Sexy Hot Midwinter Sunshine

Wintry London weather outside. On my screen, a hot summer day. A film crew trekking along a Mediterranean coastal path, sunlight filling the air. Their route taking them through sandy patches and sparse vegetation, chalk cliffs behind falling into dark blue sea.

The videocamera tracking a woman in skimpy denim shorts, bikini top, sandals. A man occasionally walking with her, taking her hand, chatting, consulting, turning back to join the main group.

A suitable spot found and picnic rug spread. The woman lying on it, waiting. The crew getting on with tasks, unpacking tripods, cameras, reflective umbrellas. All this taking place in the background, the videocamera staying on the woman, now removing her top. Lying on her back, legs in air, undoing her shorts, pulling them down, only a bikini thong underneath.

Catching sight of the videocamera, smiling, adopting a burlesque, legs deliciously straight, brought up, kissing the tops of her feet, hands peeling off the shorts and thong. Her pussy and sphincter pointing straight at the videocamera and the sunshine. The position held for long moments, soaking up the sun’s rays, luxuriating in its warmth.

Throwing aside the shorts. Taking her feet in her hands, pulling them wide apart, a yoga stretch. Running her hands down her legs. Reaching the hollows each side of her pussy, pulling at them, separating her lips. Bending her knees, lifting her hips slightly, stretching her pussy wider.

Breaking the spell suddenly, looking sideways at the videocamera, checking it’s still running. Smiling, resuming the burlesque. Turning, stretching, catlike, on her stomach, lifting her bottom in the air, separating her knees, arching her back inwards. Her pussy and sphincter again on display, basking in sunshine. Her fingers reaching for her clitoris, stroking. An immediate exaggerated orgasm, porn style. Looking again at the videocamera, laughing, sticking out her tongue. Resuming a normal pose, sitting on the blanket, videocamera antics forgotten, back to being a regular woman.

The camera crew’s preparations complete, the woman now surrounded by make-up artists, lightmeter readers, wardrobe assistants. Fashion shoot commencing. The videocamera stopping.

A Mediterranean scene to put sexy hot sunshine in my wintery London day. The woman’s humour shining through, an exact parody, skewering porn whilst somehow transcending it, a blast of sexual intensity coming from nowhere, just as sometimes happens in everyday life, if you’re lucky.

Fine Sexual Line

Snow thick all over the park, an event in London too rare and exciting for an eleven-year-old daughter to contain her patience for long. The shops quickly selling out of sleds, but one luckily obtained, a plastic disc with a handle, now dragged behind her back up the snowy hill, laughing with her friends, frantically positioning for another slide down it.

Proceedings occasionally halted, a quick run to my side, a breathless summary of the last slide, hey dad did you see how far I went, this sled is amazing. Quick hug, off again. The air filled with laughter from children excited by the thrills and parents thrilled by children’s excitement.

Afterwards, sitting on a sofa watching television, my daughter exhausted, nestled at my side. An interesting dynamic, sometimes she avoids physical contact, sometimes she’s indifferent, other times like today she reaches out. Leaving me to draw a fine fatherly line, welcoming but not overly intimate, warm and inviting when she’s reaching out, unfazed when she’s not.

My wife offering slices of fruitcake. I wonder how things were between her and her father, just one perceived rejection from him, intended or otherwise, and the physical seed of doubt is sown, the sense of being unattractive to men. My daughter unconsciously now applying the same test, sitting beside me, soaking up the idea that her physical presence is something enjoyed by me. Utterly unsexual, more like pre-sexual. When she becomes fully sexual her father will be important only by dint of categorical exclusion.

Thinking about my wife again, that may well be how it started, an edgy relationship with an over-critical father, seeing herself as repellant, mentally putting in place a shield to protect herself against all men, now part of her fabric. Or maybe she was always going to be unsexual, who knows?

My daughter caught up in the television action, some cartoon mouse about to be caught by a fox, her slice of cake suspended in pause between plate and mouth. The mouse escaping, the cake eaten. She jumping up, going off to the next room, some new adventure, physical closeness over. A daughter constructing her worldview, posing a test of some sort for her father, marking criteria not disclosed, results only to be revealed after decades if at all. I hope I did okay.

Sexual Philosophy

Family stuff to do over the holiday period, the seasonal cheer wearing thin after a while, then a tonic, an email from Jane.

Hey darling R, your last email has lifted me for days, you can’t imagine, the sense of being loved physically, not just the sex, also the sense of being known and loved as me, not anyone else, not because of corresponding with some juvenile male template. i don’t know if i’ve been unlucky in love, for not having had that feeling very much, or if i’m lucky for having had it at all, other women seem to have happy sexual times but maybe they’re just easier to please, or maybe they just pretend.

But when i talk to my friends none of them seems sexually happy, some aren’t interested themselves, a lot of the rest are just resigned. i remember chatting with you at that party on that boat on the thames, just when you started noticing me, or so i hoped, you quoting kant, of man’s crooked timber nothing straight was ever made, you then saying, and nowhere more so than in matters of sex, you about twenty, me just leaving school, and me in awe at your knowledge of the world. makes me smile, the memory, but now after all this time i know you were right.

So R now i feel like there’s a great timber beam in my mind, a structural girder, which is my sexual being, and it’s twisting and buckling and refusing to be fitted into the banalities of married life, i don’t even think it’s just T, though he’s pretty hopeless, i think it could be anybody. same ancient dichotomy, dionysian abandon versus apollonian order. no solution, or none that i can see. some of my friends dump their husbands, find someone new, before long it’s back to the same old problem.

Oh god, R, i’m terrified of scaring you away by grumbling, but there’s nobody else i can talk to. anyway, i really know that you’re never put off by any philosophical discussion. that’s the thing that conquered me in student days, i just loved it that you’d discuss anything, well, except trivia, if i could find a man here like that he could have me as he wanted, mind you, he’d need good hands like yours too. mmm... and tongue. mmm, and... oh r, just emailing you is making me frisky, i’d better go. email me soon. love Jxx.

Double Sexual Power

Samantha at my side, hugging, quietly waiting for me to recover. Me warm by her side, nestling into her, glowing in post-climax euphoria. Gradually the world beyond taking shape again. Sighing, separating, smiling together. A new shared knowledge, she of her womanly power, I of pleasure at being its beneficiary.

That distinctive intimacy, getting dressed afterwards. Chatting. Been in London long? Oh about two months, actually I’m going home next week. Oh, where’s home? Poland. Oh, right, do you have family there? Yes, but I’m going back to study. Oh, what do you study?

My fingers working my shirt’s buttons. Physics. What, physics as in looking for Higgs’s boson? She looking at me with interest. Yes, actually. Oh, that’s interesting, are you doing stuff with CERN? Her own dressing finished, looking at me again. Yes. Pause. Assessing me.

My shirt buttons done up. She laughing, pointing. Looking down, the buttons wrong, left higher than right. Both of us smiling. My fingers starting to undo them. So how do you work with CERN?

Another appraising look. Then, well, I’m doing post-doctoral research with Aarhus, that’s in Denmark. My team helps with particle simulations, you know, that hydrogen anti-matter stuff, you probably read, they trapped some but not long enough for a spectroscopic look. We’re working on experimental design to feed to CERN for next-generation analysis.

Stopping, embarrassed, a secret enthusiast suddenly given the chance to enthuse, self-conscious after the initial surge. Also, chary of transgressing client-escort boundaries.

My fingers rebuttoning. Her hands sweeping round, invoking the room, anyway, this stuff, it’s a way of getting enough money to live, funding’s limited, I make more money here in half an hour than a whole day waitressing, also I can do some work in the down-time, that’s what I was doing when you arrived. Smiling. Simulating annihilation events, actually, it’s very exciting.

My dressing finished. Her hold on me now absolute, physical five minutes ago, now cerebral too, a double sexual power. Walking down the passageway to the front door. Reaching out for a final hug. Hey baby, I wish you well, I envy you your work, go get that boson. A brief fond kiss on cheeks.

Outside, door behind me closing, the wintry world looking new, me feeling lucky.

Dreamy Creamy Paradise

The door swinging open, a pretty face peering around it, hello, can I help you? Hi, I’ve come to see Samantha. Yes, come inside. Leading me through the hall, down a dark passageway, into a bedroom. A pause. You’re Samantha? Yes, I’m Samantha.

Thinking, I’m sure this isn’t how the photo looked. Remembering, the photo blurred out her face, there’s no way of being sure. Maybe it’s some sort of modus operandi, anonymize the profile, parcel out the work between a pool of escorts, saves updating when the women move on. Well, so what, the question is, do we proceed?

Looking at her, trying not to seem like a buyer inspecting livestock. Rounder and heavier than the pictures, but very proportional and balanced, these being altogether the more potent attractors. Plus, something even stronger, confidence in her own attractiveness.

