Intense Sexual Entwinement

That old familiar restlessness in the loins, like a monster stirring in the deep, a force which won’t be ignored. Best to take action soon, settle it back in its lair before it gets violent, starts ripping things apart.

A phone call and arrangements quickly made. Fifteen minutes to go and here I am sitting at a Marylebone cafe with an empty cup of cappuccino, spooning out the last froth for a final taste.

On time, ringing the buzzer. No answer. A minute’s wait, ringing again. Still no answer. Reaching for my cellphone, about to dial, looking up, seeing Jenny approach, smiling, sorry I’m late. Unlocking the door, beckoning me in.

In her apartment, dumping her stuff. Smiling. You sit there, I’ll be one minute. Disappearing to the bathroom. The room now empty but for me and suitcases and knickknacks and damp clothes hanging on dryers and a television. Pleasingly unself-conscious, free of designer chic, it won’t last long, soon these old apartments will be upgraded into blandness.

Jenny returning, taking my hand, leading me to a bedroom. Pulling my face to hers, kissing me. That distinctive combination of cleanness plus tang of past cigarette smoke. Breaking away, taking off her clothes, helping me taking off mine.

Jenny’s genius, the seamless segue from smiling friendliness to intense sexual entwinement, acknowledging no disjunction between the two, nor need for pause. Her naked skin cleaving to mine, giving of its healing powers. Her lips round my cock, her tongue toying with its tip. The fractious lonely monster within, finding its soulmate, relief from its shrieking.

Sharing of flesh and tastes and touching, nipple and tongue and gristle of clitoris, stretched crinkly skin of sphincter. Time dissolving. Jenny with a giving so complete as to be free of awareness that she’s giving anything at all, oblivious of its preciousness.

Finally, replete. Jenny sensing the moment, searching for climax. Looking at me, pointing to a condom, questioning with her eyes. Me shaking my head. She pointing at her lips, eyes still questioning. A nod from me. She taking me in her mouth, working me with her hand. Me resting on my back, fingertip stroking her pussy, the crack between her crouching buttocks, her drum-tight sphincter. Savoring the paradise.

Final excitement gathering, mounting, entering that sweet quiet zone where it can’t be reversed. The explosion, great pulsing spurts. Jenny’s body tensing in acceptance. Her tongue slowly encircling my tip, cleaning it. Swallowing, licking a spilled drop off my leg. Coming to my side, lying there, head on my shoulder, quiet in the wondrous aftermath.

True Sexual Character

The woman on the screen removing her teeshirt, peeling off her jeans, folding them, setting them aside on the arm of the sofa in a neat pile, efficiently, like a mother. Unhooking her bra, putting it on the pile. Now completely naked.

The interviewer instructing, stand up baby. The woman doing so. Turn around. Bend down over the sofa, yes that’s right, okay, put your hands on your cheeks, pull them apart. Hey what a pretty little pussy. Pull your ass apart baby, yes that’s right, the boys are going to love that. Okay turn around, lie back, relax, now I want you to play with yourself.

The woman lying back, opening her legs, stroking herself with her hands, a practiced and unembarrassed motion.

The interviewer asking, how often do you masturbate baby? Oh, most days. When did you start doing that, how old were you? The questions continuing, the woman answering.

The situation, the woman, her veracity, exceeding the capacity of the conventional porno form, transcending it. Differing completely from its usual fraudulent stereotype, every woman a nymphomaniac. . Here on the screen before me, a rare treasure, the sense of a woman’s true sexual character, alive, breathing, uncontrived.

Two naked men walking into the room, sitting next to the woman, kissing her. The porn moving into autopilot. Sucking, entering, a rotation through various positions. The unique sexual woman reduced to merchandise.

But her confidences still leaving an imprint, an enduring erotic tingle. Always the most deeply sexual thing, when a woman allows her public face to fall away. A face carefully cultivated from girlhood to shield against boys in the playground, retained in adulthood as guard against imputation of cheapness. Only set aside for lovers, and not always then. Or as here, rarely, on the screen.

Watching her, naked with the men, penetrated. Thinking, the nakedness and penetration when she shared her secrets, they were the more profound, they had the sharper erotic electricity.

