Booze, blow, bed, bath

after……..hot 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.

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.

Fat as a hippo

Those few who have followed this narrative will know of my present condition: in a word, fat as a hippo. But that’s four words. Hey, ho!

Pregnancy is meant to be such a wonderful thing. Pregnant women are regularly described as blooming. Well, at present I feel less like a blossom and more like a moose. My reflection, when I can bear to look at it, shows the face of a woman who hasn’t slept much in days, because she can’t find a comfortable position to lie in. And anyway, she has to get up every bloody five minutes to go pee.

I know I’m singing a song that countless women have sung before. And I know that there are some ladies out there who insist that they’ve enjoyed every moment of every pregnancy they’ve had. And that includes my sister. Well, lucky for them.

But in reality I have no right to complain, I did this to myself. Or more accurately, I let him do it to me.

Speaking of he, who I have mentioned seldom in this narrative, the prospect of fatherhood seems to suit him well. If anyone is blooming, he is. He is, and always has been a natural romantic, who only reverts to savagery when someone hands him an odd shaped ball and tells him to run the length of the field, knocking aside and generally mauling anybody who tries to stop him. It’s a game - really it is.
It's my personal opinion that although the game was invented by gentlemen, it is more suited to hairy neanderthals with a penchant for brutality and legalized violence. I love him dearly, but I've seen the blood-lust growing in his eyes at the prospect of another brutal, bone-crunching face-off with his teams arch-enemies.

His favourite thing at the moment is to pat my expanding belly, smile proudly at his handiwork and ask, “Is the bun baked yet?”
Very cute!

 

After Giovani

“There are a number of luxury cabins,” said the pretty stewardess, her springy blonde hair bobbing around her shoulders, as she descended the winding stairs into the belly of the boat. She turned to look me up and down, her hazel eyes judging me, and finding me guilty of future crimes. “We’ve made up the blue room for your use,” she said finally, turning the nearest handle and standing aside for me to precede her.

I nearly whistled at the opulence - the over-the-top, over-sized bed - gigantic smoke tinted mirrors on three of the walls and on the ceiling. I knew what she was thinking, I was thinking exactly the same thing.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “This is only a day drip. I don’t actually need a bedroom. I-”
“Oh. I…we thought….” She left the sentence unfinished, but I could see clearly in her blue eyes exactly what they’d thought was going on. The boss had brought his newest lover on board, and was intending to wine, dine and fuck her on the high seas.
What other reason would a well known seducer have for taking a woman out for a ride on his mega-yacht.
I was certain that the gold ring on my wedding finger had been noted. So not only did they think that I’d come along so that their millionaire boss could strip off by clothes and have me thrashing about beneath him; they also thought that I was an adulterous.

“I just need somewhere to change,” I said, deciding against any long explanation or rebuttal of her unspoken words. The small twitch of her eyebrows told me that she wasn’t likely to believe any sort of denial of the hot erotic image she had playing behind her eyes.

I was tempted to ask how many other women, married or otherwise, had been taken out for a day trip, but decided against it.