As if reading me, she saying, if you don’t want to go ahead, that’s fine. No, no, let’s do it. Handing her the money, she taking it to a room along the passageway, me starting to remove my clothes.

The door opening, Samantha entering, quickly stepping out of jeans, t-shirt, bra, panties. Immediately kneeling in front of me, taking my cock in her mouth, coaxing it into hardness, flicking it in her mouth with her tongue. Standing, holding it in her hand, working it gently, pushing me back onto the bed. Her sexiness slightly detached but very expert. Through it all, the absolute creamy loveliness of her skin.

Lying back, she on top, my hand stroking her back, her breasts on my chest, a totality of skin contact, a dreamy creamy paradise, Her lips moving down my body, taking my cock again. After a while, looking into my eyes, asking, condom honey? Sure baby. Her deft fingers and their beautiful curved fingernails tearing open the packet, putting it over my cock, pulling it down, giving my cock beneath the plastic a final suck.

Looking at me enquiringly, following my gestures, getting into doggy. My cock’s tip rubbing her pussy, parting its lips, entering. My hands rubbing her shoulders, her back, soaking in her creamy marble texture. Pushing her buttocks, separating them, showing the darker skin inside. Her sphincter a secret pinkish brown, opening for my delectation. My cock beneath, her pussy lips enwrapping. In my loins, the tightness building, gathering, entering the silent timeless hiatus of the final straight. Body cramping, facial muscles contorting. Exploding.

Exiting. Flopping beside her. Taking her in my arms, hugging her, feeling that skin again.

Explode in My Mouth Baby

Firing up the escort website, finding Jenny’s profile. Excitement building. Not for long however. A brief message inserted at the top, gone on holiday, see you in the new year.

A sense of deflation taking hold, lasting all day. Gradually pulling out of it, recognizing its source. Over the last week or so, first Jenny, then Jane, flooding my everyday thoughts, filling the world with a warm glow. The universe in harmony. Euphoric but unsustainable. Inevitably to be followed by a downer. Now, no email from Jane, Jenny on holiday, nothing. Downer duly arrived.

Soon however rescued by the pressure of everyday life, meetings to attend, meals to prepare, workouts to sweat through. My daughter’s Christmas play, her turn in her class to do Mary. A glass of mulled wine with her mother, still looking great, still looking at me ambivalently. A visit from overseas relatives.

Next day, still feeling out of sorts, fidgety, in need of woman’s skin. Firing up the website again. Checking the recent joiners, adding them to my hot list, weeding out the inactives. Checking the options. SweetSamantha, full-bodied, toned, blowjob specialist, cum explode in my mouth baby. Smiling out of the computer screen, nose and eyes anonymized by photoshop blur, yes that’s exactly what I need, a good blowjob, let’s telephone her.

Five rings, a foreign woman’s voice answering. Yes I’m free today. Yes, twelve o’clock is good. Half an hour is fine. I’ll text you the street and postcode, ring me again when you get here and I’ll give you the house number.

Getting ready to go, a quick shower to be ultra clean for her, checking the map, putting on winter clothes. A familiar low-key excitement building, like before an important sports match or business interview, this is what you’ve been waiting for but now it feels unremarkable, the world has slowed down and gone quieter, not even sure you want to go through with it, but carrying on anyway.

Arriving at the street, ringing again, getting final directions. That distinctive feeling, being sucked slowly into a vortex, a different reality. Pressing her number. The door buzzing open.

Many Sexual Chambers

Well that’s two women fallen in love with in two weeks. Both intensely sexual, each utterly different. One, Jenny, prostitute, almost no shared conversation. The other, Jane, ex-lover from student days, sharer of bottles of red wine and poetry and long car drives. The only commonality, deep communion through our bodies. And all the while the everyday presence of my wife, quiet and lovely and unsexual.

Toiling at the gym on the rowing machine, thinking. From my viewpoint, two sexual geniuses plus my wife. Well actually, a lot of others too. Ex-wives, ex-lovers, escorts visited. Each occupying a secret chamber in my mind.

Taking a break, wiping off sweat with a small white towel, moving on to some weights. So what about their viewpoint. Say Jane’s. Suppose she has multiple chambers in her mind too, suppose I’m just one. Well, unnecessary to suppose, that is definitely the case, whether or not articulated by her, nobody can stay sane otherwise.

Clean and jerk, a lightish weight, ten reps, rest. A sip of water. But that’s fine. I don’t want more than a single chamber in the mansion of Jane’s mind. I don’t even want to be the most important one. I don’t care how many other chambers there are. Ex-boyfriends, her husband, lovers. Them and me, all of us, we’re lucky, we shared time with the lovely Jane. We listened to Bach with her, went to Picasso exhibitions, shared poetry, kissed her nipples, licked her clitoris, woke up in the morning, had coffee, made love again. I hope they all looked after her and loved her, paid homage to her loveliness.

Another ten reps, struggling slightly on the last two, heartbeat faster. Another sip of water. Deep abdominal breathing. The important thing, my particular chamber in Jane’s mind, I hope it’s one that she treasures. Same as with all my lovers and exes. They can be with other men, that’s fine, just, I hope I make them feel special, I hope that when they re-enter my chamber in their mind it’s with a warm glow.

Ten more reps, the last set. Just making it. Sitting, wiping sweat with the towel again, readying myself for bicep curls. Thinking, yes, that’s how the mind works, that’s the past. Meanwhile there’s the now, and urgent matters of the skin, I’m getting fidgety again. Think I’ll look up Jenny.

Making E-Love

A couple of emails from Jane, the sound of her voice on the recorded message, and now she’s as sexually present as in student days. Waking up last night, turning to touch her, surprised to find she’s not there. Instead, my wife, still and cool in pajamas, a different presence entire. But a warmth still glowing from the sense of Jane.

Emailing her. Hi darling Jane, that was a wonderful email. Ever since student days I’ve made love to you regularly, just a shame you weren’t there to join in. Maybe once or twice a year, I suppose. You and your shapes in my mind, and your smells and givingness, it’s a near impossible thing for a woman to do, be so sexually available but yet so desirable, but you manage it somehow, that’s your magic, at least for me. Such a sexual balm compared with its opposite, a supposed sexual heightening through withholding.

That day in the Cotswolds, naked on the picnic blanket, somehow I’d forgotten about it, after your email that student summer sunshine is lighting up my midwinter London. Right now, I can feel your skin and your silken thighs and the cleft of your bottom. Then when I saw you again in Australia, even being together only a few minutes, other people there, fully clothed, I could still feel them, it doesn’t go away, it’s a gift you’ve given forever.

Your husband was there so I didn’t do anything, but it would have been so wonderful to take you away, maybe to the beach, the smell of the sea, the sound of the waves, glasses of cold white wine, chatting, kissing, holding. Back to the hotel room, clothes discarded, my erection ready, you sucking it harder, climbing atop me, guiding me in. Taking my finger, guiding it to your sexy little ass, pushing it in the hole, making me feel the twitching as you climax. Damn, it’s making me hard just thinking about it, my finger can still feel that Jane twitch. And all not to be. I hadn’t wanted to interfere. Now I just have to imagine it.

Well darling Jane, my marriages haven’t worked out as you know, and this one’s sexless. But I’ve given up searching for a sexual wife, I’m going to stick here. But with extramarital adventures. Trust me Jane, it’s easier that way. So if you’re in London, let’s make love. And meanwhile, let’s make e-love. So email soon xx R.

TS Elliot and Blowjobs

In my inbox, an email from Jane. Hi R, it was so good getting your email, i haven’t been able to speak to anyone for ages about this stuff, certainly not a man. actually i tried therapy but that wasn’t any help, i don’t need to uncover any childhood traumas, the problem’s right in front of me, it’s that my husband and i hardly touch each other, physically or otherwise. if it weren’t for the children i’d probably get a separation, but that’d just trade one misery for another.

Anyways, here i was feeling sorry for myself, then contacting you, then your emails, god, i feel like i’m in my teens again, well, okay, maybe not teens, i know much too much for that, but twenties, fresh and desirable and alive. i’m not even sure why, it’s not as if we’ve made love, nice thought. maybe it’s the reconnection with my past, as well as you, i’m stuck here in a place that still feels strange fifteen years on, i’m disconnected from my roots as well as my sexual self.

Last night i woke from a dream, you were in it, i lay quiet with my eyes closed clinging on to it. do you remember that weekend we went away, in the Cotswolds, not far from college but seeming a different universe. you giving me a present, turned out to be a raspberry beret like the prince song. a picnic rug on the grass, secluded, you reading ts eliot to me, naked in the sun, not an item of clothing between us except the raspberry beret. Orange juice, sandwiches, ts eliot and blowjobs. hot days, long nights. let us go then, you and i, when the evening is spread out against the sky...

So in my dream it was the same, except it was you and me now, you still looked in pretty good nick when i last saw you and that’s how you were in my dream, no complaints from this lady in that department, god, that’s still an exciting thought, actually i had to give myself some relief last night, something i’ve have to do more often recently. oh god, R, where does it go from here?

