skin’s need for a man’s touch. Strange how the decision not to pursue her feels like liberation. Now and forever, we’ll be perfect lovers, unspoiled by physical contact or disappointment or actuality or life’s grinding down.

Just like the student at the supermarket, my day lights up every time I see her. Sometimes our eyes meet, there’s a mysterious connection, fleeting but unmistakeable, like a small electric shock. Other times, we pass each other unacknowledged, afraid of overexposure, exchange glances too often and it’ll become formulaic, tiresome.

The light outside beginning to seep through the curtains, not much longer now and the alarm will go off. But still a bit longer to doze and dream.

Laura and the student, both of them like a fragrance, transforming the world, difficult to capture, easy to tire of. Best to be taken by surprise, enjoy the ravishment whilst it’s there, accept its fading away, hope that perchance it returns one day.

Lying back, feeling happy. Lucky to have two such women, even if only in my mind.

Then there’s Jane. The polar opposite. Laura and the student, they float into my life, wonderful while they’re there, fundamentally unnoticeable when they’re not. Jane, she’s wired into my basic make-up, it’s impossible to imagine how life would have been if I’d never met her.

Strange how her sexual escapades don’t make any real difference. Just like when I heard she’d got married, I still felt close to her. My own exclusive closeness, unaffected by her having taken a husband. Or now, sexual clients. If anything, her adventurousness makes me yearn for her more.

Or Jenny, for whom I’m a sexual client amongst many. I wonder if she too has a special man, one she’s known since childhood, someone she emails with stories of what she’s done.

The alarm clock starting its ring. Reaching over, turning it off. Rising. Thinking, that list could go on and on, I’ve been lucky with my loves.

Moaning In Pleasure

2012-01-22T11:16:00.000+00:00

Something to brighten up my day, an email from Jane.

Hi darling R, how’re things? they’re pretty sweet here with me, for the first time in about ten years i don’t have to worry about money, my little sexual adventures seem to be a nice little earner, all cash, taxman doesn’t get a dime.

One of my friends has a job as an office administrator, the other day she told me what she takes home every month, it was less than i do. and i don’t have to do the office hour thing. or get bossed about by some self-important manager.

Anyway i promised to tell you about that naughty thing i did, so here goes. there’s this guy that’s taken a bit of a fancy to me, first i knew about it was when the other girls started teasing me about it. well he led me to our special room for private sessions, not that they’re private because there are peepholes for anyone to watch, the idea is just that you can only go in if the people inside invite you, you can’t just join in like everywhere else.

So we get there and basically he wants me to kneel on the bed with my butt in the air and my shoulders down and my hands pulling my cheeks apart, so he can kneel behind me and lick me out. that was fine, it’s quite relaxing to be worked on by a man’s tongue, in fact, before i started this job i remember fantasizing about it quite a lot.

Then i felt his tongue just starting to explore my asshole, and you know what R, it took me right back to student days when you used to do that, i remember being a bit surprised at first but liking it more and more. but i had forgotten about it somehow, and this guy awakened my desire for it.

Anyway, the next thing i know, his tongue is deep inside my ass and he must have been playing with himself because he suddenly stiffens and ejaculates all over the bed and rolls over, his body all limp and a happy smile all over his face.

He told me later that the thing that made him cum was that apparently i’d been moaning in pleasure, it was the first time he’s done that with a woman who actually seemed to be turned on by it. other women either won’t let him do it, like his wife, or will do it but only on sufferance.

So there we are, R, my naughty thing, it reminded me of you. love Jxxx,

That Steamy Sex We Never Had

2012-01-19T18:41:00.000+00:00

Driving back from the pub, mind filled with Laura. My wife chattering away pleasantly. Hey that was fun, those were good people, for some reason we only seem to get together about once a year, probably less, I don’t think you could make it last Christmas, probably won’t see them again now for ages.

This sad fact slowly percolating into my thoughts. Difficult to know what to do about Laura. Get her phone number from my wife somehow? How? Could invent a pretext, I suppose. Ring her up, arrange to meet for a coffee?

Rain coming down outside. My wife turning on the wipers. Traffic headlights twinkling. Light leeching from the sky. Nondescript music on the car radio. A dull damp day’s end, memory of Laura the only glow.

So we meet up for coffee. What then? Proposition her? Hard not to, our bodies seemed to be reaching out to one another. But maybe that’s just my imagination, what happens if I’ve read it wrong? Well, so what?, that’s just part of the great seduction game.

Except that this wouldn’t just be a normal rejection, where you just feel a bit embarrassed, then get on with your life, forget about it all. This would filter out into my wife’s circle of friends, Laura would whisper the story to one of them, the secret would be out, before long everybody would know, R made a pass at Laura.

Just like the news of Laura’s sexless marriage, no doubt a secret once, now common knowledge.

In the car, my wife concentrating on the road, both hands on the steering wheel. Her face with its characteristic expression of focus and care and awareness. Also somehow a sense of innocence.

Not someone lightly to betray. Or, if betrayal there must be, as with my escort adventures, let it be contained, not certain of discovery. And let it be remote, not amongst friends.

Oh well, Laura, I’m going to have to let you go. Fare thee well, gorgeous lover that never was. That steamy sex we never had, my fingertips imagined on your intimate body, it was wonderful.

Febrile Fantasies

2012-01-16T09:37:00.000+00:00

Driving to Hampstead Heath, thinking about Laura. Since meeting at the party, hardly able to do anything but. Waking up before dawn, seeing her image in the dark, her face, her eyes, her smile. The sense of a connection. The feel of her hand on my cheek as she kissed me goodbye.

Suffusing her image, knowledge of her marital state, a cold husband, sexlessness. Mirror of my own situation. Her heart and mine, beating in lonely unison. Her skin in need of the touch of a caring man. Her neck’s nape waiting for lips’ caresses. My fingers on her shoulders massaging out their tension. Kisses on her spine.

And now here I am driving with my wife to see her on a grey winter morning, thinking, I must still be an adolescent, thinking like that, febrile fantasies set off by a chance encounter. Time for a cool head.

Meeting up with everyone, saying hello, hugs and pecked cheeks all round. No Laura. The day’s excitement deflating. Setting off on the walk, London’s skyline on the grey horizon. Some kites sailing off with the brisk wind, tugging their strings. My friends making amiable conversation. My responses sounding wooden to me, but nobody apparently noticing.