Imagining It’s Their Cock

A woman invited into a small office, asked to sit on a black sofa. The camera panning her face, shoulders, clothes, legs, back to face. The man’s voice asking, do you know why you’re here. The woman smiling, yes, sure. Why are you here? To have sex. What kind of sex? Oh, I don’t know, any kind, I’m broadminded.

This porn video, a favorite format, the interview. Her words clearly unscripted, thus showing something of herself, thus separating her from silicon bimbosity. A real, warm human being filling the screen before me.

Have you had sex on camera before? No. Why do you want to do it now? Mmmm, I guess, it’s something I always secretly wanted to do, now the chance came up. Why have you always secretly wanted to do it? Um, um, I like the thought of men watching me on the screen, masturbating, imagining it’s their cock inside me.

The woman smiling at the camera, slightly abashed, but undaunted.

How many men have you had sex with? Oh, about, let me think, twenty, maybe thirty. Have you ever done it for money? No, well, actually, yes, once. When was that, what did you do? It’s a long story. Never mind, go ahead.

Um, it was years and years ago, I was about eighteen, working at a bar, around midnight we were closing, the boss came to me, said he was letting a few businessmen have some more drinks, would I stay to help. I said okay. Then he said they might pay if I treated them well.

Another half-embarrassed smile at the camera.

Anyway, there were four of them, and um, I seemed to know exactly what to do, like it was natural, I stroked their crotches, got their cocks out, started sucking. When I was finished I’d made more money in thirty minutes than I had for working my normal eight hour shift.

Did you enjoy doing that? Yes, I did, I think I’m a natural slut. Did you just suck them, or did you take off your clothes? No, my clothes stayed on, but they reached down my teeshirt, fondled my nipples. Also while I was squatting down, sucking, one of the men lay underneath so I was sitting on his face, and he pulled my panties aside.

Did you enjoy that? Yes. How did it finish? Each man had an orgasm. How? Um, let me try to remember. I think the first came in my mouth, yes, that's right. The second one, um, yes, he sprayed all over my face. The third one went to get a condom from the mensroom, entered me from behind, I was bent over a table, he came within about ten seconds. Then the fourth decided to do the same. By this time my boss was horny too, so I sucked him off, he came in my mouth.

Okay baby, that’s good, that’s enough talking, let’s see your body.

On the screen before me, the woman starting to peel off her teeshirt.

Raw Sexual Subculture

Walking through the local park, thinking about Jane’s email. Strange how she’s picking on the same thing preoccupying me, our culture’s crass mishandling of sexual matters. Everything divided into false pigeonholes. Neatly labeled. Sowing wild oats. Settling down. In love. Wedding. Happily married. Midlife crisis. Divorce. Remarry. Get old. Die.

All harmless enough, if vacuous. The trouble is, as Jane says, life imitates. Even if you yourself shy away from the fatuities, others won’t, the false cultural construct still shapes their minds, forms their expectations. So you either conform, living a lie. Or you rebel and explain, causing incomprehension and pain. Or you rebel and lie.

In the park, a mother and grandmother chatting, smiling, a doll in a pushchair, the child pushing. A sacred triangular relationship. No such wrenching disjunction between life and culture there, they’re behaving with sweet naturalness, and exactly in line with their assigned roles.

Maybe it’s in the nature of sex, it’s just too feral, it can’t be culturally captured, domesticated. As Jane says, Dionysian abandon versus Apollonian order, with cultural mendacities inclining toward Apollo. Culture thereby spinning to oblivion. Thereby leaving a vacuum.

There’s the rub, the deep pulsing heart of sex won’t go away, it pushes through the falsehoods, filling the vacuum. A new raw sexual subculture. Thousands of new porn videos a day, free for all to see on the internet. Oral sex, anal sex, orgies. French sex, German sex, Russian sex. Outdoor, lesbian, cartoon. Each watched hundreds of thousands or millions of times.

Forget novels, plays, journals. Watch a porn movie instead. Or lay out the cost of a theatre ticket and try a multi-sensory immersive participative experience, half an hour with an escort, no longueurs.

