If We Want To We Definitely Should

Yesterday, a text message on my phone, hi R, another coffee?, Carol x. Suddenly the day filling with sunshine, matching the spring weather outside. That x, full of excitement and promise, the more so for not having been offered in the past. Texting back, sure, R x. Times duly arranged.

Today, sitting down, same spot as last time, waiting. Carol coming over, kissing my cheek. Another thrill. Something not done last time and presumably therefore not offered lightly. A slight pattern suggesting itself, let her take the lead on such things, push too hard and she’ll wilt away. Puts me in a slightly helpless position, nothing I can do if she chooses not to take a lead, still, if that’s how it’s going to be, run with it.

Thanks for coming, R. That’s okay, anything particular you want to chat about? No, not really, well, actually, I was just thinking about something you said last time. Oh yes, which little nugget of wisdom would that have been? Um, you know what might be nice, we finish up our coffee, take a stroll through the park, chat in the sunshine.

A fine idea on a fine day. Finishing up, walking down the road, crossing it, into the park, daffodils on display. Low bright sunshine reflecting on the pond. Young children playing excitedly on swings and slides. Carol taking an interest in the early budding of some exotic plant.

Looking at me, making up her mind, well, R, you made some joke about how your wife and my husband should get together, get outraged about us meeting up like this, do you remember saying that? Yes, I remember making some smart-aleck comment like that. So R, we’re both married, do you think we really should be having coffee together, strolling together in a park?

So innocent and sweet a question making me want to smile and hug her, like a daughter. Seeing a park bench, inviting her to sit down, sitting down next to her. Well, mrs beautiful Carol, as it happens I’ve thought a lot about that, not just you and me, about the whole business of marriage, and have some sort of answer.

Carol looking at me earnestly. Okay, the long answer we can save until later, the short answer, yes, if we want to we definitely should. Smiling at her. Carol, released from thought of an impending lecture, laughing. Oh, okay, that’s alright then.

Just about to take her hand and kiss her cheek in affection, remembering my plan to let her take the lead. Her eyes looking into mine steadily. But, R, what if your wife or my husband sees things differently?

Eternal Happiness

A phonecall last night from my ex-wife, Hi R, would you mind looking after our daughter for a couple of days. Her voice continuing, about to give explanation, where she’s going, why she needs me to step in. Interrupting her, fine, no explanation needed, you’re already carrying nearly all the weight, it’s the least I can do. Thinking, if she gives me the reasons it’s as if I have to assess whether they’re good enough.

Thanks, R, that’s great. Be careful with our little treasure though, she’s hitting teenage years with a bang, I’ve already had to say no to plans for midnight sleepovers and body piercing and tattoos, it’d help if you and I have a united front. Sure, of course, I feel the same way, it’s good she has a strong and wise mother. Well, R, it would be if she did, not sure I’ll be able to stay strong against the onslaught in the years ahead.

Now, making tea in the kitchen, my daughter sitting opposite, head down, texting something into her phone. Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. A couple of spots showing on her chin. The tea placed before her, ignored. Finishing the text message. Looking at me cursorily. Twisting an earpiece in one ear, sounds of music zissing out.

Recognizing the tune, some girl band singing something about a boy and the love he inspires. My daughter tapping the beat with her foot. Dreams of boys and love and everlasting happiness swirling around in her hormone jangled mind, sweeping away any chance of sensible chats with boring fathers.

Oh well, so it goes. This stuff will saturate her thinking for years, pouring her mind into the same tired cast. Dreams of an ideal mate, finding one, the remaining future relegated to a postscript. Hey, little daughter, that remaining future relegated to a postscript, the bit that starts after age twenty, if you’re like your father you’ll discover that there’s where the interesting stuff begins, starting first with having to discard all the guff about eternal happiness you so uncritically imbibed starting age twelve.

Still, looking at her now, playing with the spots on her chin, reading some new text message, occasionally scowling at me, it’s her life, nothing a father can do, she has her own future, complete with freedom to make mistakes, same as the rest of us.

I’ll Swallow If You Taste Good

Scanning through the escort website, searching within ten miles of my address, sorting on the date they joined, checking out the new ones, fifteen in the last week.

Many of them, the usual. Claims of nymphomania, photos of pneumatic pornstar disproportion, profiles crudely made up of snippets cut from other profiles, boasts of magical powers of sexual entrancement. One or two, not even enterprising, just an unclear photograph and a telephone number.