Somebody saying, hey, hurry up, we’re supposed to be meeting the others, we’re running late. My heart lifting. Which others? Unable to ask, don’t want to show too much interest.

Walking into a pub, bumping into a crowd of people coming the other way. Jostling around. Looking sideways by chance. There, three feet away, Laura. Looking at me. Our eyes meeting. An unexpected coincidence.

Smiling at her. Her face smiling back. Somehow, within the smiles, a sense of additional information, a mutual recognition, something beyond words. Her hair darker and shorter than in my memory, just as beautiful. Her figure slightly rounder, I had remembered her as very slender, she’s not. Either way, radiant.

The group of friends chatting. Difficult to know how much to look at Laura. Deciding not to, or not much. But eventually unable to resist. Sneaking a peek. Her eyes looking straight at me, darting away, looking back, a flashed embarrassed smile. My heart melting.

The Zing Still Zinging

2011-12-27T17:36:00.000+00:00

Meeting up with some friends in a pub, going on with them to a party in Hampstead. Arriving, being greeted at the door, our friends making introductions. The hostess, Laura, reaching across with casual grace to kiss my cheek. Moving on, chatting with other guests.

A brief pressure on my arm. Turning around, Laura standing there smiling at me, hi, just thought it would be nice to talk, all these people are old friends, it’ll be good to chat with someone new. Refined diction, education worn lightly. Before long, common interests established, poetry, philosophy, gym workouts. Amidst the smiles, a soft electric zing.

Later, leaving. Laura kissing me on both cheeks, giving my arm a squeeze. Our friends driving us home. The zing still zinging.

In the back of the car, getting sleepy. The driver, my friend’s wife, chattering away, nice party wasn’t it, Laura was looking good, she’s actually having a tough time, she’s thought for ages her husband’s a bit bisexual, now he’s come out, actually he's more homosexual than bisexual, explains why their sex life is nonexistent.

This electrifying piece of information causing me to have difficulty not responding, don’t want to look too interested. The pieces clicking into place. Thinking back to Laura, she exuded sexual need, the skin even on her hands giving off a static, subtle but undeniable. Or so it seems in retrospect.

My wife and my friend’s wife chatting. No apparent awareness of my interest, they probably think I’m asleep. Maybe I am, it’s late. Dreaming about Laura, wishing I could touch her skin some more, help it become alive again.

Two days passing, Laura’s afterimage still in my mind like a glow, but her features fading, her face refusing to be recollected at will, then occasionally forming unbidden with perfect clarity. A telephone going off somewhere in the house, my wife answering. My attention taken with the cooking of dinner. Coming on nicely, one glass of white wine, then I’ll serve.

My wife coming into the kitchen, oh, do you fancy going on a walk round Hampstead Heath tomorrow, those friends we met at that party are all meeting up there, we can maybe walk for an hour, then get a drink, I said we’d go. Sure, darling, that’ll be fun.

Sipping the wine, thinking, wow, how terrific, I was wondering how to contact Laura again.

Latter-Day Sexual Myth

2011-12-26T23:14:00.000+00:00

Getting back from Regent’s Park, making coffee, thinking, suddenly in the mood to email Jane.

Hey baby, yes, as we’ve been saying, sexual ambivalence, in other people’s heads and in our own. The other day I was at a dinner party, one of the guests was a historian, he was talking about sex and marriage, how we think differently about them today.

Apparently passionate love within marriage is a fairly recent notion, until a couple of hundred years ago there was no reference to it in any historical record. Plenty of passionate love, just not on the marital bed.

Today, he says, marriage is supposed to contain a permanent sexual buzz, everyone thinks this is sanctified in ancient tradition, but they’re just wrong, it’s a latter-day sexual myth.

If you look at actual references to passionate love, until a few generations ago it was always clear that passion only comes outside marriage, and obviously so, marriage is permanent, passion is inherently short-lived. Passion only has duration if it’s frustrated, not if it’s fulfilled.

In which case, he points out, marriage is basically desirable as an organizing principle for the conduct of human affairs, especially inheritance. But you handle your passion elsewhere.

Then for some reason for the last eight or so generations that’s no longer how people think. So now marriage is supposed include passion, something it can’t possibly do. No wonder break-ups happen more.

Hey darling Jane, that thought makes all the ambivalence easier to deal with. The madness lies not in your head or mine, but in dimwitted ideas about permanent faithful passionate love, ideas accepted as incontrovertible truth. But they’re falsehoods.

So Jane, what you’re doing with your parties and me with my sweet little escort, those things aren’t weird or wrong, they’re normal. A fine thing to have in your head next time you’re providing all those blowjob services and other things that you do, which, incidentally, give me a big turn-on lying in bed at night thinking about.

Keep going baby, don’t forget you still have to tell me about that particularly naughty thing that you did. Rxxx

I Was An Old Man Once

2011-12-20T19:40:00.000+00:00

And suddenly, beautiful winter weather, clear, bright, not even cold. The leafless trees letting in oceans of light. Too good a day to waste indoors. And now here I am on my bicycle pounding laps round Regents Park.

Pedals moving rhythmically beneath, cleansing the brain above. Pondering, a couple of years ago, doing this, I might have been thinking of women I have known, ancient conquests, past loves. Interesting, I hardly give them a thought now.

The watershed moment, finally getting the courage to visit an escort. Thinking back, my first one, I was lucky, she was beautiful, she had the skills to see exactly the detail of my need, and the generosity to do the things to meet it. Since her, not every escort has been so good. But I knew how it could be, how it needn’t be seedy, how it can be valid love. Love for half an hour maybe, but still love.

Behind me on the bicycle, three riders in a line at racing pace. Swishing past. Their bodies motionless, their legs spinning. A beautiful sight.

And now I’ve got Jenny. Until she goes, probably back to her children in Hungary, or to seek her fortune in new lands. And then I’ll have to find someone new. The search as interesting as the discovery. All those lovely women coming to London, escaping poverty or persecution, or seeking adventure, making money as best they can, all waiting for me.

Riding, thinking. They’re welcome to my money, it isn’t much. Less than the restaurant bill racked up in the seduction of a girlfriend, and more certain of success. Less than the bill for an hour with a therapist, the thing you’ll need sooner or later if you don’t sort your sexual needs out.