Fine for men, I wonder what women do. Most seem to find porn boring, the number of escorts offering services to women is insignificant. Maybe they’re like those people I saw, grandmother, mother, child, maybe sex isn’t important to them. Could that be right? Those people certainly made a very picture of unsexual familial happiness so beloved of, what was Jane’s expression, social mores.

Maybe for some, but that doesn’t apply to Jane. She can’t be the only one. You sense a great ocean of female sexual unhappiness corresponding to men’s. Well, women’s problems, not for me to solve, I wouldn’t be that presumptuous. And vice versa, hopefully.

Walking under the trees, feeling connected with Jane, kindred hearts thousands of miles apart. I hope she finds a way forward, maybe finds a lover like she plans, that would be wonderful.

A Lot Of Cunnilingus

Logging in to my secret email account, oh good, there’s one from Jane.

Hey R, well, your email touched some soft spots, days and nights wrapped up together, cunnilingus on demand, i was worried i’d wear your tongue out. sex for me has always been a big thing, but somehow it doesn’t feel complete without a long love session between clitoris and tongue, penetration’s only fun once that’s been done. so it’s annoying that i don’t damn well get any.

Amazing thing, R, when i got married, i already knew inside that this man i was hooking up with wasn’t truly a sexual person, he’d licked me once or twice but only perfunctorily and after a lot of prompting. strange, when you prompt someone, it can be so exciting if they want to do it, so demeaning if you can tell they’re reluctant. well, with T it was definitely demeaning. so we stopped doing it.

What i should have done, R, was not get married. it never felt right, and i could see all my married friends looking unhappy with their husbands, that’s after the first two years or so of pretending that it’s all idyllic. but you get so damn lonely, and you start thinking, this is the best i’m going to get, i’m getting older, mr right’s never going to happen, just accept mr all right, that kind of bullshit.

And of course our whole value system seems to see marriage as the big deal, ushering in perpetual happiness, or at least treating any subsequent problems as secondary. pop songs, plays, novels, everything, they all end with marriage or the prospect of it. or death. i think it’s because they need to end somehow, and that’s the convention. so life imitates. except that the imitation wears thin quickly, and then there’s nothing in our social mores to guide us.

Well, R, i agree with you, it’s not worth splitting up, you either land up lonely again or with another disappointment, i can see that from my friends who’ve tried. and i’ve noticed that T’s better now that i’ve ceased my sexual expectations, he’s at least someone to come home to, and he can be good with the children. so i’m on the lookout for a man to have an affair with, preferably a long term one, preferably one with a lot of cunnilingus. a shame you’re not in australia. but when we do meet up, yes please to your offer, let’s do it. here’s to sixty-nineing, R. love you forever, Jxxx

Clear Where We Stand

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a regular loving girlfriend but without complications?

You won’t see my profile here for long, it’s only here because my boyfriend has moved to Brazil and I need a replacement. So if you’re interested, you’d better take action now.

I have a regular job and my own apartment in the Barbican. I love men, but it has to be the right man, and, here’s the important thing, I can’t just have one. So I have four or five regular boyfriends. Now one’s gone, a vacancy has arisen.

So think about this. You reserve me for Friday night. We meet up, I can cook dinner. We can play sex games, I have a lot of uniforms and toys. Or we can watch some porn, maybe orgies on the screen that you watch while I suck you off. Or we can go to a swingers party together. Anything you like. Then you stay the night, with more sex if we feel like it.

On Saturday, a good-morning blowjob, some breakfast, then you go on your way, back to your wife or girlfriend or country house, anywhere, it’s not my business.

The cost is two hundred pounds. Less than a hotel room in London, less than an escort’s overnight fee, less than setting up an apartment for a mistress. I don’t need the money, but I get a kick out of charging it., and it means we’re all clear where we stand.

You’ll see from my photos that my body is fit and toned – yes it’s me there, no editing. You can’t see my face in the photos because of my regular job, but I can tell you that men find me pretty.

Just a few rules. Condoms for penetrative sex, pussy or anal, not oral, I like feeling the sperm spurt in my mouth. No drugs. You can smoke but not in my apartment. Most importantly, you aren’t allowed anywhere near me or my apartment except by appointment, I don’t want to risk seeing you while I’m with another boyfriend (just like I don’t want another boyfriend to interrupt the two of us).

