Booze, blow, bed, bath

after…… water.……

I have seen Ingrid several times since that afternoon when we shared booze, blow, bed and a bath, but only in company with Christian or other people, never entirely alone. Her blonde hair had been cut short and dyed a red-brown, and she’d had her tongue pierced – two little metal balls sat side by side in the middle, like a pair of silvery eyes.

The last time had been at an engagement party for a lesbian couple Christian had introduced me to the year before. Inga had swooped across the room when I arrived, wrapping me in a welcoming embrace, whispering in my ear, “I was afraid you weren’t coming. I would’ve died if you hadn’t.” Then she’d kissed me on both cheeks and finally on the mouth. Her lips tasted of almonds, her pupils large and there were a few crystals of white powder clinging to her nostrils. She took my hand and dragged me off to talk to the happy couple.

Later that evening I saw her slip away with a slender brunette in a tight leather skirt and knee-length boots. It was half and hour before they reappeared. No one took any notice. She smiled wickedly and nodded at me when our eyes met across the room, telling me that what I imagined was true.

That was more than a year ago.

Christian, who loves to gossip, told me that she has been in relationships with a model, that didn’t end well; a singer who tried to commit suicide; the sister of the owner of a Spanish night club, and a male French banker.

Crumpled sheets

….following….It started with a kiss…

White sheets crumpled and stained, perspiration droplets dappled our bodies, smeared lipstick on our cheeks. We lay side by side panting, exhausted, exhilarated. The taste of her was on my lips, on my tongue, in my mouth – the heady aroma of her juice, strong in my nostrils, the sound of her final orgasm ringing in my memories ears. Above our heads the skylight spilled sunlight onto the bed in which we’d just made love.

We hadn’t been gently with each other, at least not at the beginning.

It’s not so easy to go from deciding to do something to actually doing it. Especially since the image of her, back pressed against the wall, legs wide, hands pressing on the head of the woman whose tongue was lathing her clitoris was playing on a screen in my imaginations theatre.

The vodka had helped a lot. She had taken the expensive bottle from Christian’s well stocked bar cooler.

“I brought this for him from Poland,” she said, unscrewing the lid and bringing back a couple of shot glasses.
Handing me an empty glass, she filled it to the brim. “L’chayim,” she said.
“Shouldn’t that be Nostrovia?”
She pulled a face. “I hate fucking Russians. They’re all fucking bitches.”

I remembered something Christian had said about the woman who’d broken Imogen’s heart and decided to leave it alone.

One more straight shot and I was feeling very relaxed; another, and the images in my head began to fade. That was when she’d leaned in and kissed me.

We didn’t undress each other. That’s something men do.

We stood at the foot of the bed facing each other as we stripped down to our bra and pants. It’s odd the things you notice, her pants were a delicate beige lace with little bows at the hips. Her matching bra, a pair of lacy cups that contained, rather than held up her firm breasts. Even at that moment, as I was about to commit a kind of adultery, it came into my head that my husband would have loved to handle her tits. Standing a mere three feet apart we looked at each other, before we unclipped our bras, slid our panties down to our ankles and stepping out of them.

It started with a kiss

The second bottle of wine had come and gone. I told myself that if I returned to the office, my concentration level was going to be well below par. I wasn’t drunk, or even tipsy, just not in the mood.

So after a quick phone call to the office to lie to my secretary about my state of health, Ingrid and I tumbled into a black cab and she gave the driver the address of Christian’s waterfront apartment.

“We’re sleeping together while I’m in town,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice. “It’s okay, I know he sleeps with you too.”

I saw the searching look the driver shot into his rear-view mirror, his eyebrows raised as he stored away the information to be shared and laughed over with his friends later.

“Has he ever suggested you and he actually do it?” she asked, placing a hand casually on my knee.
“A few times,” I half whispered.
“Have you ever been tempted?”
“No. Have you?”
“We did try to once, but he couldn’t make it stay hard. It was OK while I was sucking it, but once I stopped and he tried to stick it in me it just went soft. He does have a lovely cock though. I’ve never seen anything so smooth and white. It’s a shame he’s such a queen.”

It started with a kiss. But that’s how it usually starts. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t expected something like that to happen. I could see the desire in her eyes. I don’t know what she could read in mine.
By the time she inserted the key in the door of Christian’s apartment and pushed it open, I could feel that familiar knot in my belly and the tightness in my spine.
Excusing myself I disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door. I sit down on the toilet, fighting the feelings and the fears that had been creeping up on me all through lunch.

I was no lesbian virgin, my best friend and I had made love together many times while at university.
This was different somehow. Back then I’d been nineteen, and it had been….what had it been? Something we did without asking too many questions or worrying about the consequences. Like so many things people do when they are full of youth and ignorance and hang-ups and alcohol and marijuana. Though the drugs and the alcohol had not been the excuse after the first time.

Since then I’d never really had….. (almost never, there had been that one time of which I have already spoken during my gap-year) any kind of sexual attraction to another woman.

Sitting there my analytical mind weighed the pros and cons of what I knew for certain Ingrid wanted to happen. What I was afraid was likely to happen. This was no light flirtation for her, something to be done, enjoyed and giggled over afterward. All though lunch I’d looked into her eyes as she told me of her life – she was damaged goods.

I couldn’t deny the attraction. It had been there from that first kiss. It had been there as I watched her being eaten by that woman against the wall. At first I had been appalled, and then intrigued, then sad and finally jealous.