Another rider passing, this time less expertly. Pulling into his slipstream, his head turning, acknowledgements exchanged, we’re an impromptu team. Before long, taking turns in the front.

Settling into the new rhythm, thinking. Damn, life can be good. I was an old man once, living on memories, feeling bitter. Now today here I am feeling like a teenager, planning future loves.

Porn Psychology

2011-12-18T17:13:00.000+00:00

Twenty minutes medium pace on the rowing machine, sleet pattering the windows of the gym. Only four other people around, mid-morning, a good time to avoid exhibitionist throngs.

In the corner an attractive woman on the stair machine, paying me no attention, my rowing however spruced up in case she does. Another woman coming in, tights, bare midriff, workout top, pulled-back hair, white plastic water bottle. Standing in front of the mirror, stretching, warming up, looking like a dance teacher.

Moving from my rowing machine to the weights corner. Starting my upper body routine. The women also moving from exercise to exercise. Nobody talking to anybody else except cursorily, tacit mid-morning protocol.

The scene far removed from porno setpiece. If this were porn, the women would be panting, they’d turn away from their workouts, find a place on the floormat, start kissing each other, remove clothes, beg the men to join them, invite multiple serial penetration.

Adding some iron to the bar, thinking. This porn psychology, starting with beautiful women, willing and somehow sex-starved, what does it tell us? Almost nothing about women, really. Other than that porno starlets are happy to play along with male fantasies.

But standard porn relocates the fantasies, abstracts them from the men, introjects them into the women. Their bodies squirm in ecstasy not to please the men but because it’s what they themselves want. Or rather, are desperate for. The men are accessories. The women are brazen, they do the initiating.

More iron on my bar, a satisfying clanking sound. The extra weight plus growing fatigue starting to make things difficult. But pushing through it.

The porn psychology, absolute opposite to what’s happening here, now, in this gym. Both women here are studiedly disengaged from men’s attention or even the possibility of it. If they have wanton carnal needs, they’re disguising it well.

And yet, their disguises not complete. Quite a lot of thought and time invested in their look, clothes, hair, trainers. So not completely averse to admiring glances. But no more than that. Proposition one, and they’d look at you like you’re some sort of reptile.

Maybe that’s it. The normal male experience, no way in. Porn fantasy, gates wide open, always, with no effort. No wonder males like porn.

Bodies Intertwined

2011-12-15T09:54:00.000+00:00

Three couples in masks sitting on sofas in a lounge, chatting. One of the woman addressing the camera, slightly unsure of her words, explaining, we got talking about swinging, um, decided to give it a go, thought we’d take a video, um, maybe put it on the internet.

Um, we got some masks, white ones for me and my husband, matching ones for the other couples, so you’ll be able to see whether we’re doing it with our own partners or someone else.

The woman turning to her husband, kissing him. The couple in yellow masks doing the same. A woman in the red mask sitting alone, her husband presumably working the camera.

The kissing couples stopping, separating, turning to another partner, reaching out with tentative touch. The camera following the woman in the red mask, hand stroking her new man’s cheek, chest, crotch. Her fingers finding his cock through his trousers, grasping it, gauging it, working it into hardness. His hand reaching down her blouse, finding a nipple. Two bodies exploring each other for the first time.

The camera panning out. Two couples in gradual awkward process of undress. An invisible line crossed, sudden joint decision for each to take off their own clothing, far more efficient. Soon, bodies intertwined. One woman lying back, naked except for stockings, knees drawn up, new man licking her clitoris. The other woman’s tongue teasing her new man’s cock.

The camera changing hands. One man entering his wife from behind, doggy style, leaning round, studying her mouth around a new man’s cock. The wife more interested in the cock in her mouth than her husband inside her from behind.

Positions changing, the couples moving away from initial moves, working through deeper fantasies. One man lying on the floor, a woman sitting on his face, another on his cock, both women themselves sucking cocks, the third woman left to operate the camera.

Her camerawork itself revealing of her interests, dwelling on her husband, his tongue working another woman’s clitoris, panning down his body, moving round, showing from behind a woman’s body grinding on his cock.

The camera suddenly shifting, A man close to orgasm, groaning, His cock in a new woman’s mouth, his fingers working it. The scene becoming stiller, all participants observing. Then the climax. The observers whooping and cheering. The new woman turning to the camera, opening her mouth, showing the evidence, white fluid on her tongue. Swallowing. Smiling.

The group on my screen breaking up for refreshment, chatting. The video ending.

Jolt of Electricity

2011-12-12T17:55:00.000+00:00

This weekend, my turn to look after my daughter. Walking back from school, chatting. From her, a regular supply of questions. What do I think of girls who have their noses pierced? What time to you think it’s reasonable for young people to stay out at night? What do you think of all-girl schools?

Each of my responses eliciting from her a moment’s pause, as if holding them up to the light, checking how they compare with what she and her friends see as cool. My ideas on how late to stay out, immediately dismissed, it’s just a generation thing, daddy. Maybe that’s because I’m from a different generation, sweetheart, just happens to be the generation making the rules about how late to stay out.

All the time, trying to find that father-daughter balance, not too close, not too apart. Accepting her assessment of me as an out-of-touch old man.

Saturday afternoon, her friends visiting. The lounge appropriated, a regular stream of young girls coming in, going out. An older sister of one leaving them to their childish chitchat, walking down the corridor, coming into the kitchen to get a drink. She and I almost bumping into each other. Our eyes crossing. A tiny jolt of electricity. Recognition by me of precocity in her. From her, a holding of my eyes for slightly too long.

Helping her get the drink, making some coffee for myself. She choosing to stay, chatting. Cutoff jeans, legs’ pink skin, slight freckles. Sleeveless top, glimpses of brassiere straps and cleavage and firm small breasts. A sexual vibrancy ringing from her, setting off answering vibrancy in me.

Impossible to do anything about it. Probably not of legal age, and regardless, she needs to develop her protective shell. Even were she willing, it would be a violation, her life will be richer sans contact with a grizzled veteran such as me. Not to mention my daughter, her boundary lines razed, her innocence also entangled.

Finishing the coffee, smiling at the older sister, walking off toward another room, okay then, see you later, have fun.

Don’t Stop, Don’t Stop

2011-12-02T17:47:00.000+00:00

Jenny’s outside door swinging open a few inches, her face appearing round the edge, finger on lips, whispering, sshhh, the landlord’s around, quick, get upstairs. Both tiptoeing, scampering into her room, closing her door.