Then finding one, authenticity shining through. Hi, my name’s Eleanor, I’m a student in London from Spain and I’ve run out of money so I’ve taken up escorting. I’ve always liked sex so I thought I’d give it a try. I’ve been doing it for two months, and love it. So I’ve set myself up in an apartment and put a profile on this website.

I like everything, especially oral. You can cum in my mouth, and I’ll swallow if you taste good. Sixty-nine is my favorite, especially with me on top. The best thing ever for me is if you stick your tongue deep in my little asshole and wiggle it around, if you do that I’ll give you a ten pound discount, only joking I need the money but I love it.

I also have a sexy friend available. She lives in the same apartment and is thinking about doing escorting. She is not here all the time but if you are lucky and she is hanging around when you come over, she might come in and join us. She may offer to suck your cock if you want to spend an extra twenty pounds. Don’t ask for her photo as she does not want to send one or have a profile. It’s just the luck of the draw. Come and see me and you might get a bonus.

Reading the profile, picturing the scene, finding it deeply sexual. Two women, maybe others in their apartment as well, making their way in London, accepting of sex with strange men as something normal, taking it as it comes, seeming to see it all as part of a great London adventure, leaving the future for another day. Free of society’s shackles, spurious cultural taboos, bogus religious prohibitions.

Add to hotlist, click. Not sure if it’ll come to anything, at the moment my first-choice escort is Jenny, and besides, it feels like Eleanor won’t be there long, some new opportunity will open up in her life and she’ll be gone. But adding her to my hotlist, it’s meant as a salute to a sparkling profile.

Sexual Playing

An event to make my day exciting, the arrival of an email from Jane.

Hi R, yes, i remember that night in college, waking up with you attempting to devour me, it felt like i was being eaten whole by a slavering demon from the deep, too strong and actually quite unlike you, as a lover you were gentle, it was one of the things i loved. gentle but not effete, it’s a difficult balance for a man to find. that night was different, it hurt a bit, and it didn’t really feel like you, it was the monsters inside you that night.

What i remember more is what we did afterwards, english breakfast and a stroll along the river, letting you back into my room so you could get some sleep whilst i went to the library, coming back hours later, you still asleep, naked under the covers, and my turn to climb in and be warmed up.

And then, R, i had the real you back, not the rampant devourer, it was R the gentle lover, tending to my needs, finding how we fitted together on that exact day, not merely doing again the thing that worked last time. sex as discovery. or actually, i like the word you used in your email, playing. the same thing, really, discovery is playing, playing is discovery, i think.

That’s what i need so badly now, R, that sort of sexual playing. no prior agenda, no unnecessary artifice, no adherence to some tired script, worn out as in marriage from repetition and lack of imagination, or trying to do it too often or too regularly. just you and me in a room somewhere, you being you, undemanding, happy if sex takes a back seat for a while, happy too if it gets physical. oh well, i can dream.

Back here things are progressing a bit with my new man from auditing, we met up for dinner one night, he was very nervous, looking around all the time to check there was nobody who might recognize us, you’d have thought we were undercover operators on some clandestine mission. the good thing was, he could see the amusing side of it, it’s just he’s never previously thought of being unfaithful, he needs some time to get used to it. it didn’t lead anywhere that night, but i think something might happen soon.

There’s some chance the london trip is back on, so we might soon be able to play again together, R. i would truly love that. Jane xxx.

Better Than An Orgasm

Jenny’s phone picked up on the third ring but the voice not hers. Hello. Hi, is Jenny there? Sorry, she can’t come to the phone at the moment, do you want to see her?

Always a difficult moment, probably means she’s with another man. Easy enough in principle, more difficult in actuality. But sometimes, no help for it, planet Earth’s no place for the thin-skinned.

Oh, okay, do you know if she’s free at three o’clock. Yes, that’s fine, I’ll text you the address. Oh, that’s okay, you’re in the Marylebone apartment. No, we’ve moved, now we’re near Finsbury Park. Okay, thanks, send it to me.

Ten minutes to three o’ clock, and strolling around her new streets. Victorian houses, some newly renovated, some, like Jenny’s, awaiting attention. No trees, no pedestrians, a slight sense of afternoon desertion.

Ringing her doorbell. The door opening and Jenny’s face appearing, brightening into a smile. Oh, hi, it’s you, oh good, I thought I’d lost you. A hug and a kiss. Taking my hand, leading me through. Another hug. Smiles on both our faces. Special friends and special lovers, somehow. Her hand undoing my belt and fly, pushing down my jeans, kneeling, pulling down my undershorts, taking my cock in her mouth.