In return, I guarantee some things. I won’t ever ring you or try to contact you at home or work or anywhere else. I guarantee that I’ll keep problems out of our time together, so you won’t be hassled by broken heating or headaches or money worries. And I guarantee as much sex as you can handle.

If that sounds good, let’s meet up, and we can try our first night. Hopefully it’ll be the start of something big, something regular. Email me with some details about yourself. Do it now and you could be having your cock sucked tonight.

This profile on the escort website, another cracker. Not quite right for me just now. Still, add to hot list, click, though I don’t imagine the vacancy will stay open for long.

Sex Uncontaminated

Days later and Jenny’s warmth still glowing inside, a slow intoxicating burn like a single malt. Today in the gym, pushing iron, feeling strong and alive and unfrustrated.

In the background, hyping music, running machines pounding, clanking of weights, grunts of weightlifters. The gymgoers absorbed into their idea of themselves and how they want to look, ceaselessly glancing into mirrors. Me, I feel like an exception, I’m doing it for the intrinsic pleasure of the physical exertion, no need for objectives or transformations or suchlike nonsense.

Lying back, getting ready for the bench press, squaring my shoulders. Setting a medium weight. Ten reps, three sets. Taking the strain. Starting. Thinking, these people in this gym, I wonder how they think about sex, I wonder if they immerse into it, or if like now they’re over-aware of themselves, imposing an irrelevant reference on a simple physical activity.

One set down, a brief rest, two to go. Restarting. What irrelevant reference? Well, those grooved by advertising and media and surrounding culture, you run on a machine and in your mind the television cameras pan as you break the Olympic tape, you have sex and in your mind you’re the witty star of some Hollywood romcom. The mistaking of something for something else, as draining of vitality as it is possible to be.

Okay, final set. Yet the pollution of life by irrelevant references, nowhere more extreme than in sex, specifically, sex contaminated by claims of ownership. You have sex, so you have rights. Lazy cultural grooves. As in marriage. The principal right being that the other person doesn’t have sex with anyone else. The claim made regardless of repercussions. Such repercussions including the certain debilitation of sexual vitality consequential on the imposition of rights.

Yes, that’s what makes Jenny so precious. The physical experience alone, free of bonds and claims and rights. She unchained by me, I by her. No superimposition of extraneous references. Twenty minutes of extreme bliss, distilled.

Finishing the set, resting. Grabbing some weights for flys. Still feeling wonderful. Jenny, that twenty minutes, that’s what I paid for, but I think what you gave me will last forever.

An Eyeblink Spanning Eternity

Turning round, lying face to face, giving Jenny a long sweet postorgasmic hug. Her skin silky against mine, hair still damp from her shower, smelling of freshness and intimacy and domestic togetherness. Her arm across my chest, lips kissing my shoulder. The world slowed down. Two hearts beating together in a small dark Marylebone bedroom.

Finally, arising, getting dressed. The bedside clock showing only twenty minutes gone, an eyeblink spanning eternity. Jenny sitting on the bed, unembarrassed in her nakedness, watching me. Both of us smiling, complicit in unspoken communion.

Chatting briefly, meanings unimportant but the sound of voices serving to return us to normal humanity. She with faltering English. Just back from holiday with her children in Budapest. Her son, fifteen. Her daughter, thirteen. They live with her parents, she sees them one week a month, budget airlines. You earn more money in London.

Kissing her goodbye at the door, her arm holding me for an extra moment, enough to communicate reluctance to let me go. The London weather blustery outside, but almost unnoticed by me, still cocooned in Jenny’s glow.

Thinking, what exactly is her magic? Her sexual presence sufficient to smooth away my normal contours, dissolve my barriers, float thoughts and words away, as if in reversion to an ancient animal state. Textures and curves and hollows and smells and tastes, suddenly the centre and meaning of the universe.

Behind it all, a sense of specialness, as if I’m the only man she wants or needs, and she’s my only woman, and that at some deep level we both know it.

This with a woman who’ll see six or eight other men today. I wonder if they’ll feel the same. I wonder if Jenny will be the same with them. Maybe. But I don’t think so, I’m not the same with her as with other women, why shouldn’t she make distinctions too?