Well i don’t know when i’ll be in london, plans seem to have changed there. hopefully soon. maybe we can meet up, have a picnic in the cotswolds, i’ve still got the raspberry beret.

Love, J xxxx

Distant Sexual Desire

Ten thousand miles away and more, Jane’s pain in her email almost too much to bear. My student sweetheart Jane, soulmate, now marooned in sexlessness. Sex with her in those days, just a natural thing, we seemed to spend most of our time naked and entwined.

Yet also remembering something else. Those student days, even then, utterly lacking worldly wisdom, still I had a glimmering awareness, Jane’s sexual pull, surrender totally to it and I’d be smothered, my own identity drained away into hers. Not by her volition, just a simple consequence of her sexual power. At the time, rescued by our circumstances, living far apart, we couldn’t be together often anyway, I could surface for air and save myself from drowning.

Now I can see more clearly. This accidental apartness in student days conferring on me greater desirability in Jane’s eyes. Otherwise I may have been too available, sliding slowly along the dread slippery scale, desirability to familiarity to tedium to asphyxiation. Only one ending, a desperate bid for freedom, like a reckless jailbreak, relationship squandered, wreckage strewn everywhere. Maybe that’s what’s happening with her husband. Whatever, for us in those days, a sense of geographical distance threading through the sexual desire.

Ah, that makes sense. The same dynamic, probably in play now. Be there for her, but not too centrally. Emotional presence but geographical apartness. Plus occasional sexual congress if and when, that would be wonderful. I wonder if she’ll make it to London.

Emailing her. Hi darling J, it was great to hear from you. Yes, I did pick up some of the stuff in your email when we last spoke. I know what you mean about the sex, I’ve been there. It’d be great if we can find space for each other somehow, and for now email will have to do. Talk to me, precious J, it sounds like you need to. R xx.

Ex-Lover Reaching Out

Hi R, it was such a relief to get your email, even just an acknowledgement of my message. i’ve been wanting to make contact ever since that time you came to australia, but never had a reason. now when i thought i’m going to be in london i at last had an excuse, except now T has changed his mind so i might not be seeing you after all.

But now that we’re in contact, would it be too awful for you if we exchange emails occasionally, don’t worry, you don’t have to write much, i’ll do that, it’s just that i have to have someone to talk to, it was so lovely seeing you in australia, i immediately felt what i’ve always felt, here’s my soul-mate, i thought i could feel you feeling the same, but i could have been kidding myself, out of desperation.

Desperate is what i am, not the desperation of a crisis, more the slow-burning desperation of being in hopeless straits without the prospect of escape. as i’m sure you could see, my husband T’s not the brightest person ever to walk this planet, i could live with that though, except that he can’t, so he’s petty and shriveled and possessive. he shows this affable sociable public face, nobody seems to see through it, i’m sure everyone thinks i’m lucky having him as a husband.

Not that he’s violent or cruel, just that in every important way he’s just a big vacuum, i’ve learned to ignore him because it takes less time, he hardly notices the difference. that’s convenient, but it leaves a hole in my live, one that i can’t fill because his empty presence takes out the available time and space. i don’t care about having a stupid husband, he could be thick as pigshit or sharp as razors, who cares, what gnaws at my soul is the vacuum.

And what i’m specially desperate for, R, i’m not sure if i’ll leave this paragraph in, or delete it before i send it, or maybe i shouldn’t send this email at all, anyway, what i specially need, is sex. i want skin and touch and holding and smells and fluids and smiling and secrets, R. i want what we had. i want a lover who wants me. i want hours of unhurried confident intimacy. i want to have sex and feel stronger not weaker.

Okay, if this was a letter on paper instead of an email you’d see the stains of teardrops, i’m just going to send it anyway, forgive me if i’m bleeding all over you, R, you don’t have to reply, but if you do, that would be great, i promise i won’t mess up your life.

Missing you, you can’t imagine how much, J xx

Phone Message

Watching television, hearing my phone’s ringtone elsewhere in the house, making haste to answer, eventually finding it just in time for the ringing to stop. Usual thing. Checking the call record, number withheld. Oh well, couldn’t have been important. Back to television.

Just getting ready for bed, hearing a soft bleep on the phone, checking. Voice message. Dialling to get it. Yawning through the preamble about number of messages and instructions to hear them. Suddenly, Jane’s voice. The world receding, excluding itself, reducing itself to her sound. A jumble of images awakening, bursting loose from unknown lockers in my mind, she and I and student love.

Her words slightly hesitant, oh hi, it’s Jane, I finally found your number, I’m going to be in London next month, not sure if we could meet up, listen, it’s a bit difficult for me to talk, would it be possible to email me, we can fix something up, I’ve set up an email that nobody else can read. Going on to give me the email address. Continuing, well, hope to meet up, email me, okay. The voice tailing off, as if not wanting to be overheard. The message abruptly ending. The operator’s crisp voice waking me from my reverie.

Logging in to my own secret email account. Entering Jane’s email address. Typing, hi there, just a quick note to say I got your voicemail, thought you’d want confirmation, great, when are you in London? xxx

Send, click. Waiting for a few minutes. Good, no error message, I got the email address right. Okay, log out. Ring the voicemail service again, delete message. Eliminate traces on computer and phone, also check no signs of physical disarray, standard concealment disciplines, especially important when you’re distracted.

Getting into bed. Sleeping soundly, mind strangely free, neither Jane nor Jenny stealing my dreams. Waking, winter dawn just breaking. Jane instantly in my mind. The anticipation of adventures ahead. Heart beating faster.

Morning routines. Finally, sitting down at the computer, checking my secret email, inbox, one email, yes, it’s from Jane.

Jenny Love

Gradually, the sense of Jenny receding, life continuing as before. Then last night, waking in the early hours, seeing her exactly in my mind, the color of her hair, the shape of its cut, its sheen beneath my stroking hand, the contours of her nose, the curve of her neck.

Lying in bed alone, holding her. Kissing her soft lips. Tasting her mouth’s tastes, the exact specific combination of cleanliness plus a recently smoked cigarette, normally repellant, heavenly on her. Her body naked, close to mine. Her head on my shoulder, my lips kissing her hair, her nipples against my chest, her leg crossed over my pelvis, her pussy rubbing my thigh.

Falling back to sleep in bliss. Waking again. Jenny still at my side. Smiling together, kissing. She mounting me, using her hands to prepare her pussy. Her juices released and their soft suction sounds. Her hands guiding me in, working her hips.

Long minutes, hours of passion. Her perfect knowledge of my body, what to do, when to stop. Dismounting, wiping her and me with a tissue, nestling again at my side. Turning round, spooning, her hair soft on my face. Both turning, her breasts against my back, her lips on my neck. Breathing together. Heavy sleep calling us both.

Gently getting out of bed, going for a pee. Washing and drying my cock, a considerate lover. Jenny waiting, welcoming me back to the warm bed. Snuggling together. She moving down on my body, taking my cock in her mouth, licking its tip, playing. Coming back up, smiling at me, full of knowledge, kissing, settling again. Falling back to sleep together.

Waking in the morning, feeling like heaven. Closing my eyes, summoning Jenny. Nothing. Clearing my mind, trying again. Nothing. She gone, me desperately clinging. Please, Jenny, not all of you if you won’t give it all, just the sense of your hair. Your curves. Your smell. Nothing. Just a rough afterimage of her photos, no physical presence, no reality, no actuality. Essence of Jenny, gone with the night’s dreams.

Snatched Sexual Moment

Days later, and still intoxicated by the woman at the party. Checking the website, studying her photo. The photographer’s stunted imagination, seeking to render her as harlot stereotype, failing, her vitality shimmering through. Her name, Jenny.

Strolling around the local park, trees bare and winter sun bright in a blue sky, pondering the nature of love. Love for Jenny being the thing flooding my heart. After just a few minutes together. Thinking, some would call it infatuation, not love. A casuistic distinction. Whatever, the barb sharp beneath my overcoat.

As in succumbing to a virus, suddenly stricken. Millions of its viral cousins routinely deflected, then one strikes through. Other people seemingly unaffected, like at the party, the other men weren’t particularly drawn to her. And here I am, helpless in her power.

Working through the memories. Seeing her with other men, sucking, fucking. So what, she’d seen me doing similar with the other women. Probably, since the party, she’s done it quite a few times, that’s what she does for a living. Again, so what, everyone knows you can just go through the motions, in itself it’s void of meaning, where it counts is when there’s the sudden jolt connection, a merging of souls in flesh.

In the park, children playing football, plumes of mist streaming from their faces, grandmothers looking on. The sun low and white in the sky. But even such beauty of only secondary interest. Jenny, Jenny, you’ve infiltrated my defenses, your germ is in my brain, I can’t think of anything but you.

