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.