Minutes passing, a heavenly blur. Her body sensing my desires, positioning itself to be touched or licked or entered. Her hands stroking my chest, legs, back. Lying on her tummy, hands reaching behind her to stretch apart her buttocks, tight sphincter pink in the bedroom’s afternoon light. Turning round, taking me in her mouth again.

After half an hour, replete. Hugging her gently, making to get up. Her face puzzled, crestfallen, hey, no orgasm, stay, baby, stay. No, darling Jenny, it’s just too intense and ecstatic, it’s been wonderful, better than an orgasm. Her face still doubtful, hesitating, finally saying, okay baby, you come back, tomorrow maybe, no charge, finish off then. Okay, darling Jenny, it’s a deal.

A last kiss. Closing the door behind me, making my way to Finsbury Park for a stroll, body and spirit replenished.

Need For Woman’s Womanly Touch

Waking up this morning, feeling the hormones, a zingy feeling in my loins and enough self-knowledge to recognize the glow of need for woman’s womanly touch.

Lying back watching the light break through the windows, pondering. What’s Carol thinking? At the coffee shop she seemed cool, but with a sense of something more, maybe that’s reading too much into things, there’s nothing to pin down, but that’s what you’d expect, it’s early days, anything specific would be too strong.

Imagining her womanly touch, what it would be like. Kissing her nipples, seeing how her body responds. My hand stroking her stomach, hipbones, inner thigh. Feeling whether her body clenches or relaxes. Stroking her pussy’s lips, feeling them open. My fingers gently searching for the wetness. looking at her face to see if she’s enjoying. Licking her, seeing if she likes that, discovering what she tastes like. Seeing whether she enjoys my body, fondles me, wants to take me in her mouth.

The thought too exciting to lie still. Shifting on the bed. My wife beside me stirring, ten minutes or so and she’ll be awake and showering. Hormones still zinging through my loins.

Wonder what Carol would think if she knew my thoughts. Pleased to be fantasized about? Offended at being thought of in that way? Outraged at my presumption? Confirmed in some conviction that all men are sex beasts? Oh well, who knows, she can think what she’s going to think. What I think is, it’s a compliment, it’s meant lovingly.

No help now, though, lying on my bed in the dawn light. Don’t even know if I’ll see her again. If I do, we’re still miles away from any prospect of sexual togetherness, and that’s just fine, these early noncommittal moments have their own wondrous magic, they need their own time to work through their own dynamics, rush it and you lose something precious and unrecoverable.

But still, those hormones. Maybe I should ring Jenny, meet up, get her to work her magic.

Thinking, how would that affect things with Carol, the pureness and cleanness of her and me. Answer, grow up dammit, not at all, it’s a separate chamber in the mind. Carol’s got a husband anyway, I’ve got a wife, we’d better be able to maintain multiple chambers. If she’s seeing someone else as well, well, that’s her business, another chamber in her mind, not my concern. The only thing that matters, she thinks of me sometimes, and when she does there’s a warm glow, the rest is just periphery.

Getting up, using the bathroom before my wife wakes, forming a plan to ring Jenny.

Not Sure What My Husband Would Think

Eleven o’ clock at the coffee shop and a table near the window becoming free at just the right moment. Taking off my jacket, hanging it over the chairback, sitting down, waiting for Carol. Thinking, not really sure if I should be doing this.

Looking up, seeing her. Thinking, well, there’s a good reason for doing this, she’s looking just as I remember her, unstressed, comfortable with herself, a look that suits her. Jeans, pink blouse, tailored parka, tousled hair.

Standing up, waving, catching her attention. Carol coming over, sitting down, smiling. A shake of hands, no kiss, but the smile making up for it. Hi R, how are you? Oh, fine, how are you, did you get your car fixed okay? Yes, all done, thanks for your help, I might have been there all night. Oh, it’s nothing.

The words having small significance, the fact of exchanging them, full of excitement and potentiality. Just the trace of freckles on her skin. Her lips full and unlipsticked. The slightest hint of make-up around her eyes. Clear confident diction, not too loud.

A pause. Then, from her, hey actually I’m not really sure what I’m doing here with you, I’m a married woman, it may not necessarily be the right thing to be having coffee alone with a man, not sure what my husband would think, still, it would have been awfully rude to turn down the offer after you’d done my car.

Looking at her, feeling my facial muscles in a smile, the same one that had been there since she sat down. Thinking, how interesting, she’s brought up her husband, doing exactly what I’d been debating about myself, how to bring up my wife. Wonder what it means? Wants me to know what I’m letting myself in for? Or telling me, thanks for the help with the car, goodbye.

