“Yes.” (looking obviously at watch) “Well, I’m off to meet a friend for lunch, have to run.”
“Are those real stockings?”
“Of course!”
“You’re just too gorgeous. I wish I could take you out.”
“Well, you never know. See you around.”
“Bye.” jeudi, le 15 janvier
The self-fisting is getting remarkably easier with practice. For those who would rather watch than to touch-and there are plenty of those-this is proving very popular. However, I don’t think any amount of practice would enable anal fisting, although someone did want to see how many fingers I could get up the back passage whilst he fucked me. I could feel the swollen head of his cock clearly through the narrow wall of tissue separating the two orifices, and wiggled the tips of my fingers to tickle his shaft. He came quickly, stayed hard, fucked again, repeat.
He: (falling back on bed after the third go in one hour) “I used to be better at this, really.”
Me: (pulling up stockings) “How do you mean?”
“The old man’s had it. I’d be surprised if it gets up again any time in the next month.”
“I wouldn’t know, being a woman, but I think he’s done admirably.” (patting the now-wizened bit of flesh) “Good job, you. Have a well-deserved rest.”
“You really like what you do, don’t you?”
“I think it would be hard to take if I didn’t. My imagination is not quite sufficient to detach my mind from double penetration.” vendredi, le 16 janvier
N and I drank cups of tea at mine and listened to the radio. “Alright then,” he said. “You’re abandoned on an island in the South Pacific, which five records would you take?”
“A lot of rock, a lot of blues.” I thought a moment. “Probably at least three blues albums.”
“On a desert island by yourself? Isn’t that a bit depressing?”
“I’m already alone on a desert island. Except this isn’t a desert, and it’s cold and wet.”
“Remember you do have the odd man Friday,” he said, patting my feet. We fell asleep together on the sofa listening to Robert Johnson. samedi, le 17 janvier
These are a few of my favorite things (that punters never ask for):
• For me to come for real. Why should they? With someone I’ve just met, who doesn’t know the unspoken road map to my body, it’ll take something like a geological age with his tongue propelled by more drive than an industrial bandsaw. Of course I fake it, when asked at all.
• Glass marbles. Infinitely better than the rubbery love-bead variety. Cheaper than a glass dildo. Scales up well according to size and relaxation of orifice. The sound they make when they come out is as delicious as the temperature change going in.
• Food sex. I have never, ever been paid to lick chocolate sauce off someone or have it licked off me. In private, though, I like to think myself an excellent and carefully maintained plate (N.B.: does not include insertion of vegetables, which you don’t eat afterward anyway).
• To turn up in my regular clothes. Random-person sex is cool. Random-person sex with someone who looks random is even better. Also I’m very lazy.
• Bathing him afterward. I love soaping a man’s body, the slightly submissive attitude of kneeling to run my hands down the pillar of his legs, gently lifting each foot in turn to wash it. I adore drying a man, too: imagining what I would want dried first (face and hair), what needs gentle patting (armpits and genitals) and what might get forgotten (back of knees, between the shoulder blades). Plenty want to wash me, though, so perhaps they are acting on the same desire.
• Rimming. Given a thorough wash with hot soapy water beforehand, I will do this. It feels like trying to push yourself into pursed lips. It’s a challenge, and the tiniest flicker of your tongue goes further there than anywhere else. It’s cunnilingus on the miniature scale. As with the last one though, they do it to me all the time. I shouldn’t complain, really.
• To imitate an animal. For some reason I imagined they would. They don’t.
• To imitate characters from The Simpsons. It has nothing to do with sex, but I’m pretty good at it-especially Milhouse and Comic Book Guy. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet a man with a Patty and Selma fetish, and then my ship will have truly come in.
But for tonight, I have a date. A real date with someone who uses my real name and rings me on my real number. Okay, he may be a hologram, but I cannot know for certain yet. dimanche, le 18 janvier
I haven’t had a proper first date in ages. He’s an acquaintance of N’s, which gave us a conversational springboard, but I was quickly growing addicted to his looks, his voice, and his sense of humor. It surprised me to feel just as awkward and off-kilter flirting with someone as it always had before. Did I get a bit nervous having to leave a message on his answerphone? Check. Did I deliberate over what I was going to wear on our date? Check. Obsessing over the details, including Googling his name every few hours? Too right I did. Did my heart speed up just a tiny bit on seeing a text or e-mail from him? You betcha.
So we went out-the details are meaningless-and talked around and around each other, and around the topic of how mutually attracted we were. I kept looking at his hands when I thought he wouldn’t notice. He must have been looking at mine, because all of a sudden, on the train, we were holding hands (dear God, we were holding hands) and he was exploring the spaces between my fingers with his lips (just shiver) and I put my head on his shoulder (yes, it fit perfectly) and he smelled my hair (oh, yes, please).
Then we went and fucked it up by having fucking.
Maybe it was the glass or three of wine. The music, which was just at the right bpm to make my head spin. But then I so did what I should not have done-I went straight from cuddling and kissing into Whore Mode.
And this poor thing, he got the works. The little squeals. The wrist restraints. The full-on, sweat-soaked, bed-rattling, neighbor-waking, deep-throating, dirty-talking, facial-cumshot, use-me-baby-till-you-use-me-up works. He fell asleep straight after but I couldn’t close my eyes because I knew what had just happened. I had utterly hot, but completely soulless sex with someone who-up to that point-I actually wanted to see more of.
There’s that line about the likelihood of buying the cow when the milk’s on sale, you know the one I mean?
So we woke early and dressed. He escorted me to the station and I caught the first train home. I couldn’t look at him and felt like an utter idiot. Note to self, never have sex on a first date. lundi, le 19 janvier
Last night I dreamt about the Boy.
It was in a restaurant-cum-bar-cum-tunnel-to-the-underworld kind of place, located in a crumbling religious monument and with a playground out the back (can’t explain; dreams are just that way) and I was having a drink with a girl from the gym with great tits. Great Tits and I were having a conversation in which I was outlining the end of the affair, and she asked his name.
I said his first name. She said his second, loudly. “Ah, you know each other?” I was about to ask, when I turned around and saw GT was addressing him directly. He was there. Sitting with his new girlfriend, a well-known porn star.
Cue major discomfort as Great Tits and the Boy went through greeting procedures. I smiled at the porn star, who was inexplicably naked. Then the Boy and I were walking outside, on a grassy upward-sloping tunnel to the playground, and I stopped and lay down, and he lay down behind me. He said he missed me, he missed fucking me. I felt him grow harder and slide up between my thighs.
“You can’t,” I said. And he pushed the first inch inside.
At this point the porn star (who, it should be pointed out for the extremely dim, is NOT dating my ex in real life, this is just a dream), still inexplicably naked, positions herself on her back in front of me. I dive in. She tells me she doesn’t like direct clitoral stimulation. I rub her through the hood and tongue her inner lips. The Boy mounts me from behind.