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.

Life’s twists and turns

It’s been a while since I’ve seen Christian. My excuse is that I’ve had a lot of other shit to deal with over the four or five months since I came back from Italy. You already know what I’m referring to.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget that other people’s lives continue in parallel with your own, and that as we are concentrating on negotiating life’s twists and turns and dark alleyways, they too might be hitting their own metaphorical brick walls.

The last time I visited Christian he was playing house with a tall, muscular, black Adonis. His art and graphics business was going from strength to strength, thanks to introductions from a certain Italian gentleman of our acquaintance.

I wasn’t entirely surprised to get a call from him yesterday in the middle of the day. He didn’t say very much that might have given me a clue about his state of mind, but there was something in his slurred words and the tone of his voice that warned me that he was once again wallowing in the darkness of self loathing, into which he periodically descends.

At around four I left the office and drove the four miles to his dock-side apartment. Christian lives on the eleventh floor.
“What do ya want?” was the aggressive voice that came at me over the intercom when I pressed the buzzer.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Yeah-h-h-h..... and this is me, bitch. What da ya want?”
“To come in. I told you I’d visit after work,” I said.
He grunted something inaudible and a second later there was the electronic buzzing as the security catch popped.

When he opened the front door he was partly dressed in a short red and black silk Kimono. I say partly, as it was draped over his shoulders, but was left wide open at the front, and he wasn’t wearing anything beneath.
“Nice to see you too,” I said to his dangling alabaster penis. He squinted at me through bloodshot eyes, his usually hairless chin untidy with at least a weeks growth of fine blonde stubble.
Christian has always bordered on being OCD when it came to tidiness and personal cleanliness, but today he looked as though he hadn’t washed for days, and the apartment looked as though he’d thrown a party for a hundred chimpanzees and they’d gone leaving empty wine and vodka bottles, half eaten pizzas and Chinese take away cartons on every surface. There was also the unmistakable aroma of marijuana, vomit and stale sex.

Throwing himself down on the only clear seat, he picked up a dark-blue glass marijuana Bubbler, reached for his lighter, flicked the wheel, sucked in the vapour at the mouth of the tube for a few seconds, holding in the smoke, before letting it out in a slow trickle. Then he held the Bubbler out to me.
I shook my head and patted my bulging belly. “I don’t do that any more,” I said.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” he said, catching me looking around the messy room. His upper lip twisted into a facsimile of a sneer. “But frankly, my dear, I don’t fucking care anymore.”
“What’s happened?”
He took another hit from the pipe,then sat back on the seat, his knees wide.

“The stinking shit got out of bed last week, after he'd spent all night buggering me, packed his things and walked out.”
“Why? I thought you two were happy as a couple of magpies.”
“He got tired of fucking me, that’s what.”
“Oh.”
“Of course that’s not the reason he gave while he was packing his leather pants.”
“Oh?” I said again.
“The fucking black bastard came out with the old chestnut that he wasn’t ready to settle down, and that life was too short to be tied down. But I fucking know the slimy, fucking bastard was already stuffing his big fucking cock into some other fucking asshole somewhere. I asked him straight, ‘are you fucking someone else?’”
“What did he say?”
“ ‘No-one in particular’, that’s what he said. Of course you know what that means…? It means the slut is sticking it into any fucking hole that’s available. I hope his ass bleeds and his fucking cock withers. To hell with him and all his kind, that’s what I say! Since he went I’ve sucked at least a dozen cocks - a different one every day – sometimes two a day.”
“Christian, you need to be careful?”
“Who gives a god-damned shit anyway.”
“I do. I don’t want to see you catch something nasty.”
He took another hit from the tube and drew his legs up under him.

My eyes settled on several untidy lines of white powder on a small table against the wall. This was something new. He’d snorted coke a few times before and I’d tried it once or twice, but from the look of the empty plastic bags and the little silver straw lying in the powder, he was no longer an occasional user.

“How long have you been like this,” I asked.
“What’s today?”
“Wednesday.”
“Ah-h-h…….about two weeks - give or take. You sure you don’t what a hit? It’s good stuff. Primo shit. I got this guy who only deals in the best powder. He can get anything; uppers, downers, snow…. I wouldn’t trust him though, he’s a criminal. I mean his prices are criminal. The bastard held me up for seven grand the last time.”
“Seven thousand! That’s a bloody fortune.”
“Hell yes! But I was throwing a party, and you can’t have a party without the right amount of flakes. It’d be uncivilized.”
“I mean that’s a lot of money to stick up you nose.”
He sat upright, the sneer back on his pip. “Don’t come all high and mighty with me. I know things you know….!”
“I wasn’t-“
“You’re a fucking cunt - you know that?”
“Why so complementary?”
“Well, I don’t see you for months and now you sweep back in and get all judgemental and shit.”
“First of all I didn’t swoop, you called me, remember. And second I’m not judging you - I’m just saying that you can’t afford to throw away all that cash.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty, little head; there’s lots more where that came from.”
“Not if you don’t go out and do the work there isn’t.”
“I bloody do my best work when I’m high.”
“When was the last time you did any work at all?”
“Don’t lecture me woman, you’re not me fucking mother.”

There’s more, but I just heard the front door opening. We are going out to dinner with some friends of his. Frankly I could just as easily stay in and wallow on the couch with my big belly.
I’ve been suffering a lot with heartburn recently and the baby is starting to wriggle around in its cage.
Only another three weeks and I can give up the daily commute.

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.