Exciting in itself, the excitement multiplied by a sense of reciprocity, her soul reaching out to me too. Could all be a fantasy, but if so, so what? Impossible to verify or disprove, flesh’s message being definitive, indifferent to cerebral superimposition or verbal elaboration. My lover’s discipline, accept it for what it is, don’t seek spurious reassurance, don’t be weak.

Wisest course perhaps, leave it at that, cherish the unique moment, celebrate the brief snatched sexual togetherness, life’s most potent affirmation.

But maybe I’ll just make contact, see how it goes.

Sex Party Love

Two women leading the way to the bedrooms, unzipping bodices, throwing them on chairs, stepping out of panties. One man discarding his bathrobe, lying on the bed. A woman sitting beside him, taking his cock in her hand, massaging it, come along little mister, let’s get big. The other men looking on distractedly. A second woman helping the first, coaxing the cock with her tongue.

The third woman, looking up, seeing me looking at her. To my eye, the prettiest. Crop top discarded, G-string still on. Less immersed in bordello vernacular than the others, less assertive, more human. Coming over to me. You alright, baby? Yes, fine, thanks. Should we try the other room? Sounds good to me.

Leading me by the hand, closing the door behind, sitting on the bed, smiling, patting it for me to join her. What would you like, baby? Me suddenly shy, quiet voice, how about sixty-nine? Sure baby, that’s my favorite, do you want to go on top or underneath?

Arranging our bodies, me on my back, her pussy an inch above my face, my fingers pulling her lips apart. That beautiful pink sheen and tiny clitoris. Tonguing it. Something unseen and sexy happening to my cock. Using my hands to spread her buttocks wide.

Stroking her sphincter, waiting to see her response. Half expecting her to reach back and pull my hand away, gentle rejoinder, don’t go there. No such thing happening. Moving my tongue, making it hard and pointed, flicking around her sphincter. A low murmur from her, her whole body softening. Her stomach changing position, moving her pussy forward and away, bending her ass to me, searching. My tongue pushing deeper, then deeper still, her delicate muscles clinging, the centre receding. Her murmurs continuing, intenser than before. Her secret craving uncovered, counterpart to mine.

Long minutes locked together. Learning her taste and smell and texture, she learning mine. Unable to pull ourselves apart. Eventually however doing so. She dismounting, the act of doing so necessarily inelegant, somehow more beautiful thereby. Sitting quietly side by side, hugging, glowing in rare oneness.

Kissing her. Getting my clothes back on. She staying to watch me. Don’t you want to cum? Concerned eyes looking at me. My voice still quiet, no, that was perfect just as it was. Thinking, I don’t want any other sexual thing to displace that memory, I’ll leave now. Dressing, going. Returning, hugging her. Walking away. Turning back again, hugging her closer, getting hugged tight in return. Then just departing.

Sex Party Take Five

The three naked women retiring to a bathroom, to do female things. The men donning their bathrobes, making their way to the living room, settling down on easychairs, turning on the television.

The women trooping into the room, chatting. Two in satin bodices, one in a G-string and crop top. Settling around a kitchen table, lighting cigarettes, nibbling on snacks. The talk concerning a fellow worker, a crisis in her life, her husband suspects what she’s doing. All agree, bummer. Maybe she’ll need to lie low for a while. But what about money? Get a regular job? All agree again, bummer.

Weak mid-afternoon sunshine breaking through. Outside, the half-built Olympic stadiums filling with orange light against black clouds. Our room’s complexion softening. On the television, old Star Trek episodes.

The talk continuing. Maybe we should recruit again, do you know anyone? It’s a good job if you enjoy sex. One woman adding, and you like sucking men’s dicks. Yes, Rosie, though you don’t have to like it quite as much as you do. Laughs all round. Still, we don’t want another one like, what was her name, that one with short blonde hair, tall, Brazilian, Lou something, yes, that’s right, Lulu, liked the money but didn’t really like the sex, didn’t last. Three nodding female heads. Yes, made the men feel bad, made us have to work harder.

The women pausing, puffing on their cigarettes. None of the men smoking. Captain Kirk and Spock having a disagreement. The sun fading, darkness building outside, the room feeling bright and warm.

The black guy coming into the room. Rosie, this here’s a latecomer, can you take him to the pink room, let him do a bit of catching up with you. There we are, pal, you’ve got ten minutes, make good use of our Rosie, I want to see her boggle eyed when she comes out. After that, everyone, party restarts, you hear that ladies, don’t light up any more cigarettes after those ones, ten minutes and it’s lights, camera, action.

Fifteen minutes later, one of the women yawning, pushing her stool away from the table, stretching. Okay boys, get yourselves ready, time for some effort, this time we want to see you all perform. Both women walking to the door. The men leaving Captain Kirk to it, following the women to the bedrooms.

Sex Party Gets Going

A big brown door, an array of buzzers alongside. Pressing number eleven as instructed. The speaker crackling into life, hi, who’s that? Hi, it’s Michael, I phoned earlier about the party. Sure, come up to the top floor, use the stairs. The door buzzing open.

Up seven flights, knocking on number eleven’s door. A brief wait, the door then opening, a muscular black guy greeting me. Taking the hundred pounds. Showing me a dressing room, get your clothes off mate, put on a bathrobe.

Doing as instructed, moving along to a big living room, penthouse views over construction cranes in the Olympic village. Four other men, also in bathrobes. Around a table, three women, laughing, chatting, smoking. Hi there darling, this your first time? We’ll look after you darling.

More general chatter from the women, the men mostly silent. The black guy standing, c’mon ladies, let’s get started. Cigarettes extinguished, last sips from drinks, an exodus to the bedrooms. All the men following.

Two of the women in one room, side by side on the double bed, naked. The third woman making her way to another room. One on the double bed taking my hand, c’mon darling, let me be the first. Stroking my cock, licking it, putting her mouth around it. The other woman doing similar with another man. A third man kneeling, licking my woman’s pussy. The fourth man observing.

After a while, a general change of position. The women swapping sides. Me lying on my back, my new woman kneeling on the bed between my knees, sucking me, being entered from the rear. Interrupting the sucking, turning to the man behind, oh, you do have a condom, just checking darling, resuming her sucking. The other woman lying on her back, entered by the fourth man, the other man now resting. My hand stroking her nipple.

A new man coming into the room, smiling, hello ladies. A brief hiatus, the women greeting an old customer. Laughs all round. Then back to the action, mouths filled with cocks.

Twenty minutes of gently writhing flesh, then the third woman coming into the room, okay boys, if you’re going to cum, do it quick, otherwise, smoke break. The group breaking up. One man saying, I need to cum now, I don’t have much time. Okay darling, what do you want. Instructions duly given. One woman sitting on the man’s face, spreading her pussy with her hands, his tongue working her clitoris, his hands on her breasts. The other two both working his cock with their hands and mouths. Soon, his body clenching, the white fluid spraying over female flesh and lips and tongues.

A cheer from the women. All arising, smiling, congratulating themselves, making their way to the smoke break.

Doing Something About It

A meeting today in the City, normally a place I like to visit regularly, get caught up in the torrent of people, check out the latest buildings, normally wander around and get lost. Today however finding myself unreceptive to its charms.

Preparing in a coffee shop, finding the coffee tasteless. Snapping at a colleague for a spelling mistake in a presentation. Only later remembering to thank her for having stayed up half the night in putting the thing together in the first place.

During the meeting, discovering delays to various projects. Getting angrier inside. Thinking, there’s a time for restraint, but sometimes you need to lay down the law. Just about to launch into a tirade. Then thinking, nobody else here seems concerned, it’s not really my responsibility anyway. Backing off, just in time. Afterwards, walking, thinking, actually the meeting went quite well.

Stopping in my tracks, realization dawning. Ah yes, that’s it, the foul mood, it’s not them, it’s me. Lucky to have backed off in time, you can be taken by surprise. Sexual tension, it just builds, you can live with it for a while, then it starts getting ugly. It’s up to you to do something. Don’t, and you pay the price, and the price is high.

At far lower price, an escort. Or, thinking about it, how about this time having a new adventure, go to a sex party.

Later on the internet, checking out the options, yes, there’s one I can make it to. Mandy, Caroline and Svetlana to attend to my needs, one thirty until four thirty in the afternoon, no more than eight men, one hundred pounds.

That means waiting a bit. Maybe I should go to an escort today. The lovely Arabella, sixty pounds for thirty minutes, more per minute but less in total, and I’ve found that in that situation, no chat, straight to sex, thirty minutes is enough.

Taking a moment to luxuriate in the choices available to the enterprising man. Arabella by myself today, or three woman shared with other men later. Or both if I want, the cost would still be less than a tiny fraction of the cost of screwing up in meetings like I nearly did today.

That party, tempting, always exciting to try something new.

Sexual Glue

Alone in the house this week, my wife attending some conference. Pottering about, watching the television programs I choose, doing exactly what I want.