I’d refused to talk about it when Christian had tried to the following morning. But he’d known that something had gotten under my skin. That had been his plan all along. He was a game player, a puppet master, who enjoyed setting up situations and then sitting back to watch the situation develop and the carnage that sometimes ensued.

She was waiting sitting on the settee when I came out of the bathroom, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand. I sat down beside her.

I’d made my decision. Or to be more accurate, I’d decided to stop fighting my nature.
“I thought you’d be hiding in there forever,” she said.
“Was I hiding?”
“Yes. But were you hiding from me or yourself?”

I half smiled as I looked into her blue eyes. There was something so vulnerable in them. She was an extremely beautiful woman with her blonde hair, fine Scandinavian features, white, even teeth and lips that would be described as provocatively pouting.

“I could pretend that I don’t know what you are talking about, but that’s a lie,” I said, my eyes focused on her mouth.
“No, let’s not pretend. Let’s just come straight out and say it. I want you.”

Lunch with Ingrid 5

Packed and ready. He’s gone to deliver the dog to his sister. Butterflies are on the march again in my belly. I might need to go pee again in a minute. The cats are sitting on the back of the sofa looking on, taking it all in, judging me, and finding me guilty of desertion. It’s the same every time we go away.
His firm is sending a car in a couple of hours to transport us to the airport. There’s nothing quite like being chauffeur driven by a man in a uniform.
I wrote the final piece of my lunch with Ingrid a few days ago but haven’t had the will to put it up. There are bits of my life that make it hard to look myself in the face, when you sit down and recall the details. I have absolutely no trouble recalling details. That’s my curse.


….continue from Lunch with Ingrid 4

“After that there were other men,” Ingrid continued, slicing carefully across the centre of a thin cucumber. “A black male model with a cock like an aubergine; we banged everyday for three weeks, till one morning he told me he loved me.”

She’d sliced the cucumber into small slithers and was pushing them around on her plate.

“He was nice, but I didn’t want nice, not any more. After him there were a couple of photographers, one Russian the other French. I nearly fell for the Frenchie, but what would have been the point, he was married too. Then there was a well known designer. That lasted two months; before I found out he was also screwing his assistant. Then I had a threesome with two handsome studs I met at a club. They were a couple of professional fuckers who hung around fashion shows, hotel foyers, bars and restaurants in the hope of bagging one of us. Just about every country has them – some more than others. They are an occupational hazard. They look at us like items on a gigolo menu; blonde, brunette, red-head – turn up, take your pick, take it to a hotel, fuck it stupid. The sex was generally good and often fantastic. But everybody knew that it was only ever going to be a one time thing, kissing and fucking and goodbye before daybreak.
Most of time I was slightly drunk or slightly high or slightly both when some good-looking guy made a point of catching my eye. I was smoking more and more dope, and snorting thousands of pounds of coke a week. I recall that I had the deluded view that it was purely medicinal.”

She laughed, more bitterness coming through.

“Then one morning I woke up next to a woman,” she went on. “I didn’t recall how she’d got there, or what we’d done in the night. Initially I tried to convince myself that we’d just shared a bed and that I – we hadn’t done anything. I was still there deluding myself when she woke up. Have you ever….?”

I shook my head emphatically. “No,” I lied.

“Neither had I, till then. What was more surprising was that it turned out that it wasn’t she who’d picked me up, but the other way around. I’d kissed her first, and made the suggestions that ended with us going back to my hotel room, getting naked and making love.”

Ingrid pushed a slither of lettuce into her mouth, chewing slowly. “She had lovely deep brown eyes and a cute button nose,” she went on after taking a sip from her glass. “We talked, had breakfast in the room, shared a bath and made love again. Then she dressed and walked out of my life. I never saw her again. She too was married. I’d just fed a need for pussy she had now and then.”

This time her smile wasn’t bitter, only sad.

“I hadn’t realised that I had any such feelings toward other women, and for a few weeks I managed to convince myself that it was a one off; that the dope and the booze had caused me to act out of character. I picked up a couple of stray men to try to prove my point; the first one was only interested in pleasing himself; the second worked hard to please me. But even after multiple orgasms, I knew something wasn’t right. So a couple of days later I walked into a lesbian bar and walked out with a red-head. She was nice, slightly plump around the middle, with a soft belly, and she still had a thick fringe of pubic hair. We ended up spending the afternoon at the Hilton. After that there other women – many, and men too – but fewer.”

I could see she was trying to judge what effect her words were having on me. I smiled and kept my expression as neutral as possible.

“I rarely use a man these days,” she said after a minute, “I’m almost a complete lesbian, but I still have a very small craving to be penetrated by an amateur; someone hard and brutal, with big hands and a rigid cock. Dildos and vibrators are great, but we ladies make love to each other in an equal opportunity sort of way; whereas a man can generally be relied upon to make a woman feel like second-class citizen when he spreads her legs and shoves his cock into her. Even the best lover among them will have the wild look of the beast in his eyes as he slides in and out of a wet pussy. And the more we cry out and rip at their backs the wilder the beast becomes.”

She stopped talking as the waiter approached again with another bottle.

We ate slowly while she continued to talk. Christian had been right – she had needed someone to talk to; someone who would listen and not interrupt; someone who didn’t look at her as though they were judging her; someone on the verge of admitting to herself that the woman on the other side of the table got her juices flowing.