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.

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.

A persistent memory

It’s Sunday morning. If you could see me now you’d notice the smile on my face. The cause is obvious. He brought me breakfast in bed – of course that was after he’d used his tongue and his lips to bring me to two screaming orgasms that curled my toes and made every hair on my body stand on end and shout – ‘hallelujah!’

Not being the kind of girl who takes and doesn’t give, I gave him the benefit over every orgasm denying technique I’d ever learnt. Keeping him on the verge until there was smoke coming out of his ears and his eyes bulged redly. Then I turned around, got on my hands and knees, wriggling my bottom at him.
He was like a raging bull; slapping and snorting as he drove into me.
I clung to the quilt with one hand, shuddering at every stroke, using the other hand to massage my clitoris.
I’ve said before that giving a blow-job almost always makes me cum, well, by the time I let him enter me I’d had one orgasm and was well on my way to another.

Forty-seven savage strokes and he exploded with a howl of triumph, sending me over the edge at the same time. That’s why I am smiling.

It’s only been a few days, but I certainly miss the heat of Italy. Outside the skies are leadened, it’s not cold, but there’s a breeze that raises the goose-pimples.


….follow on from….. A happy return….

“I’ve put you in your old room,” Vitalia said, after the lengthy hug and the introduction to her beautifully dressed bambini, who I assumed had been dolled up for my benefit. Her mother, still a lovely woman, slender, stately, and elegant to her finger nails, gave me a huge embrace, as if I was a long lost child, finally come home.

Shooing her children out to play, Vitalia took my hand and led me up curved staircase to bedroom level, and while I unpacked, she talked; mostly about her life, her marriage, her husband and her children, in the reverse order.
She was happy, she said. Her husband was kind and loving, and her children were blessings, who she loved more than life itself. They were trying for another one, she said finally, with that slight inflection in her voice that asked the question, ‘and what about you? Have your ovaries dried up?’


It’s a warm Italian evening, I’ve showered and washed my hair and I’m standing on my balcony, watching the yellow sun sink into a reddening western sky. The cicadas are chirping noisily in the shrubs in the garden below. It suddenly strikes me as funny that at eighteen I’d stood on that same balcony, looking at the same sun sinking into the same sea, perhaps wondering about the direction of my life. But it was more likely that I was just enjoying the view. Eighteen-year-olds are not usually given to thoughts about how their lives have descended into the strange. For one they haven’t yet lived, and secondly their brains are full of empty space, waiting to be filled with pictures, regrets, doubts, love and all the dust that travel and time collect.

Back then I’d been an innocent – ripe with virginity, glossy with hope, all my illusions in tact, no idea that within a couple of months I’d have fallen madly in love, and had my heart broken in the worst way.
Back then I wouldn’t have recognised the person I’ve become. I wouldn’t have thought it possible that little-ole-me would develop a soft addiction to sex with strangers.

A Happy Return

Back to the daily commute today. It’s not so bad – British drivers are fairly tolerant of each other on the road.
‘After you.’ – ‘No, after you.’ – ‘Why, thank you.’ – ‘It’s my pleasure.’
All done with a gentle hand gesture, a nod, a wave, and a smile through the windscreen. Civilized.

Not so your Italian driver, whose first reaction is to lean on the horn aggressively, followed by a narrowed eye glare, and a gesture, which ranges in meaning from, “Your-a Mama isn’t-a sure-a who-a your-a papa is!”  to “Your-a sister gives lousy blow-jobs.”

My first morning back wasn’t too bad; my desk wasn’t piled high with files and there wasn’t a shopping list of calls I needed to make. My secretary just smiled and said, “Nice to have you back. Did you have a good time?”
Within five minutes she was knocking on the door with my first cup of real coffee. As I said, civilised.

All morning I looked forward to coming to the bar; comfortable surroundings and friendly faces.
The handsome barista hasn’t returned, which can mean that he’s become a gigolo, or has joined the ranks of the over-worked legal climbers. He’ll be dressed in a suit and tie and occupying an office somewhere in the city.

Honestly, I did a lot of writing while I was in Italy; half a page here, half a page there; in all it mounted up to over fifteen thousand words. But it proved difficult to finish anything before someone tapped on my door, inviting me to descend for dinner, or go out on a boat around some island or other. So now that I’m back in my usual seat, I’ll try to correct the prose and draw the disparate pieces together into something approaching a readable narrative.


Giovani loaded my cases into the boot, then opened the rear door of the car for me, inviting me to get in, but I’d smiled and said that I prefered to sit in the front.

“Va bene,” he said.

I didn’t miss the way his eyes washed over my body, not blatant or lingering, but just enough to weigh and measure my proportions. His expression didn’t change, but I read the appreciation in his eyes.
It’s always nice to be appreciated.

We drove out of Naples and south along the narrow twisting coast roads toward Sorrento.
Yes this was Italy, vehicular chaos; horns blaring, hand gestures, hair-pin bends; scooters beep beeping, swerving and leaning at dangerous angles and crazy speeds.

It was a fairly long drive, and I noticed that not once did he resort to the car horn; which is very un-Italian of him.
He asked, and I gave a brief run-down about my life and what I’d been doing since I left – leaving out the bits about my extra-marital indiscretions.

“I started studying marine biology at university,” he told me, when I got around to asking him what he was doing, “but after a year I switched to engineering. Now I’ve taken over the family charter business and expanded it to include motorised super-yachts.”

I am familiar with the super-yachts and the kind of people who owned them. They were the type of people who sometimes used my company’s professional services, when they wanted to obscure the ownership of such large, immensely expensive toys.

While he drove I had time to contrast the boy I’d left, with the man next to me. I recalled how he’d looked at me from the pool as I sun bathed, or from behind a tree as I walked through the garden gossiping with his sister.

“You are his first crush,” she’d whispered then. “He’s always staring at you. Poor thing is going to be broken-hearted when you go.”
“That’s sweet.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he masturbates in the shower while he thinks of you in your little bikini.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” I’d said, making a mental note to be more careful how much of myself I exposed.

There had been tears all round the morning my rucksack was loaded into the back of the family car. In the few short weeks I’d become part of their family. Of course, in all such heat-rending departures there is always a promise to return. I had made that solemn promise.

Now here I am fifteen years later. The same person, but different in so many ways.