After two days, bored. The daily routine, broken. It’s regular punctuation, meals, now uninspiring. Normally it’s a pleasure, go to the supermarket, pick out vegetables, go to the meat or fish counter, choose some meat or fish, bring it home, start the cooking. Throughout, working out how to cook it, which combinations to try, thinking about its presentation on the plate, seeing my wife’s response.

This week my wife’s away, no point. Quick thoughtless meals, a frozen tomato sauce reheated, pasta, thrown together, absently eaten, hardly noticing it’s there. No pleasure in the responses to the meal presented. The day’s events unremarked. No discussion of work or family or friends or planned walks or books. Nobody to prepare bedtime chamomile for.

The telephone ringing, my daughter. Can she have some money, her friends are going to a theme park on Saturday, she wants to go too. Sure darling. Further conversation, some fatherly teasing, daughterly protestations, giggling. Putting down the phone. The house seemingly emptier. Nobody to share the phonecall with.

Watching television, quickly getting restless. Going to bed. Reading. Getting sleepy. Turning the light out. Settling to sleep. Nobody to say goodnight to, stroke her shoulder, hold her hand.

Never mind, she’ll be back soon. Funny, any other woman returning from a week away, you’d celebrate with some lovemaking, refresh your knowledge of each others’ bodies, release some tensions. A beautiful human interaction with intense therapeutic effect. Denied however to me, I know her well, it’s not how she works.

Once I’d have thought, the absence of sex, that means the glue’s not there, no point in being together. Now I think different. Sexual glue, it’s good at first, then it hardens and loses adhesion, then it’s just an impediment. Man and woman, the thing that holds them together isn’t sexual glue, it’s something deeper than that.

Strange how everything seems to point the same way. Let marriage do the things marriage is good at, find sexual release elsewhere.

Exit Sexual Sparkle

Walking in front of me in the autumn sunshine, a young couple. He of nondescript looks and nondescript clothes. Holding his arm, a leggy raven-haired stunner. She more interested in him than he in her. But the interest having the character of need rather than desire. Meanwhile, his movements and demeanor being those of someone noticing her hardly at all and when occasionally doing so being slightly annoyed.

Following the couple, passing the shop I’d planned to go into, but too interested to bother with that, the passing street parade taking precedence. Studying their unhurried progress, spinning scenarios. Rich guy and gold-digger? Possible, but not ringing true somehow. A false note somewhere, yes, that’s it, they’re not interested in display, they don’t care who notices them, it’s not about wealth.

So what then? Following them, discreetly studying. God she’s beautiful, I don’t know how he can keep his eyes off her, I certainly can’t.

Eventually, understanding. Ah, how slow of me. He’s her dealer, he owns her somehow, she’s probably only of interest to him to use or to sell.

The insight accompanied by a sense of deflation. Enter drugs, exit sexual sparkle. Even recreational drugs. Like my Russian ballerina in Battersea, we met up again, long after she’d first suddenly disappeared. The pleasure of seeing her again, and the physical desire, overwhelming. Brain disconnecting. Immediately and totally in love, thinking, this time she’ll stay.

Only later recognizing her Russian genius, presenting the beautiful blank screen on which you script your own fantasy. She remaining blank throughout. Never stating her requirements, high amongst which, you supply the requisite. Me, I was only interested in her. She, she was only interested in me, as long as the me included the means of sniffing or popping or smoking or other suchlike. Me, in such things, an ingénue. Spotted by her within a day. She’d already left, wrenching my heart, by the time I figured it out.

And that slightly blank look. Not addled or crazed, just slightly not all there. That’s the trouble with drugtakers, everything else in their lives is just marking time. Like the couple in front. Same slightly blank look on her face, her body is just a optional extra, thrown in for free as long as she can get the requisite.

Authentic Porn

A slim, smiling woman opening the door to an athletic youngster coming to see about lodging in a spare room. The woman explaining that the house has been empty for six months since her husband passed away.

The two sitting around a kitchen table, she pouring tea. Telling him about rent, and what is included. Suddenly shy. Saying, there are some extra things that are included if you want. What sort of things? Well, I haven’t had a man for two years, that’s when my husband got sick, I wouldn’t mind it if you want to get me started again.

The camera switching from her face to his. I guess I’d better have a test run, see what I’m getting. The woman standing, the man’s hand stroking her thigh. The woman gasping slightly, the sound of surrender after long denial. The man gently sliding down her panties, leaning her forward slightly, pulling her cheeks apart, spreading her pussy and sphincter.

The woman’s hands reaching back to help, pulling her cheeks wider, freeing the man’s hands to stroke her. Gently massaging her clitoris, moving to her opening, inserting his fingertip, smiling, my, you’re very wet. Both laughing, the wetness like an erection conferring shared intimate knowledge.

The camera panning to her face. Eyes closed, lost in the physical moment. Breathing with shallow irregular gasps, as if on the edge of implosion. The camera sweeping over her tight white skin, moles, breasts, nipples, curve of her buttock. Moving behind, her spread cheeks filling the screen. The man tonguing her sphincter, stroking her pussy.

Changing positions, the woman pulling down the man’s jeans. His cock full but not yet hard. She contemplating it slowly, reacquainting with something cherished and familiar but long absent. Taking it into her mouth. The cock gradually stiffening. The woman removing it from her mouth, oh my, I’ve got a good one here, sucking it again.

The scene playing on my screen, and too much for me. A tracer arc of sperm, my whole body in a vortex, a groan of relief. Collapsing into a chair, momentarily comatose.

Regathering. Okay, quick clean up. Stop the video, save it to favorites, I can finish it some other time, but probably won’t, you can’t normally recover that first sharp excitement of encountering a new sexual personality. Sanitize the computer. Okay, the day can start now.

Changing Sexual Times

A cycle ride to Greenwich, a teenage haunt, and on to Blackheath. Keeping on watch for a particular corner shop, one visited many times. There it is, but look, it’s changed, it’s now a hairdresser.

Well, that’s not it was when I was a teenager. In those days, sweets and newspapers adorned its shelves. On the top row, very interesting magazines. Every few weeks, summoning courage, entering the shop with studied nonchalance, noticing with hammy unexpectedness something that looks interesting, pulling down a magazine, studying it as if with detached amusement, replacing it, selecting another.

Doing this for as long as I could get away with. A complex calculation, if the shop was uncrowded you’d get the shopkeeper’s attention, if it was crowded there were too many people who could see what you were doing.

Eventually, buying one. To add to my collection, each one lovingly thumbed, each one with favorite women in favorite poses, each one fuel for countless masturbatory adventures. But each one also posing a problem, where to keep it. My hidey-hole, under an attic floorboard, hard to find and just about possible to disown.

Cute, innocent times. Now, no need for anyone to see you when you buy, in fact, no need to buy, it’s free. Three clicks of the mouse and you’re in your preferred site, and in your preferred niche in it. As much time as you want, no need to worry about a shopkeeper’s raised eyebrow. No limitation to five or six titles, the choice is never-ending. Videos rather than photos, No reining back to please prying censors.

Afterwards, run a free program downloaded for the purpose, to sanitize your computer. All records, browsing history, files, obliterated. The invisible files left behind by the computer's operating system, nuked, you can choose the same security setting as that used by the Pentagon. After a while, the sanitization an automatic habit. Saves embarrassing discoveries and allows everyone to sustain the fiction that you’re one of those mythical men that never watch porn.

Oh look, ten miles gone by without noticing, well, interesting thoughts, the world’s moved on.

Sexual Tedium

Once again, that zing of anticipation. Pressing the doorbell. Waiting. Pressing again. Waiting again. Noises behind the door. The door then opening.

There in the flesh, CindyLove. Tall, long thin legs, high breasts, bony features. A flimsy nylon shift. Exactly as in her picture, yet somehow not as attractive. The parts not cohering harmoniously into the whole. Her face expressionless.

Smile from me, see if I can charm her, hi there, you must be Cindy. Her face remaining impassive. Yes. As in, stupid question, of course I am. Belatedly, a forced smile in response to mine.

Leading me up the stairs into a small shabby bedroom. Taking the money. Returning. The same expressionless face, not druggy, not stupid, just the demeanor of a deeply boring person.

Her hand patting the bed as if impatient, don’t you even know you’re supposed to lie down. Taking my cock in her hand, trying to work it, failing to elicit anything but a staunch flaccidity. Looking at me questioningly, as in, oh, an erectile dysfunction problem, how am I supposed to deal with this.

Gesturing at her with an open mouth, as in, try sucking it. Shake of head from her, no, don’t do that. Well baby that’s not what your profile said. She still shaking her head, profile says discretionary. Slightly mispronouncing the words, but still slick, they’ve been much used as an automatic rejoinder.

Lying back, thinking, this ain’t good, try to think of it as masturbation with some help from a pretty woman. The attempt only partially successful, failing on the thought that actually she’s not that pretty. Stroking her thigh, my hand moving to stroke her pussy, her hand intercepting mine, no, I don’t do that. Any incipient hardness draining, thinking, don’t tell me, your profile says it’s discretionary.