Both of us smiling, schoolkids on an adventure. Our voices still hushed. Catching up with how things’ve been since last time. Her body in a short clinging black shift, nothing or not much underneath. My hands busy untying my shoes, kicking them off, removing my clothes.

The last of my clothes now off, Jenny lifting her shift over her head, using her naked body to push me onto the bed. Her soft smooth skin against mine like a salve. Holding each other close, lovers long parted, now together again. Jenny sighing in likewise pleasure.

After a while, pushing me away, smiling, hey mister, I need to check up on how things’re going with my buddy down there, you just lie back. Sliding down, kissing my cock, hey there buddy boy, have you been missing your Jenny, show me how hard you can get. Taking it in her mouth, rearranging herself into comfort for a long sucking session.

Me on my back, tingling. Pondering our bodies’ mutual pull, a miraculous force, unheedful of shyness or intentions or artifice or thought, merely existing and asserting. My hardness in her mouth, absorbing her physic, making me drowsy as with a narcotic.

Jenny suddenly stopping, crawling to my face, whispering, hey, I want you inside me. Brooking no denial. Reaching for a condom, putting it on me, mounting, guiding me inside. Her face softening, eyes closing, a slight whimper. Grinding her hips, driving me deeper, finding some soft fleshy spot within, rubbing it on my tip.

Opening her eyes, pulling my shoulder, rolling me over on top of her. Our bodies sliding together away from the bed’s edges. My cock deep inside her, hips thrusting slowly. Her breathing shallow. My hand cupping her buttock, finding her sphincter, stroking it, wetting my finger with her juices, pushing it inside, her voice in my ear, yes honey, that’s fantastic, you’re going to make me cum.

My finger inside her feeling through her flesh the movement of my cock, both moving in reciprocal sexual thrust. Her body surrendered utterly to mine. Her breath on my cheek in short gasps. Time stopping. Pulling gently away, seeing if she needs to adjust position, her arm gripping me like steel, no, keep going, don’t stop, don’t stop, keep going.

Her body suddenly still. No sound, just the stillness. Our skins wet with exertion. Pulling apart, smiling, lying side by side, my fingers stroking her hair, my lips kissing her forehead.

Supply of Fresh Young Males

2011-11-29T18:07:00.000+00:00

Lying asleep on a sofa, a skinny student, short curly dark hair, a small beard. The camera panning down his body. Leather thong around his neck, loose teeshirt, open book fallen from his hand, jeans. Barefoot, one of his feet sleepily twitching. The low sound of deep breathing and a slight snore.

The camera turning to the lounge door. Watching the man through her spectacles, a woman in a business suit. The woman sighing, making up her mind, walking across to the sofa, sitting on it. The man stirring but not waking. The woman’s hand stroking his chest, moving down, gently massaging his crotch.

The man blinking awake, his eyes finding focus, looking at the woman, No smile from either, but a feeling of familiarity, as if this is not the first time it’s happened. The sense somehow surfacing that he’s renting space in her house, her husband long departed, she quite likes this new arrangement, a regular supply of fresh young males every year.

Her hands unbuttoning his jeans, pulling down the zip, untangling his underpants. His cock appearing, enlarged but not hard. The woman stroking it, kneeling down, taking it in her mouth. The man closing his eyes. A sense somehow of a past without many blowjobs, now he’s relishing their ready availability.

The woman looking up, surveying the man, a look almost of pride, satisfaction at her own sexual expertise, knowledge that when he moves away he won’t easily find so good again. Pleasure in having an eager student in place of a grumpy husband. Lowering her face, sucking him again.

The man’s hands reaching for her, fumbling inexpertly, pawing at her clothes, gesturing for some desired position. The woman taking control, standing, stripping, pulling his body into the right position, mounting his face, leaning forward, taking his cock back in her mouth.

Large on my screen, her mouth surrounding his cock, fingers stroking it, challenging it to explode. The camera panning round. Portrait of a couple in sixty-nine, his elbows hooked under her kneeling thighs, hands on her buttocks. Then panning round further. His hands stretching her holes wide, the camera zooming into their fleshy hues.

The man pulling his face back to look, inexperienced eyes feasting. Her clitoris and urethra and vagina shining with juices and saliva. His tongue reaching forward, licking, moving upwards, penetrating her sphincter.

A sudden stiffening, the man groaning. The camera quickly moving round to the woman’s face. Her eyes open and slightly fixed, the cock deep in her throat, unmoving. Then withdrawing. His white juices dribbling. The woman sitting up, wiping her mouth, gulping, smiling.

Prim or Wanton

2011-11-28T18:36:00.001+00:00

An email from Jane, hi R, thanks for your kind words, you always did make me feel like i’m the most wonderful lover, even from student days words have always been the way to this lady’s heart.

Even better, the words you use make me feel sane. sometimes i take a step back from what i’m doing and think, well, it seems natural, but i know that many people’s faces would screw up in disgust. i don’t think it’s the sex that’s disgusting, the screwed up faces are more a sign of their owners’ rancid brains. but sometimes i start to doubt, it’s good to have someone on my side, R, your words give me peace.

As you say, it’s the schizoid nature of society, express disgust but secretly salivate. and yet i think that the society whereof we speak is nothing but a projection of how we imagine everybody else to be. forget about society, R, even at the personal level, it’s schizoid.

I was in a shop the other day, some man made a lewd comment and i was surprised to discover how affronted i was. so there’s me the unshockable sex-party escort, and it’s the same me who usually chooses clothes that deter, who mostly keeps men at bay, and who finds lewd comments objectionable.

Same with you R, i bet all your clients and colleagues look at you and think, here’s a respectable well-behaved individual we can trust. if they knew what you did with your little escort sweetheart, they’d be dumbstruck. even though they’re probably doing similar.

So here’s my advice to the world, forget about fighting it or moaning about it, you and i and everyone else are sexually schizoid. the schism being between your prim self and your wanton self. they both exist, they’re different sides of the same coin, it’s all fine, it only goes wrong if you fixate on just one, normally the prim.

Okay R, hope you don’t mind the musings, it’s just that like you used to say, you can’t do things without thinking about them, not if you want a full life, and you’re the only one i know that i can share these thoughts with.

I was planning to tell you about the specially naughty thing i did just for you, like you asked, but I must rush, it’ll have to wait until next time. but let me say that it was very naughty and it reminded me of you. Jxxx.