If I were naked now with another woman, well, we might also have a specialness, probably less intense, less, well, special. That would be between her and me. Nothing to do with Jenny.

But this is mere cerebration, exactly the thing dispelled by Jenny’s animal physicality, and to hell with it.

Walking toward Paddington, Jenny’s presence still burning fiercely inside. That twenty minutes, sufficient unto itself, absolute celebration of life and living.

Another Medium

The door opening, and here she is, exactly as in my erotic recollections, Jenny. Wrapped in a white towel, bare shoulders, fishnet stockings. A shy smile. Hand ushering me up the stairs to her bedroom. Taking the money, putting the banknotes on a shelf, unconcerned about taking them somewhere safer. Turning toward me, hugging me steamily, the towel slightly damp from a recent shower.

The same sensation as before, as if being swallowed into another medium, warm and comforting and wordless, the friction and grind of normal life evaporating. My clothes removing themselves. Jenny’s towel slipping off. Our skins touching. Stroking, kissing, identities blurring. The slight smell of old cigarettes on her breath, somehow enhancing the sensory deluge, emphasizing the physicality and actuality.

Her lips running down my chest and stomach, finding my cock, kissing it, taking it into her mouth. No phony coquettishness, no learned technique, a simple gravitational pull to the site of greatest intimacy. Me lying on my back, relaxation spreading, deep tension dispelling. My cock hardening, her tongue working it, learning its shape. Long heavenly minutes.

Reaching down, pulling her gently away, her mouth surrendering my cock reluctantly. Turning her on her back, kissing her breasts. Lifting her knees with my hands. Her body complying as if with prior intent. Hips high, trim little pussy still closed but available. Separating the lips with my tongue, savoring the slight metallic tang, flicking her clitoris. Feasting on her flesh and textures and smells. Her juices covering my nose and mouth and tongue.

Shifting her on her side, twisting my own body round. A side-by-side position found. Her eyes closed, somehow bereft, her mouth searching for my cock, finding it, relaxing. My tongue probing her sphincter, squidgy clean from the shower and taut and stretched, its centre resisting and then yielding. Her body dissolving into new and deeper surrender, the softest murmur filling the air.

Her hand taking my cock from her mouth. Her tongue hard and pointed playing with my tip. Putting it back in her mouth, sucking it, taking it out again, teasing it with her tongue. Tension building in my hips like a tightening guitar string. Gathering. Her tongue sensing it, working the tip harder. The guitar string fully tight, pulled back, held there. The tongue pushing at my cock’s tip. Stillness. Then, release, a shuddering twang. She awakening from torpor, as if surprised, quickly reaching with her mouth, greedy for the fluids.

Pulling apart, lying still. Jenny turning round, arranging a pillow, taking me in her arms, kissing my face. The aftershocks twitching through my body, slowly receding. Holding her close. Souls filled with sunshine.

Sexual Conundrums

That scratchy feeling again, the need for a woman’s touch, seems like it’s a two-week cycle, if it stretches out any longer then tetchiness creeps in. Best to deal with it, sixty pounds and half an hour with a sexual therapist, cheap and clean and better than all the alternatives.

Checking out the escort website last night, aha, Jenny’s back, that’s exciting. The information roiling in my head in the small hours, her physical spell revivified. Only a few minutes spent together, hardly any words exchanged, just a euphoric merging of skin and flesh and smells, and the imprint still sharp.

Maybe it’d be best to leave it at that, treasure it for the brief moment it was, don’t disturb its perfection by trying to extend it. Like returning somewhere for a holiday, finding disappointment second time round. Maybe. But her pull too irresistible, to hell with the mincing philosophications, time to see her again.

Waking this morning, reviewing the plan. My wife chatting over breakfast coffee, looking relaxed. The thought occurring, she’s looking better ever since I started going with escorts, I wonder if there’s a connection. Maybe the removal of some invisible pressure, the thought or mention of sex even on television seems to freeze her, make her construct barricades, find escape routes, now with me she doesn’t have to any more.

So what do I do about Jenny? Tell my wife? It’d be mental cruelty to her. Forego Jenny? It’d be mental cruelty to me.