Lying back, giving up, mentally excluding her. Getting up, putting on my clothes, giving her a cursory smile. She no doubt thinking, you should get some Viagra, pal. Me thinking, the sense of prohibition, that’s the absolute extinguisher of sexual fire. Also thinking, the corollary, unfettered sexual license, as with Anna for instance, or Christelle, that’s the sexual furnace.

Oh well, it had to happen, a visit to an escort that didn’t work, abject failure from beginning to end.

Sexual Surrender

A stunning woman walking onto the screen, looking shyly at the other people in the room. Requested to sit on the sofa. Doing so with unaffected balletic grace. The camera panning in to her face. Flawless skin, delicate nose, cupid lips, luxuriant dark curls.

The interviewer welcoming her, his words translated by a female assistant. Asking introductory questions. Normal job, dance trainer. Does your boyfriend know you’re here? Yes. Why are you here? To do a photoshoot. Do you know what sort of photos? Shrug of shoulders.

The woman invited to inspect a magazine, that’s the sort of photo we do. The woman picking up the magazine, flicking through it, stiffening in surprise, almost dropping it, pushing it awkwardly aside. Sorry, been some kind of mistake, that’s not what I want. Recovering her composure with impressive quickness. Politely saying goodbye. Leaving.

The scene spiraling away, transitioning to another, same sofa, same woman, different clothes, different season’s light in the air. Her beauty still radiant. The interviewer’s voice, hello, you’re back. Embarrassed smile from her. So now you want to have those photos taken? Prolonged exchange between translator and the woman, two sympathetic women’s voices. Then the translator, she says she’s thought about it and wants to do it, she needs the money. Okay, ask her to take her clothes off.

The woman standing, unzipping her dress from behind, lowering it, stepping out of it, folding it, putting it aside. Quickly removing her underclothes, putting them neatly on the dress.

The scene shifting to the bedroom. The naked woman on the bed. The interviewer, also naked, kissing her nipples. The tiniest quiver rippling through her body. The man moving down, gently parting her legs, lifting her knees, licking her. A soft gasping sound, intaken breath. Her back arching slightly in whole-body surprise. Settling.

Changing position. He on his back, she sucking him. Sitting astride, guiding him inside. The camera panning to her face, an expression of lover’s oblivion. Her sexual beauty timeless. She moving to all-fours, entered from behind. Soon too much for the man, his explosion clearly premature for the normal porn script. Flopping down beside her, pulling her to him for a hug, in love with her.

As am I. A sensational porn movie.

Sex and Marriage

Waking up last night, wife in pyjamas asleep at my side. Night quiet interspersed with night noises, swishing of cars on wet roads outside, domestic machinery clicking.

Dreamy thoughts, turning to women I have known. Their sexual personalities. Each one with her sexual frequencies, her likes and dislikes. Some taking the lead, others passive. Most of them, life-enhancing. Others, better off without.

Yet, which of them would I like to have here in the bed tonight instead of my wife? None of them, really. Many of them, fine for erotic fantasies, their memory a sharp masturbatory aid. But actually staying with me, tonight, every night, no, I don’t think so.

Maybe it’s because those relationships have run their course. Possibly. More like, it’s the intensity that’s impossible to live with. That’s the trouble with sex, it burns everything in its path.

In the newspaper yesterday, some doctor dispensing advice, telling the world, as the years go by in your marriage, your relationship matures, friendship deepens, sexual fires cool. A valid summary, and widely accepted in lazy popular wisdom. Yet not going nearly far enough.

A better formulation, as the years go by it emerges that marriage is an inappropriate structure for sex. First you know one another too well, and sex is nothing if not the surprise and excitement of the new – a species defense against inbreeding. Second, the grind of the practical drives sex out.

So what do you do if your sex drive survives your marriage’s ability to accommodate it. Get into bad-tempered shouting matches with your spouse, maybe, see if you can breathe a glow into dead ashes. Try another marriage, maybe, then another after that. Become a seething cauldron of hormonal resentment, maybe.

Or, just jump to the endgame, separate the marriage from the sex.

Blowjob Assignation

A stroll in South Kensington, stopping for a coffee at a corner cafe. Here it was that I took my ex, the Italian yoga teacher, having crossed paths by chance a few years ago.

At first, not really keen on spending much time with her. Six weeks previously, we’d agreed to end it, things between us seemed continuously fractious, the excitement only a memory.

Sipping coffee, she saying, so, how are things going? Fine thanks, and with you? Fine, are you seeing someone yet? Not really your business, here’s a suggestion, you don’t ask me that and I won’t ask you.

Her eyes looking levelly into mine. Another sip. Bringing her face closer. A smile. Then, well, I know you quite well and I think you’re looking tense. In fact, if I were your new girlfriend and I had the slightest awareness I’d give you a blowjob, because it’s obvious you need one.

This remark taking me back, its accuracy and directness being utterly typical of her, and part of her spell.

She going on. Well, here’s the deal. You’re not the only person sitting at this table that’s getting desperate for a blowjob. So if you want, I’ll do you if you’ll do me.

Let me think about that, was all I could think to say. Then, but thanks for the offer, only the very luckiest get your blowjobs. A little later, I think my body’s telling me what to do, I’ve just become unbelievably stiff. Smile from her, thought so.

Making arrangements to meet. Her place. Thinking to myself, I wonder if it’ll actually happen.

She meeting me at her door. Taking me by the hand, leading me straight to her bedroom. A familiar place now unfamiliar. Unbuttoning my jeans, pulling them down, sucking me. Stopping. Taking off her clothes in swift graceful moves. Me taking off mine. Easing onto the bed, sixty-nine.

Her orgasm sharp and prolonged, smothered grunts of relieved tension. My own following swiftly, giant clutching spasms, gobbets surging into her mouth. A short moment of silence. Panting, gulping, swallowing. She reaching for tissues, handing me one. Both of us wiping our lips and cheeks. Rearranging ourselves to hug. Minutes passing, possibly in sleep. Finally, getting up, dressing, smiling. Making plans to do it again.

Today, sipping coffee at the cafe, wishing she was here opposite me, having the same conversation.

One in Three Men

Scanning through the escort website today, thinking, I wonder how many men visit all these escorts.

Selecting, London, female, escorts, recent joiners first. Skipping straight to page seventy, the most out-of-date, picking out one or two at random, looking when they last logged in, hmmm, surprising, they’re still active. What’s that mean, there’re fifty per page, that means, what, three thousand five hundred escorts. Take some off that to allow for slack, make it three thousand.

I wonder how many men they see. Could be seven, eight a day. Fifty a week? Sounds exhausting. Make it thirty, no, say twenty. So what’s that mean, these escorts serve, what, just over a sixty thousand men a week. Some will leave, others will join, probably cancels out, that means, what, about three million escort visits in a year.

That’s just this website, what about others? Say the site has a twenty five percent market share. That means a total of what, twelve million escort visits a year, serviced by, what, twelve thousand escorts.

So what’s their client base? London’s population, about eight million. Say four million men. Some will be too young, too old, or not interested in women. Say that leaves two million. There’ll be visitors, but that’ll be balanced by men going abroad. So about two million client base.

I wonder, how many times does one man visit an escort, assuming he has the habit? Probably varies a lot. I’d have guessed, crude average, ten, maybe fifteen, call it fifteen. So if every man used escorts, the total market would be what, thirty million escort visits.

Okay, of course every man doesn’t. So how many do. Must be, what, over one-third.

Can this be right? Think again. Twelve thousand escorts in a place like London, sounds about right, there're probably more. Three visits a day, sounds about right, could be more. So, check, yes, twelve million escort visits a year, at least. Spread amongst two million eligible men. Numbers don’t work unless at least a third use escorts.

Makes me smile. Never seen this sort of finding before. But then, you stop men on the street for a survey, ask them, do you use escorts, not many will say, yes, sure. But one in three will.

Sex or Friendship

Walking down Whitehall today, mood buoyant. The days after an escort, freedom from nagging hormonal drag.

Three women now over about six weeks, maybe I’ve just been lucky, they’ve all been lovely, all in different ways.

Yesterday, a real connection with Kylie4Sex. If it had been another context, feels like we could easily have been friends. Going for a trip somewhere together, it would be real fun, we’d have a lot to talk about, I would be delighted she was there, can’t help thinking she’d feel the same.

Today, riding the Underground, hanging on to the chrome pillar, imagining her next to me, discussing something, maybe the porcelain chips at the Tate Modern, how you can’t walk on them now, health risk, Seeing her respond. Suggesting maybe we go there, have a coffee. Making her smile and blush if I can, if she has to go, at least make sure I can kiss her goodbye, make a date to meet up again.

