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.