Strange Warm Vibrancy

2011-11-24T09:23:00.000+00:00

Walking around the supermarket, wondering what happened to the pretty student on the checkout tills, haven’t seen her in ages, oh, well, that’s the way it goes, especially with students. Turning a corner, seeing her at the bakery section.

My heart lurching. The little things that make her so attractive snapping into focus, her earnest concentration, her vitality, the curve of her neck, her small flat ears and their slightly backward slope, her hair casually held in place with a band. Casting a spell on my whole body, pulse heavy, breathing shallow.

Standing at a discreet distance, positioned so as to be able to see her on looking up. Inspecting stuff on the shelves, not sure what. Taking a quick glance. Extending the moment, memorizing her features. By chance, her own head lifting, looking my way, seeing me, my eyes still fixed on her.

Caught. How do I get out of this? Trying to look abstracted, as if weighing up the stuff on the shelves. But feeling as if having been found out. Before, maybe a slight vibrancy between us. Now, all changed. Weird older man ogling, cringeworthy at best, maybe worse, a stalking risk perhaps.

The next time at the supermarket, seeing her. Wrenching my eyes away, terrified of being caught again. Our paths crossing. My eyes firmly askance, concentrating on the shelves. My heart feeling raw. A vestigial sense however of something passing fleetingly between us, as if she was expecting pleasantries. Or maybe that’s just in my mind.

Same thing next time. Hard work, ignoring that beautiful feminine presence. But doing so. That’s twice now I’ve avoided her. Penance served. If I see her again, I can be normal.

Midweek, needing some missing groceries, nipping into the supermarket. Not expecting to see her, she usually works weekends. Walking fast to the dairy section. My eyes scanning the shelves, suddenly crossing with hers mid-scan, only afterwards registering the scantest flash of something in her expression, what, greeting?, something, don't really know.

Too heavy-handed to do anything about it, just keep shopping. Yet her face during that moment burned into my consciousness, it seemed to be friendly, a smile seemed to be starting, it seemed as if she was about to wave, as to a friend unexpectedly encountered.

Last night, lying in bed, warmed by the thought. How wonderful. No longer the ogler, no longer the dirty old man, no longer the potential stalker, just a man. A man with whom maybe there’s this strange warm vibrancy.

Window Into Secret World

2011-11-21T17:57:00.000+00:00

In the corner, a brunette standing naked, hands stretched upwards, legs apart, wrists and ankles knotted in place with silk scarves. A blonde walking up to her, kissing her mouth, fondling her nipples, kneeling, probing her clitoris with her tongue, standing, kissing her mouth again.

A man’s voice barking instructions. The women complying. The blonde undoing the silk knots, leading the brunette to a padded bench. A scaffold frame and studded leather belts standing ready.

The blonde strapping the brunette into place. Adjustments made, positions altered, silk knotted. The brunette on her back, body bent double, knees near her ears, feet pointing upward, straps and silks preventing any movement. Protruding inches over the bench, the brunette’s bottom, the videocamera zooming in, her pussy and sphincter stretched wide, filling my screen.

The camera angle widening again. The blonde walking around, kissing the other’s mouth. Then suddenly, an unscripted moment, both women's faces widening into smiles, breaking the spell, incongruous with the bondage paraphernalia. The moment revealing all. The women merely adopting roles in temporary play, no serious sadomasochism in prospect.

Suddenly, visual clues in the room becoming significant, less a torture basement, more a suburban garage with gadgets unpacked from locked cupboards. The scene on my screen thereby acquiring greater erotic charge, the question arising, who would be lucky enough to persuade two such women to engage in such play?

The man’s voice barking instructions again. The smiles disappearing quickly. The blonde taking a long rubbery dildo, inserting it in the other, moving it around, getting it deeper, finally stepping back, turning round, waiting for orders. The dildo so long as to leave more than half its length protruding.

The man instructing. The blonde climbing astride the first, grasping the dildo’s protruding half, sinking down, guiding it into herself. The camera from behind zooming in again, my screen filling with the dildo curved into each of them, stretched crinkled sphincters close nearby.

The blonde instructed to make the dildo her penis, and pound the brunette. Doing so, using her body angle to lock the dildo in place, trusting it in and out of the other. The motion conveying high athleticism, also experience of having done this before.

More instructions. The dildo discarded. The blonde moving round to sit on the other’s face. The man appearing, erect, inserting himself into the brunette, thrusting hard, telling them, you see, this is how it’s done. The scene continuing to unroll, my computer screen a window into a secret world.

Sexual Schizoia

2011-11-19T19:41:00.000+00:00

An email from Jane, hi R, still no response to my last email, hope all’s well and nothing wrong. Jxxx.

Unusual for her to chase, must mean she’s got something on her mind, but wants to keep things balanced, doesn’t want to email until I’ve responded to her last one. Fair enough, she chases so seldom, it doesn’t feel like prodding.

Thinking, also, maybe she needs reassurance, I must be one of the few people she’s told about her party escapades. I wonder if she worries that she’s somehow become cheap. Difficult decisions to make on your own, maybe she’s reaching out for validation.

Emailing, hi J, oops, I should have emailed earlier, blame the delay on my the daydream fantasies I’ve been having about you and your parties, also thinking it through, trying to put my finger on why it seems life-enhancing, rather than tawdry, which these things can sometimes be.

I wonder why that is, sweet Jane, I guess interaction between humans of any sort whatsoever contains the latency to be life-enhancing or tawdry, the mystery is why any particular situation becomes one or the other. I figure, it’s mostly a question of who’s doing it, and also the setting they do it in.

Even more so with sex, people find sex so threatening, in their minds they dress it in tawdry clothes, sweeping aside the its life-enhancement. Maybe it’s unavoidable, a collective schizoid mental state, social organization would unglue if it met with too much sexual solvent, so everyone stays buttoned up, meanwhile secretly pursuing their sexual agendas. Best to just live with it, and, definitely, don’t try to resolve the sexual schizoia.

Well, J, speaking from personal experience and precious memories of you and your naked body and the taste of your womanhood and your amazing blowjobs, I can attest that in matters sexual you are as life-enhancing as it is possible to be, and things you touch lose their tawdriness. An amazing gift. Those men at your parties are lucky to have you.