Saying to her, well, I’m glad you game, it’s good to see you again if only for a coffee, I was actually thinking the same thing, not sure what my wife would think, maybe we should connect up your husband with my wife, they can compare notes, get outraged together.

A raised eyebrow from her, then her face widening into a laugh. Yes, maybe, that might be interesting. Another smile. Seduction rule number one, make her laugh. Rule number two, don’t try too hard.

More coffee. Chatting. After a while, needing to move on, look at the time, half an hour gone already, running late, must rush. Okay you go, Carol, let me get the bill.

A quick peck on the cheek, and Carol gone. No we really must do this again. But no we really mustn’t either.

La Fellation, la Sodomie

Three men joking and chatting in French, the windows and furniture giving the room a Mediterranean feel. A knock on the door, one of them getting up to open it, giving a warm welcome, bringing a woman inside.

All the men standing, kissing her cheeks, enquiring about her journey. The woman smiling, occasionally laughing, a bit too readily, as if released from a nervousness about how pleased the men would be to see her. Sitting on the sofa, accepting the offer of a glass of water. Looking at the camera occasionally, giving it a special smile, acknowledging its presence.

The scene unfolding on the screen before me. Its sexuality, distinctively French. The sense of fierce rectitude, happily coexisting with utter debauchery. In the culture, also in the head of one person, as with her.

The woman neatly and demurely dressed, soft hair curls, spectacles of perfect proportion. The men asking her questions about sex, not in prurient interrogation, more in the way of trying to understand. The woman thinking, blushing, answering. The men sympathetic, encouraging. No sense of intimidation from them, or of fabrication from her.

What’s your husband think of you coming here? How often do you give him la fellation. Do you enjoy it? Do you like la sodomie? The questions flowing, the woman thinking, answering, laughing. The humor in her face containing an edge of defiance, as if saying, well, if I’m going to be here, might as well not hold back.

One of the men taking her hand, helping her out of the sofa, turning her round, lifting her skirt, showing the camera her bottom. Pulling aside her thong, pulling her cheeks apart, showing a neat pussy and delicate sphincter. The camera panning to the woman’s face, the woman acknowledging with a smile.

The three men and the woman stripping off their clothes. The woman lying on the sofa, one man kneeling between her legs, licking her. The woman’s whole body flushing, her breathing becoming shallower, words when uttered coming out in a mumble. A sense of being continuously on the edge of climax. A combination of intense intimacy and erotic charge.

A man’s condomed cock entering her. Her hand holding another cock. The third man holding his cock near her face, her mouth drawing to it without thought, her lips caressing its tip. The scene continuing, lovers making love, talking, smiling, the men showing small gallantries. Changing position, making love again.

After a while, too much for one of the men, his body stiffening into her, releasing. The woman looking up at him, smiling, strong in this affirmation of her power.

New Possibilities

Still no contact from Carol, the pretty woman with the car problem that I chatted with the other day. My memory now fading, I’m sure we agreed to meet up for coffee, I’m reasonably sure we left it that she’d contact me, but maybe not, maybe it’s for me to contact her. Or maybe I should just be wise and let it go. Maybe that’s what she’s being, wise.

Retrieving her phone number, sent to my secret email address, deleted from my phone, a routine precaution, save having to invent explanations. Entering a message on my phone, coffee sometime? Rx. Pausing. Reconsidering. Probably best to be wise. Oh, to hell with it, send, click.

Two hours, no response. Two more hours, same. Checking for error messages, maybe mine didn’t get through. Nothing. Going for a bicycle ride, a quick hour, first one this year, pleasure of good weather and longer days. Getting off the bicycle, feeling the phone vibrate, new message.

My heart pounding unreasonably, a feeling of breathlessness, more than could be explained by the ride. Taking a deep breath, trying to calm down. No particular reason to think it’s Carol, it could be anyone. Fumbling for the phone, digging it out.

Hooray, it’s Carol. Hi R, so glad you messaged, I’d managed to lose your number, yes, let’s do coffee. More stuff suggesting a time and place. At the end, no x. Never mind, agreement to meet is the main thing. Texting, okay great, see you there, R. Send, click. No x, don’t want to press.

Showering, putting on fresh clothes, feeling terrific. Coffee dripping from the machine, steaming into a mug. Cradling it, pondering. How the hell do I handle this? Should I just say to her right from the beginning, by the way, I’m married, would really prefer to keep it that way. Nice and honest.