My wife collecting her stuff, departing for work. A quick sexless peck, a smile, goodbye. Watching her through the window, walking to the station, a jaunty stride. The sight somehow precipitating some decisions. No, I’m not going to inflict harsh truths on her, stuff that she’d find sordid. Stuff that matters to her not at all other than that it must be quarantined elsewhere, like a disease. And yes, if that means living with a lie, so be it, the lie relates to a part of me that she’s not looking after and isn’t interested in.

So here I am, telephone poised. Jenny’s number, enter. Connect button, click.

Prolonged Sixty-Nine

Woke up early this morning thinking of Jane. Far from the place of her roots, smothered in her marriage, reaching out with her emails like a plant fighting toward light.

Emailing her. Hi darling Jane, I hope you managed to negotiate xmas, and that you didn’t let the pressure of faux festivities find the marital fissures. Me, I’m glad it’s over, the normal rhythms of life are starting to resume.

Xmas got me remembering that time you came down, stayed with me in Belsize Park, a tiny studio, shower, kitchenette, double bed, and Jane, who could ever want more. Occasional strolls to Primrose Hill in between long lazy sessions on the bed. Sixty-nineing all the time, you having no birth control and condoms being too expensive. I remember sensing your initial reservations, turned out you were embarrassed about being so wet when I licked you, worried I may not like that smell of your sex, but I loved it and still do, and you loved that I loved it. I used to avoid washing my face afterwards, keep the smell lingering.

Oh how lovely to do that right now, I hope you still have that gorgeous sex smell and I hope you still climax easily on a tongue. A treasured memory, how we quickly found a pattern, sixty-nine, you on top, mostly still, sometimes grinding slightly, my tongue working, a few heavenly minutes and then you twitching and groaning, the deal being, I had to wait until after you’d finished before my turn. I quickly figured out, I didn’t have to cum, I could have more of you over the day if I saved it.

Strange, both of us now in stale marriages and reaching out. But we’d never have made it if we’d married, maybe we’re just too intense for that, I think we recognized it at the time, we never spent more than one or two weeks together before moving on. What we had was more special. Anyway, darling Jane, here’s an open offer, if you’re in London or I’m in Australia, and it takes your fancy, we could resume Belsize Park protocol, prolonged sixty-nine with you taking as long as it takes to climax first. I’d love to be your occasional lover again, that’s what’ I’ve always been. Email soon. Rxxx

I Don’t Feel Guilty, I Feel Free

Browsing the escort website, whiling away an idle hour checking out the 2011 intake. Mostly, the profiles all resembling one another, the challenge of browsing being to find one that stands out.

Today, success. KinkyDinky, just moved to London from US of A, loving it here. Longtime sexaholic, turned professional three months ago. If you’re interested, here’s my story.

Married my school sweetheart, thought a whole new world of sex would open up, well, it didn’t take long to find out, now I know why you should try before you buy. He liked to do it twice a week, I needed it twice a day at least, spent my entire life masturbating and feeling guilty, after a while we split up. After that, lots of men, same old problem, none of them could keep up with me.

Then I met an older man, he couldn’t keep up either but he introduced me to swinging, he’d take me to parties, look after me, get his kicks watching. The first one we went to was bukake, I said what’s that, he said wait and see. I had to strip naked, lay on my back on a massage table so the men could masturbate over me. Wow, I still remember it, about ten shooting off in my mouth, each one with a different taste, like a wine tasting except I didn’t spit out. For the first time I felt like I wasn’t being starved of what I needed.

But after few swingers parties I started thinking, these men would pay for this, in fact they probably have, just somebody else is getting the money. So I put an ad on a website, and here I am. The first time I got paid for sex I felt so kinky, after the guy left I kept masturbating and must have cum about five times shouting to myself, I am a whore, I am a slut, and yes, it may sound weird but I am a dirty filthy whore and I'm loving it, and I don’t feel guilty, I feel free.

I now take extra care to stay in shape and look good, it’s important if you want to be a good whore. So if you need some hard sex, cum on now, I will suck your dick and swallow your cum and fuck you silly. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate, ring the number below.

Whew, interesting profile, add to hot list, click.