Actually, I’m sure that the men lie in bed dreaming of their time with you, and beg your friend C to make sure you’re at the next one. And that you and C will find that the parties are well-attended, it must be quite a nice little earner.

Anyway, sweet J, it’s all interesting, isn’t it? Let me know how it goes. Do something especially naughty and tell me about it, and I’ll have something on lonely nights to arouse myself with. Rxxx.

Urgent Business

2011-11-15T20:12:00.000+00:00

The blue door swinging open, a woman’s face appearing, blonde curls, round features, pink lipstick. Hi. The woman leading me into a living room. Another woman sitting on a couch reading a magazine, ignoring us.

The apartment’s smells, probably no longer registered by them, noticeable to me. Laundry, hairspray, old flowers, dampness, old carpet. The general run-down feel of a place being let to people who aren’t interested in staying and are interested in not paying too much. Almost universal for escorts passing through London, earning some money, moving on.

The blonde leading me to a bedroom, curtains drawn, a double bed, mattress, thin cover, towel on top. Next to the bed, a table with a small stereo playing dance music from some girl band. Next to the stereo, paraphernalia of an escort’s trade, a bowl of condoms, wet-wipes, tissues, lubricants.

The woman turning to me, half-an-hour or an hour? No spark or smile or slightest twinge of excitement. The thing we’re about to do together, no more than a task.

Thinking quickly. I’ve got to get out of this. Not so much for the money, more because the possible pleasure is too precious to be lightly squandered. Sharing nakedness with this woman would be a permanent stain. A minor stain, sure, but still a stain.

Slipping into a prepared plan. Telling her, half-an-hour would be fine. Reaching in my pocket for the money, trying to seem slightly startled at finding none there, telling her, oh damn, I meant to stop at the cash machine, I forgot, must have been too excited, let me go and draw some money now.

The woman hardly responding at all, merely nodding. Our paths reversing through the living room, passing the other woman on the couch, still ignoring us, to the front door. Traversing the brick balcony, so full of promise on the way in, now containing a staleness. Walking away from the building, putting distance between myself and the whole episode.

Waiting for fifteen minutes, then texting her, sorry baby, while I was getting my cash I got a phonecall, I have to go back to the office, urgent business, see you some other time. Sending the text, betting myself she won’t respond. Checking after fifteen minutes, I was right, she didn’t.

Striding along the rainy pavements, feeling as if after narrow escape from a spiritual trap.

Such Delectable Options

2011-11-11T20:35:00.000+00:00

Arriving at the appointed street, phoning for final directions, making my way as instructed. Climbing some communal stairs, walking along a brick balcony, checking the door numbers. Quickly finding the right one, old white numbers screwed to a blue wooden door, paint just starting to crack and peel.

Enjoying the moment. In a second or two I’ll knock, the door will open, a woman will be there, probably in underwear. The sense of being drawn into a vacuum, a new reality unencumbered by familiarity, the woman transforming from photos on an escort profile to physical dimension and motion and facial expression and surrounding milieu.

A moment made more exciting by the possibility of disappointment. Maybe she’s someone who I just don’t find attractive in the flesh, maybe she can’t communicate outside her native tongue, knowing no English. Maybe she just doesn’t find me attractive either, maybe she retreats behind her defenses, goes through the motions, compliant but only for the money. Maybe, maybe. That’s the thrill.

Maybe I should have played safe, gone to Jenny, removed the possibility of disappointment. For some reason, deciding earlier not to, succumbing to the delicious draw of new womanly flesh. Now, half regretting my earlier decision, feeling a twinge of longing, standing there outside another woman’s apartment, thinking about Jenny’s comfortable body, certain of her knowledge of mine.

Thinking, it’s not too late, I could walk away, ring the new woman, make excuses, ring Jenny, call on her. Staring at the blue door, splatters of rain hitting the balcony’s brick balustrade. Knowing well that I won’t walk away, but savoring the fact of having such delectable options. One door about to open, another door far away to stay closed.

Checking the time, I’m still a couple of minutes early. Leaning on the brick, checking out traffic on the street below, shoppers carrying bags, a bus stopping, people getting on, people getting off. The steady pulse of urban life. Of which I am part, as is the new woman I’ll be seeing. As is the transaction we’ll engage in, its absolute normality somehow soothing.

Okay, time, let’s go. Straightening my clothes, smoothing my hair, reaching out my hand, rapping on the blue door.

Sexual Annihilation

2011-11-09T21:26:00.000+00:00

A family gathering with friends, altogether about a hundred people, an amateur band playing, people getting up to dance, my wife with her ancient uncle, me with my daughter, groups of women, men standing on the sidelines watching, some couples looking expert.

Looking around, seeing an unknown woman of stunning beauty dancing with a much older man, looks like her grandfather. Wrenching my eyes away, then keeping a lookout for her. Later, bumping into her, inviting her to dance, she agreeing, but strangely, neither reluctant or enthusiastic, as if complying mutely. The dance ending, both of us drifting off our separate ways.

Later, my wife telling me the tale. The unknown woman, daughter of a family friend, never previously been seen because of never being allowed out of a rehabilitation centre. Or hardly ever. At the end of each long rehabilitation, apparent recovery, release, but her old heroin dealers then finding her again, waiting their moment, plying her, ensnaring and enslaving her again.

Before all that, my wife telling me, she was a shining star, a gifted student, a blooming beauty, giving up all other interests to become a ballerina. Maybe some unknown thing went wrong, maybe she found the wrong friends, maybe she just wasn’t quite good enough as a dancer. Anyway, one day, a phonecall to the parents, you’d better come and be with your daughter. Arriving, finding her confined to bed, she’d disappeared for a week, eventually found in nearby woods, naked, confused, needle-punctured, bruises and welts over her whole body.

And apparently used for sex so often as to eradicate the whole idea of sex other than as a means of getting her next fix. The damage apparently permanent and irreversible. Once vibrant, now just a meek, compliant rag doll.

Each episode of rehabilitation, the daughter emerging with stunning looks and ballerina body restored. Soon to be the plaything of dealer gangs. My wife telling me, better enjoy seeing her now, you won’t see her again like this, she’ll either be spaced-out and broken-backed, or she’ll be in rehab again. The process incidentally bankrupting her parents.

Driving home, thinking, hurting. The terrible loss of such a lovely person. Somehow made worse by the sexual annihilation. That precious sexual germ, such a wonderful thing no matter how difficult, no matter how protean, how terrible to have it hollowed out entirely.