Different from the other escorts, they were lovely but half an hour was plenty, more and it would become strained, not much to talk about. And yet, Kylie4Sex, the one I’d like to spend time with, probably the least sexually accomplished, too nervous, probably not much libido.

Wonder why women with a low sex drive make the best friends. Thinking through my past, the ones where the sex was exciting, the sex seemed to take everything over, there wasn’t any room left for just an easygoing low-key friendship. Like overheating engines, exciting whilst it lasts but not too long and they break down, nothing quite as useless as a broken-down engine.

Trudging up the stairs out of the Underground, looking at the crowds. How many of them are settled in relationships, I wonder, and of those, how many of them feel like friends with their partners. Of the friends, how many have good sex? Not many, I would think, or not for many years anyway. Well, better the friendship than the sex, you can easily get that elsewhere.

Kylie4Sex

Strolling around that strange area just east of the Tower, trying to find the address. Twenty minutes to go, no hurry. In my stomach, stirring up pleasantly, a familiar tension, the closing minutes just before diving into the unknown.

The appointed hour arriving. Number 179 in a warren of town houses, metal letterbox. Knocking twice. The door opening immediately. There before me, Kylie4Sex, exactly as in her photo, angular features, spare body, floral underwear, a thin wrap.

An unsure smile, taking my hand, leading me to a bedroom. Incense burning, eleven in the morning. Thin curtains letting through enough light to see her clearly. Garage music playing soft in the background. Taking the money, leaving the room, returning a minute later.

Removing the underwear, lying on the bed. Exuding a slight nervousness. Using my hands to turn her over on to her stomach, rubbing her back, relaxing her. Massaging her thighs, kneading her feet, turning her round again, smiling at her, getting a brave smile in return. Stroking her stomach, kissing her bee-sting nipples.

Kylie stirring, taking control, lying me on my back, kissing my chest, stomach, cock. Sucking. Condom. Bestriding me, slowly taking me into her small over-tight hole. Keeping the movements small until the shapes and alignments work themselves out. Riding me, losing herself in the rhythms. At my climax, a surge of pleasure in her body, another smile.

Afterwards, dressing, chatting. This her third day. Came to London to work in hotel management, ended up waitressing, long hours, low pay, earning in a hard evening less than what she just got for our half hour together.

But not enjoying it. A couple of men, too forceful, too unpleasant, she was glad she had her flatmates nearby, also working women, one had to check in, is everything all right, should I call the police. A kiss on the cheek for me, it would be okay if they were all like you, smiled a bit more.

A final hug, then gone for ever. Little sweetheart Kylie, not cut out for this, you won’t stay at it long, meanwhile, lucky me, I found my way into that hard resistant pussy, eased it into comfort. A blissful interlude to treasure in the memory.

Sexual Truths Too Strong

Sitting in a park with my daughter, watching the children in the playground, my daughter half wanting to play but half wanting to show that she’s too grown-up to do so. Chatting. Steering clear of drudge subjects such as school and house chores and whether it’s okay to wear lipstick at eleven. Just chatting for the warmth of the human interaction, no ulterior agenda.

A question bubbling to the surface, daddy why did you move out from mummy? My daughter trying to make sense of things, this being a crucial part of her world, understandably.

Explaining things to her, low key. Sometimes two people think they’ll get on, but it turns out after a few years they don’t any more. If they’re lucky they’ll have a daughter like you to brighten up their lives. These and suchlike vapidities being intended not so much as truths as a way of giving her salves to her wounds, also showing that discussing it’s fine.

The truth, more basic, too harsh for an eleven-year-old. Her mother, after my daughter was born, suddenly sexless. Hormones building up in me, eventually exploding. Drinks with a pretty woman at work, in bed together, a bright new dawn. Trying to keep it as an affair, the dynamics ultimately proving impossible, too much furtiveness, too much desperation.

In due course, splitting up with the new woman, turns out we both had urgent needs, too much prior deprivation, but once they’d been filled they weren’t enough to share a whole life together. Eventually, meeting my current wife, marrying. Now it turns out she’s sexless too.

My daughter however satisfied with the vapidities, at least for now. She’ll return for more over the years, I’m quite sure. Meanwhile, surrendering to a more pressing imperative, go and play on the swings.

What I could have said to her, but never will, is, shame the internet didn’t arrive earlier, I could have sorted out my sex urges with escorts, your mother and I could have still been together.

Swinging Scene

A spacious room in a suburban home, conventional furnishings, wardrobes, large bed. On the bed, three women, sitting with pillows at their backs. One, clearly dominant, taking hold of another, kissing her, both tongues showing. A long passionate embrace. The third one pulled in. Clothes gradually discarded.

The camera panning out, showing three men. Beers in hand, naked, watching, laughing, offering encouragement.

The women’s breasts pulled out above their bras, petticoats wrapped around bellies to disguise excess weight, otherwise naked. The dominant woman lying on her back, spreading her legs. The second one settling in to lick her pussy, the third one kissing her nipples.

Some background clattering, a fourth couple coming in. The camera tracking their progress. Smiles of recognition and greeting. Their clothes stripped off. The new woman kissing one of the earlier men, sitting on the bed, taking his cock in her mouth. Another man walking over, rubbing himself into hardness behind a kneeling woman, then entering her.

Clearly a well-established scene, swingers swapping spouses. Only slightly bashful, as if still in surprise at actually having gone ahead. Having done it before, doing it again now. A slight edge of unspoken defiance, we’ll do whatever we please, to hell with the world, here’s even a video to prove it.

Yet, pondering this offering on the porn website today, I wonder. From where these couples are now, no return. Their friends all know, plus, it’s on video, nobody will be given a chance to forget. Those tired old sexual conventions well, these swingers may be free of the shackles, but the world retains them still.

Remember once, someone taking me aside at work, you see that guy over there, the one with the bald head and glasses, well, he and his wife are in an open marriage, sage nod, you know, big in the swinging world. Never found out anything else about him. But that, still a clear memory. And it’ll be that which everybody will fall over themselves to inform on.

Better to be like most people, do what you want, but keep it a secret.

Escort Selection

A promising new fair lady on the escort website this week.

Sexy Sofia from Bulgaria, in London until Christmas. Small cute boobs, long hair, silky skin, this and further suchlike wording, probably lifted from another profile. Inauthentic, no interest, easily ignored, probably offered in the vague thought that it would be.

More interesting, Sexy Sofia’s photos. A brunette, full-bodied, smiling at the camera. Adopting the poses of a model, looking more like someone being told by a friend what to do, finding it funny. Her good nature and twinkling smile reaching through the artifice, connecting her with me.

By the tedious dictates of conventional formulae, not even attractive. Not blonde, not leggy. Apparently, not self-absorbed. Not in conviction that she’ll carry me to previously unscaled heights of sexual ecstasy. Spurning the unspoken codes of the escort profile genre. Just plonking up a cursory profile plus some snapshots quickly taken by a friend, plus a cellphone number.

Leaving me with more work to do. Her attractiveness, a thing on its own terms, you can’t just respond brainlessly, you have to look a little and take time to appreciate.

And then, the harder you look, the more attractive she becomes. Her indifference to convention gradually becoming understandable, she’s one of those many women who’s very attractive but not very photogenic. The camera somehow flattening the planes on her face and dulling out her vivacity. But just try to step through the lens, enter the same room as her, and you’re in the presence of a woman far more beautiful than the lens revealed. The more you ponder the possibility, the more convincing it seems.

Leading to a more hardheaded calculation. How many other men looking for an escort would think this through? Not many, I imagine. Well, let other men chase after the other escorts, leave Sexy Sofia to me.

Russian Love

Battersea Park, a few years ago, going for a run. Overtaking a woman, unruly auburn tresses, ballerina body. Another lap, stopping for a drink, seeing her again. She smiling at me, hey, I’ve seen you here before, do you run here often? Yes, sometimes, but I don’t think I’ve seen you. Well that’s because you’re in your own little world when you run, some men are like that.

Two weeks later, seeing her again, stopping to chat, buying her a black coffee. A slight accent, difficult to place, turns out she’s Russian, speaks excellent English, slightly extended vowels. Leaving, thanking me for the coffee, kissing my cheek.

The physical touch of the kiss setting off a chemical reaction, slow-burn but soon fierce. My life at that stage empty and lonely. Defenseless against her Russian inscrutabilities, like an organism in a strange ecology without the requisite immunities.

Running more often at Battersea, looking for her, not finding her. Then one weekend, seeing her again. Mutual smiles of pleasure. More coffee, agreement to meet that evening.

A secluded corner of a restaurant, ice cubes floating in red wine as a hot summer drink. She laughing at my jokes, raptly listening to my stories. Stretching her hand across the table. My fingertips stroking her wrist, the crook of her elbow. She blushing and quivering. Whispering, come and have some coffee at my apartment.

Me hardly worried about the speed of events, like hothouse mushrooms growing, no roots, no strength, but choking up the space.