Trouble is, we’re just meeting up as new acquaintances, start talking about marital issues, it’s way too heavy, also, it’s only relevant if she wants to go down amorous paths, I can’t assume that, and certainly can’t be caught assuming it.

So, how do I handle it? Say nothing, store up future problems if she and I get entwined.

No, I figure, just take it easy, go with the flow, say something in good time, personal stuff will come up, there’ll be an opportunity, just get the timing right, not like it’s a major thing, just make sure she has an exit route early enough if it’s a problem.

Finishing the coffee, washing the mug, drying it, putting it away. Spring sunshine through the window filling the room with yellow light. Suddenly, the world full of new possibilities.

We Can Play Later

A night spent dreaming of Jane, and suddenly the moment feeling right for emailing her.

Hey baby Jane, remember, I used to call you that sometimes, it came up in a dream last night, you were still at college, like that night, do you remember it, I was in some sort of situation at work, feeling frazzled and attenuated, phoned you, you said, just come up and I’ll hold you close.

Driving through the night, the car’s heater broken and my body feeling hypothermic, arriving very late, exhausted, hardly able to stagger up the stairs. You opening the door, looking at me, drawing me close, stroking my hair. Peeling the clothes off my shivering body. Your finger on my lips, shushing me. Pulling me to your bed, the indentations still there where you’d just been sleeping, glowing warm.

Holding me close, your naked body’s heat suffusing into mine, my body relaxing, letting go, asleep in seconds. Waking later, finding us curled together, your back against my chest, your bottom pressed against my pelvis. A soul-deep sense of peace and vertiginous collapse back into sleep.

Waking again later, finding my head between your thighs, eating you, don’t know how I got there, but it must have been me that started it, your head was still on the pillow. You telling me later, I was voracious, as if scooping fruit with both hands into a mouth starved of moisture and nutrients after months in the desert.

And all last night, dreaming, that’s how it was, baby Jane, your beautiful coppery taste and coppery smell and the nearby sense of your crinkly pink sphincter. Sensations as absolute and soul-necessary as any can be for a man, or at least for me.

Turning round, head on pillow, you stroking my cheek, smiling at me. Falling asleep again. Waking with a start, you swishing the curtains open, sunlight and blue sky blazing into the room. You, already showered and dressed, jeans and knitted sweater, sitting on the bed, kissing me, taking my hand, putting it on your breast, saying, c’mon baby, we can play later, first we need to get some food into you.

Hey Jane, I have a confession, I regularly dream about you, maybe once, twice a year, every time I get up the next morning, it feels like sunshine in the room, I still feel the dried coppery residue of your juices on my mouth and face, I still have that promise that we can play later, and I just love it. As I do you, darling Jane. R xxx

Cool Sexual Detachment

Stepping out of Peachy Bum’s apartment, through an atrium, down carpeted stairs, into the sunshine outside. Looking back across the gardens, trying to make out which window is hers, imagining her looking out at me, giving her a smile and wave, small gestures of gratitude.

And so again, carnal knowledge of a new woman and the sense of glad new morning. All the anger and tensions and afflictions of the spirit, gone utterly.

Walking along a paved path, remembering her cool sexual detachment, in fact not so much cool as, well, amused.

Yes, that’s it, she seemed secretly amused by the situation, by her strange power over my male body. Like a bionic interloper from some far sexless planet, flawless female form adopted to infiltrate the earthly natives, study their quaint habits, compatriots observing from a console in the sky, trying to figure out, what the hell is that man doing to her, what is he letting her do to him? Maybe she was thinking, this is silly, they’re playing some sort of prank, better put on a faint smile, show I’m in on the joke.

Now, sitting down on a public bench, a pond and trees in the distance, thinking, as a pure physical sexual experience, she’s as close to perfect as is possible to be, maybe even too much so, it proved impossible to be in her presence for more than a few minutes without climaxing. But as a personal engagement, near negligible. No vestige whatever, no durable imprint, nothing, just a small sensory aftermath like the memory of a photograph.

Wonder if I’ll ever see her again. Maybe. She sure was beautiful, she sure had sexual power. Yet our twenty minutes together seemed enough, sufficient to exhaust the possibilities, do it again and it’ll feel like a mere repeat. Nothing more to explore, no adventures to share, no discoveries to jointly make, no places to boldly go. Best just to celebrate the marvelous but limited moment, and move on.

Collecting myself, rising from the park bench, walking again in the sunshine, happy to be alive.