The Hardness And The Sperm

2011-11-07T20:51:00.000+00:00

An email from Jane waiting in my inbox. Hi R, i finally decided to go ahead in my new life as a sex-party hostess, then had to miss the first one because my period happened, C says that some men actually get turned on by that, or she said i could go along and just do blowjobs, but i didn’t want my first foray to be all complicated so i gave it a miss.

No matter, the next one came quickly and i went, and you know what, R, the strange thing was that it didn’t feel strange at all. there was C and i, and one other woman, and about fifteen men, at first it just felt like a normal party, then we started playing some card game where the penalty was to take off clothes, basically strip poker, then when we were all down to our underwear or naked the game sort of got forgotten about and a whole lot of stroking and kissing and all the other things started.

So before that night my personal record for number of men i’ve been with in a night was a grand total of one, that was probably my record for a month as well. now it’s fifteen, i’m not totally sure that i was with every single man, it all got lost in the blur, but i could have been. C says that men generally like to make sure that they’re with each of the women before they leave, so i probably was.

I was surprised, i thought i’d be nervous, but actually once it got started it was fun, the women look after each other, and everyone’s careful about condoms. but actually, all the men seemed to gravitate to my mouth, perhaps they sensed that that’s the place where i respond most, and you know what R, i really got aroused from the fact that the men were aroused by me.

Thinking about it afterwards, as i have been, a lot, at first it seemed as if i had some deep need because of years of marital neglect, but R, it seems deeper than that, it’s more that it’s connected me to my womanhood, the sense of having the power to attract men, the pleasure in seeing the actual evidence, the hardness and the sperm, i feel rejuvenated.

Now, three days off, then another party, hee-hee, i feel wicked. but when i see you again, R, it’ll be special, and you can have me for free. love Jane xxx.

First Blowjob

2011-11-03T20:22:00.001+00:00

Still waiting for the go-ahead on a big new project, feeling fidgety, finding things to do.

Flicking through the porn site and its millions of near-identical videos, searching for the unexpected. Turning to an old standby, the casting interview. A small room with a desk and a woman sitting on a black sofa, the interviewer explaining, do as I say, I’m the male model for the day, we’ll film it, I’ll send off the video, if the producers like it you’ll be paid between one and five thousand a day.

The woman, smartly dressed, brunette, blushing, agreeing. The interviewer asking, so, how old were you when you gave your first blowjob? The woman responding, actually I never have. The interviewer proceeding with the next question, stopping, pausing, hey, let’s rewind a bit here, did you say you’d never given a blowjob, I can’t believe it. The woman embarrassed, sorry, it’s true, it just never came up.

The interviewer rearranging things on his desk, gathering his thoughts. Well, listen, you’re going to have to get used to it, it’s part of the adult industry, it’s standard. You okay with that? The woman still blushing slightly, nodding. Okay, let’s get started.

The interviewer removing his clothes, pointing his cock at the woman, okay, I want you to lick the tip until I go hard and then put it in your mouth. The woman’s hand reaching out tentatively, taking the cock, hesitating, deciding, touching it with her lips, then with her tongue, then letting it into her mouth.

The interviewer handing her the camera, telling her, I want you to film yourself doing that, you can see what you’re videoing on the screen over there. The camera handed over, the picture moving haphazardly, then settling on her face, the woman looking at the screen to get the right angle. Taking the cock back in her mouth, studying herself on the screen, her eyes widening slightly as if surprised.

A slight smile appearing, self-conscious but interested. The interviewer saying, you’re turned on by doing it on camera, aren’t you? The woman nodding, smiling more, becoming less embarrassed. Her hand working the cock, occasionally taking it out of her mouth, licking it, taking it back in, all the while studying herself on the screen. On her face, a sense of growing acceptance, recognition of alluring she looks.

The man’s breathing becoming tighter in the background, oh yes baby, just like that. The woman continuing, mesmerized by the picture of herself. A sudden stillness, the woman’s eyes losing focus, her face stiffening, the man groaning, the camera shaking. Hold it still, baby, hold it still.

The picture steadying on the woman’s face. The cock withdrawing, white juices dribbling. The woman gulping. Looking upward at the man, smiling, ooh well, I guess I’ve just given my first blowjob.

Options, Options

2011-10-31T11:09:00.000+00:00

An idle hour, sitting at my computer, waiting for a project go-ahead, too intent on the decision to get involved in anything else.

Distractedly looking for ways to pass the time. Opening the escort website. Fifteen fresh faces within ten miles, all eager to do my bidding, all at a charge rate far less than mine. Reading through the profiles, discarding the formulaic, picking out some interesting ones, adding them to my Hot List.

Opening the Hot List, forty four escorts, my harem. Checking their date last logged in, removing from the list those with no activity for two weeks, means they’ve moved on.

Picking out the ones I’d ring now if I wanted to visit one. Three standing out enticingly. One, two minutes from Swiss Cottage, student, English, the girl-next-door that you’ve always fancied, always liked sex, might as well earn money from it, will make men of any age pant with passion, ethnicity not a problem. Her photos showing a cheeky smile, raven hair, noserings.

The second, tall, slim, redhaired, snippets of her profile culled from others'. My English isn’t good yet, a friend is helping me write this, the language of sex is universal and I’m fluent. The best blowjob in East London, I love the taste of cum. Bethnal Green underground in easy walking distance. Sixty pounds for half an hour or a hundred if you want my friend to join in, have both of us drive you insane in ecstasy.

The third, curvy, hourglass shape, big breasts, a familiar profile on my Hot List, something about the smile in the photo urging me to visit her. A woman of flesh and comfort, to be held and comforted by, somehow looking expert in the business of easing the tension in a man’s body, cheerful and matter-of-fact in matters sexual. Kensington High Street but a few steps away.

The thought of any of the three, salivating. Or any of the other thirty-eight, really. But a sudden thought occurring, maybe from Jane’s emails, I should check how the sex-party scene is going, Opening my preferred website. Parties on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday. Wednesdays and Saturdays being for some reason cheaper.

Three woman attending each party, their photos shown against each date. Wednesday’s, particularly attractive, if a little brassy. Two parties, one in the afternoon, one in the evening. Important note to partygoers, you are paying for the drinks and snacks, anything that goes on between you and a woman is nothing to do with the organizers, but be warned, we’ve been told that a lot does go on, and the women all have very high sex-drives.