Making love with abandon. She utterly uninhibited. Only afterwards, thinking, it felt mechanical, like she’d learned what to do by watching porn videos, a rotation through various positions.

Next morning, she saying, oh, didn't have a chance to mention last night, have to move back to Moscow, flight booked for this evening, it’s been wonderful, kiss.

A wrench that stayed in my heart for years. Today, back at Battersea Park, running past the Pagoda, can still almost feel her presence.

More Truths about Escorts

So now my mind has two secret chambers, one for Anna, one for Foxy Lady, soft warm secret places of abiding joy. Lovely women who gave themselves to me for half an hour.

Over the weekend, closing my eyes, entering each secret chamber, reliving the excitement and touch. Pondering. Accepted wisdom, men despise prostitutes. Well, can’t see it. Giving it serious thought, going through the process, searching my thoughts like a panhandle prospector sifting ore in search of metal, can’t find even the tiniest vestige of despising. Tenderness, yes, care, yes, fondness, yes. Despising, none at all.

Thinking of Foxy Lady, her hesitancy, then her givingness. Her smooth white skin, almost too precious to touch, offered for my hand’s delectation.

What about the other way round? I don’t despise the escorts, maybe they despise me. Another stereotype, the sad inadequate man who can’t get normal sex, has to pay for it, the escort obliges but finds the whole process disgusting. You can understand the point, just one thing, thinking about it, it entirely misses the point.

Foxy Lady, behind the nervousness she had a twinkling smile and pleasure at the sharing. Almost like a switch going off in her mind, she suddenly accepting, this is someone I can trust, he respects what I do and likes my body, it’s an open and honest transaction with no secret agenda, let’s enjoy this half-hour together.

Maybe that’s the key, she could see that I didn’t despise her.

When I left she gave me an extra hug, a kiss on the neck, and a smile. Squeezing my hand. Come back baby, let’s do that again. Possibly, a businesswoman trying to turn a one-time client into a regular one. You could be cynical about any human interaction. More likely, the thing that rings truer to me, she enjoyed my company same as I enjoyed hers.

So she’d like to see me again, same as I’d like to see her. Well, I can, any time, in my secret chamber.

Second Escort Visit

Feeling great again today.

Earlier, tense. Porno seeming stale and uninspiring, even with a choice of hundreds of new postings, couldn’t find anything exciting, probably my mood rather than their deficiency. Porn excites only one sense, proper sex excites them all.

General disgruntlement mounting. Browsing the escort website, my Hot List. Picking out my top five. A sudden switch going in the brain, let’s do it. Ringing one. Recorded message. Next one, same. Third one, Foxy Lady, answering.

Familiar after last time with the arrangements. Making my way to Manchester Road as directed, phoning to say I’ve arrived. Final details given. Pressing the apartment number, the front door buzzing open. Up four flights of stairs, Foxy Lady answering the door.

Very attractive but less thin than in her photos, pale smooth skin, foxy features. A smile and some introductory chat. Showing me to a bedroom. Taking the sixty pounds, closing the door behind her as she puts it elsewhere, safe from any male temptation to snatch it on the way out.

Returning. Removing her clothes, clearly expecting me to do the same. Then that exciting first moment as lovers, trying to guess who wants what, what excites and what repels. Foxy Lady hesitant and passive, but willing and compliant. Showing a small jolt of pleasure when understanding what I want, eagerly obliging.

Prolonged sixty-nine, she on top. My skin tingling. Brain filling with infusion of her smells and tastes. The gentle traction of fingertips on her smooth white skin. The delicate coloration of her pussy and sphincter.

After a while, changing position, condom, entering her. But the spell of the sixty-nine somehow evaporated, maybe it was too powerful to last. Foxy Lady sensing the reduced intensity. Exiting her, lying together sideways, relaxing. She stroking my penis, removing the condom, taking me in her mouth, assisting with her hand, patiently persisting until completion.

And now, walking away from Foxy Lady’s apartment, feels like heaven.

Sexual Ringfence

Sitting at my laptop, minding my own business, studying three couples in a sex party game, suddenly, the door opens and in strolls my wife.

Playing it cool as best I can, closing the window, typing something into the address bar, trying not to look flustered, meanwhile probably looking furtive and guilty like a schoolboy. My wife however either not noticing or choosing to let it pass.

An awkward moment. One which by temperament I would rather have been quite open about, okay, I’ve been watching a rather good porn movie, would you like to watch it with me. You’re welcome. Otherwise, leave me alone.

Doing such a thing being impossible, however, the response being knowable in advance, namely, she’d be upset at the suggestion, and upset at the invasion of her household by an ugly and unwelcome infestation.

In fact, thinking about it, the snag for her isn’t the pornography, she isn’t a fool, she knows that it exists, probably knows too that most men watch it. The snag is that she doesn’t want to be confronted with it. She’d rather have her life organized in such a way that pornography is ringfenced out. A perfectly understandable preference.

Well, she can run her life her way, I’ll run my life mine. It seems like that’s how it is with things sexual, there’s a clear but unspoken boundary. Do what you like but don’t foist it on me.

Maybe that’s how all marriages turn out. Well, maybe not the ones where husband and wife are always and unwaveringly in tune sexually, for what, thirty, forty, fifty years. How many of those will there be? A small minority if that.

Sounds like a mature and considered conclusion. Let’s be grateful for what we have, let’s coexist happily. Meanwhile, In the awkward, chaotic, crazy part of ourselves that we call sex, you do your thing, I’ll do mine, let’s not rub each other’s noses in it,

Maybe my wife has arrived at the same conclusion, that’s why she didn’t get involved in my online perturbation.

Sex Party Games

Today, a superior porn movie. Three couples having a dinner party, deciding to play a sex game, the video camera passing to whoever isn’t currently involved.

Production quality amateur but satisfactory, an increasingly common occurrence. Plunging technology prices plus rising exhibitionism, a situation of high promise for porn connossieurs.

Common format for sex games, two packs of cards. The first pack, Question Cards. When did you lose your virginity? Tell us about your first taste of sperm. Have you had sex with someone of the same sex? When did you last masturbate? Have you had anal? Tell us your best sexual fantasy. Have you tried bondage?

One woman, a blonde, asked, have you had more than two in a bed? Hesitant smile, hand covering her mouth. The others smiling at her, teasing her to answer. She starting to say something, stopping, laughing. The others counting to ten in a rising chorus. After ten, no answer. Rules of the game, she has to take a card from the other pack.

Penalty Cards, pink for women, blue for men. The blonde taking a pink one, reading it out. Take the hand of the man on your right and guide it to your nipple. After playing for half a minute, the man can kiss and suck the nipple for another half a minute. Laughter all round. The blonde hesitating. The man on her right offering his hand. The blonde flushing but conceding. The others watching, excited.

The game continuing. Slowly accumulating details of sexual pasts. Present sexual personalities shining through. The bashful blonde. The boastful jock. The brassy red-haired. The shy man. All becoming more aroused. As am I.

Gradually, more and more clothes discarded. Sexual penalties becoming stronger. One wife having to choose which man to be entered by. A blindfolded man having his cock sucked, having to identify the woman doing it. A woman choosing which men and which holes to be double-penetrated by.

Throughout, the camera rolling, refusing to edit the transitions. After two hours, feels like I’ve been at the party myself.

Force of Nature

Hormones starting to stew up, ultimately not to be relieved by anything other than a woman’s sexual touch. My body slowly becoming slave to the pull, an irresistible force of nature, responsible for the survival of the species but also half its problems.

The escort website, logging in, checking my hot list. Still no Anna, farewell my lovely, wherever you are I hope the sun is shining. Three or four others also gone, just think, if I’d acted earlier I might have known them too, oh well, life is full of things that could have happened but didn’t.

Okay, so concentrate on the things that can happen and do.

Clicking a search button, saved search, escorts within fifteen miles, latest recruits shown first. New profiles filling the screen.

Blowjob Belinda, special service, fifteen minutes, twenty five pounds. Come to my place darling, relieve your load into my mouth, go on your way. Ten minutes easy walk from Canary Wharf, it’ll be so quick nobody at work will notice you've been gone, but you’ll feel great all day. I await your call darling.

Bored Housewife, fifty pounds for thirty minutes. Husband at work, I stay at home and am panting for sex with you, baby. Lots of uniforms, schoolgirl, nurse, stripper, PVC, let me know which you like and I’ll be ready. Call me now baby.

Eurotrash Slut, waiting for you…

These and others providing mild entertainment, but missing something somehow. Maybe it’s my mood. Whatever, what I’m looking for is that sudden clutching grip on my attention that some profiles give.

Back to my hot list, scanning through them. One standing out. Sexy Brunette Bruna, Czech girl in Paddington. Loves all things in sex but especially sixty-nine. Lick my holes while I suck your cock. You can cum in my mouth or we can try other positions. At the side, a picture of her lying face down on a black leather sofa.

Mmmm, Bruna, I could so easily be tempted.