Thinking, Wednesday afternoon, I could make that. I wonder whether to go, or see one of those three escorts. Or see Jenny. Options, options. Oh how fine to be a man in sizzling London Town.

Emotional Container

2011-10-27T20:14:00.000+01:00

Suddenly for no particular reason feeling in the mood to email Jane.

Hi baby, how is your new life going? You’ve always been such a wonderful sexual person, it never felt right that you were imprisoned in some suburban marriage, it must be so much more exciting now.

I was thinking about what you were saying, you might as well charge for going to a sex-party, well, speaking as a man, I agree.

Strange, but the knowledge that a woman is available, that her consent has already been given, somehow it makes her slightly pitiable, as if there’s something lacking in her life, and it’s the man that’s being sexually generous. Just as in the school playground, easy availability cheapens.

Whereas if it’s a business, then that’s different. The starting point if you have to pay is that the woman knows she’s desirable, she’s not begging. The fact of the money is quickly forgotten, particularly if it’s handled right, normally before clothes come off. It just becomes part of the sexual game, like undressing or stroking or kissing.

And, baby Jane, this is just one instance of the general sexual rule, namely, sex has to be held within some sort of emotional container, if you try to do without, the sex somehow swamps everything, everybody then has to distance themselves. That’s why discovering marital infidelity is so hard to handle, it breaches the emotional container of marriage.

The way I think is that payment creates a commercial transaction, and that’s the container. Like a little walled garden of paradise, you pay your entry fee, stay for an hour or two, wallow in the erotic intoxication, leave, that’s it.

If you can manage it, baby, and it suits you, then it sure is wonderful. After sex with Jenny, the feeling I always have is gratitude, even though I’ve paid, gratitude for her generosity. That’s what I’m sure all your men will feel, you always were such a sexually generous woman. So, as you can probably tell, I’m hoping you go for it and make it work and enjoy it.

Let me know how it goes, baby Jane. Rxxx.

Somehow Too Juvenile

2011-10-25T18:57:00.000+01:00

At my supermarket checkout, a new woman, nothing particularly remarkable, fair skin, brown hair, elegant in movement, ready smile. My thoughts directed less to her than to packing up my purchases, paying, leaving.

Two days later, more shopping to do. Waiting in the queue. Seeing the woman in the adjacent checkout. My heart lurching slightly, cogs suddenly meshing into gear. Her quiet charm, soft smile, elegance, how could I not have registered more fully before?

Our eyes meeting, brief smiles, recognition maybe, she must remember me from the other time, or maybe it’s just automatic pleasantness.

Now, a new passing interest to brighten up my life, a long-term low-key seduction campaign on the woman at the supermarket. The next time, choosing her lane carefully, saying hello, chatting, how long have you been working here?, do you have far to travel?, it’s windy outside, suchlike.

Shopping no longer a chore. Sometimes she’s not there. That’s fine, I’m not there all the time either. Then sometimes she is. A surge of happiness, the joy of a beautiful woman’s presence.

Tiny bits of her life emerging. She’s a student, studying mathematics, just started her first year, just finished school. Realizing with a shock how young she is, probably explains it, she makes me feel like a first-year student myself, falling in love years ago with a woman like her, out of my depth, out of my league.

Thinking about her on my way home, wondering what she’ll do. Maybe pair up with one of her contemporaries, yet students seem somehow too juvenile for her. Perhaps that’s just me projecting my own desires, kidding myself, what she needs is an older man, one such being conveniently to hand, namely me.

And it’s true, some younger women are attracted to older men. Question is, why? Answer, the female search for security, an evolutionary imperative. The older man, attractive because of imagined wealth.

Getting home, unpacking. The girl still on my mind. But the thought of her actual presence now ambiguous. Having her, an exciting thought. Providing for her, who needs the burden? Better to enjoy her for what she is, a pleasant daily distraction.

This morning, half-awake, her body curving into mine, her eyes closed, her hair fragrant, the smell of her sex still on my fingers. Slowly with wakefulness disappearing. The fantasy so fantastic as to make actuality inconsequential.

Offers of Marriage

2011-10-21T19:01:00.002+01:00

Today, my hour with Jenny, treasured beacon in my life, its fortnightly flash illuminating everything around. Signals transmitted and received, starting with text messages. Hi Jenny, are you free midday? Sure baby, just text me again when you arrive, I’ll open the door.

Going into her room. Disrobing. Her warm body against mine, skin against skin, the healing process beginning. Touching, licking, stroking, stretching, inserting, murmuring, smiling.

Afterwards, getting dressed, chatting. Telling her, I hope all your clients care for you as much as I do. The mention of other clients okay now, friends, free to discuss other aspects of each other's life, though not too much. Jenny telling me, yes, actually, they do.

Asking her, are most of them regular clients, or mostly new ones? Oh, mostly regular, some new ones. Telling her, not surprising, I can quite see the reasons, being one myself, I expect they all want to marry you.

Jenny looking at me, smiling. Yes it’s amazing, they have their wives and families, but never a month goes by without at least two offers of marriage, serious ones, they want to take me away, my children too. Also hundreds of offers to take me to on a date somewhere.

Using a tissue to wipe a glazed drip of my juices from her chin. It’s funny, I know I’m attractive, but I’m not beautiful, my legs are a bit heavy, my breasts are small, my nose is big, I'm not that young, but I must have something, the men all come back and want me as a friend, and they all come here desperate and leave smiling.

Me thinking, don’t I know it, baby, it’s your genius.

Jenny continuing, but what they don’t understand is, this is only an hour. If I said yes, I’ll run off with you, make a life, then he’ll expect that all day every day will be like it is once a week or month for an hour. Then it’ll wear thin. Then he’ll start remembering my past life. Then one day he’ll get drunk and start calling me a whore, and maybe start beating me up.

My clothes now on, Jenny still on the bed, naked, and comfortable being naked, a special form of loveliness.

Kissing me. So I just tell them, I’m flattered, darling, but no, strict rules, I’ll do anything but you pay for the time, you can use your hour to buy me coffee somewhere or for me to suck you, but you pay.

Leaving, walking down the street, London’s bright clear weather still shining. Thinking, just as well she said that, I was half going to offer to take her out for a coffee myself, good to be reminded of the realities.