Curvy Voluptuous Nymphomaniac

London’s air thick with cultural conflict, not between ethnic groups, they get along fine, rather between those falling prostrate at the prospect of the royal wedding, and those that don’t. For the worshippers, happiness at a very picture of forthcoming marital harmony. For the others, indifference to an outworn narrative, especially when sugar-wrapped in such pomp.

Turning to the escort website in search of distraction. The profiles especially modified.

Hi, my name’s HappiLicks. Want a princess, but without the annoying ceremony? Cum to me honey, I’ll give you what you want. One hour and you’ll have the orgasm of your life, and you don’t have to stick around afterwards, live with all the boring conversation. If you like you can watch the happy couple on television while I suck you off. Ring me now baby.

Hi, I’m Kate, same as the princess but better looking and better boobs. You can have me, sixty pounds for half an hour, a hundred pounds an hour, ten pounds off on the special day, Friday. I can wear a bridal veil, if you like, nothing else, whilst you take me from behind. Anal included if you’re not too big, you’ll have to be gentle, I’m tight, just like a virgin bride.

Hello baby, this is Lilly waiting for you, I do everything, I’m submissive so you’ll have to force yourself on me, just like a prince returning after battle and desperate for relief. Very flexible, you’ll be able to bend me into any position. I won’t say no, unlike a princess. You can imagine that you’re married to her, and I’m your private mistress, except you don’t have to pay for all my time, just for an hour. Cum to me, baby, make sure you bring a full load, I want to suck it out of you. I’m waiting for you baby.

Hi honey, I’m SunnySex. Fed up with the thought of a street party? Annoyed by everyone cooing around the television? Escape to my arms, honey, I can sooth your troubles away. Curvy voluptuous nymphomaniac, I’m everything the princess isn’t. So you can have a good time with me. Only eighty pounds for an hour, twenty pounds back if I can’t make you cum at least once. Cum on baby, you owe it to yourself, don’t get stuck in front of a television, have a big fat orgasm instead.

These profiles, enough to restore sanity. Tempting thought, an orgasm rather than television, I might ring Jenny.

Free Love

Looking after my daughter for the weekend. Friday evening, laughter, messing about, chatting. Saturday morning, different mood, time spent with a father being an annoying distraction from doing cool things, such as hanging out with friends.

An argument starting, she wants to meet some friends at the coffee shop, wants to go by herself, doesn’t want anyone to walk her there. The argument becoming heated, from her side, she doing all the talking. Eventually, stopping. A pause, clear anticipation of unreasonable fatherly response. Sure darling, of course you can walk there by yourself, you do a good job looking after yourself in other things, you’re big enough to do this, just make sure your phone’s turned on, make sure you’re back on time, or if you’re running late, phone me.

Time to go, and my daughter ready to leave. Her clothes changed, now jeans and a teeshirt, zany lettering with the message, I believe in Free Love. The expected fatherly reaction, not forthcoming. Best to rise above such things, let her do the things young girls do.

After her departure, the house silent. Thinking about Free Love. Two most complex and intractable concepts. Achieving freedom, it’s like creating a vacuum, stuff gets sucked in to gum it up. Love, it’s a mushy empty word, seeking to make generic and limitless that which can only be specific and particular. Free Love, a great slogan for a teeshirt, to be worn only by the innocent ignorant young.

Freedom and whatever-love-means, about to be tested. An email last night from Carol, hi R, I’ve just had a bit too much tequila, probably should just shut up, but this last week, firelight flickering and starry skies above, it would have been so good to have had you here to chat to, maybe you could have stroked my arm again, made me tingle, let’s meet up again, I’ll be back Wednesday, email me with a plan, I’ll email back as soon as I can pick it up, can’t always do that out in the sticks here, I’m pressing the Send button right now before I can change my mind and chicken out love Carol x.

A tingle thus entering my own life. Thinking, sometimes it’s best to play it cool, let some time pass, this isn’t one of them, she’s opened up to me, made herself vulnerable, I must repay the trust. Emailing her, hey lovely Carol, great to hear from you, firelight and starry skies, I’d love to be with you, why don’t you settle in when you get back and email me then, we’ll definitely do something, love R x.

Takes All Sorts

A forty mile bicycle ride on the Hillingdon circuit, surprised after the winter break to be keeping up okay with a group of lean determined veterans. The feeling of satisfaction however disappearing on being casually overtaken by a professional-looking women’s team on training drills. Oh well, to be expected really.

Settling in to a steady rhythm, spring morning’s heat building and sweat running. Pondering yesterday’s dinner party, chatting with an acquaintance of student days, not seen for ages. Never really been close, certainly no sexual connection, she was always hooked up with another man, the interesting thing being, he treated her, what’s the expression, like a piece of shit.

Thinking, riding round the bend, tucked behind another cyclist, Heathrow’s planes noisy overhead, good expression, that, treated like a piece of shit, emotionally accurate if vulgar. A common pattern with some women. Maybe men too, just haven’t met any. The first surprise being the loyalty with which she stayed true. The second being that the more she was treated like a piece of shit, the more true she stayed.

Back then, discussing it with friends, one woman opining, that’s just how the world works, women are attracted to men who are shits, sad but true. Well, true in her opinion.

Things on the cycle circuit becoming competitive, the women’s team lapping us and everyone deciding to stay with them. A pace being adopted beyond my ability to sustain it for long, but fun to try.

That idea, women being attracted to men who are shits, feels like rubbish. More like some women, not women in general. Thinking about Jenny, the reason she’s warm to me, well, who knows, what I think though, it’s that I treat her with, what’s that psychology expression, unconditional positive regard. That’s it. She’s warm to me because I value her, don’t judge her, especially, don’t treat her like a piece of shit.

Three miles with the women’s team and my whole body getting wobbly. No choice now, I’ve been giving my legs stern instruction to keep going, and they’ve stopped listening, I’ll just have to slow down.

Thinking about my acquaintance, the truth was, not that her man was attractive to women by virtue of being a shit, it’s that she had this strange need to be treated like a piece of shit, he just fulfilled it. Seems somehow that some women are like that, aren’t happy if they’re treated decently.

Well, takes all sorts to make the world. Watching the women whizzing round the circuit, coaches shouting at them, I wonder whether any of them have that strange need.

Sexually Formative

Emailing Jane, hey baby Jane, it’s spring here in London, always an exciting time of year, daylight still strong at eight in the evening.

Thought of you yesterday, strolling round the park, trees in flower and air filled with birdsong. Those student days, intermittently together, well, what I was thinking, for me the thing that becomes clearer with the years, those times had a unique character, more than that, they were sexually formative.

Hey baby Jane, isn’t that wonderful, all these years later, and not having made love with you in the interim, I finally understand how fundamental it was. All my previous sexual encounters, merely incidental. All subsequent ones, recreations or variations of time spent with you.

I think maybe it’s the sunshine in the park that puts me in such a buoyant mood, mindful of picnics and chilled frizzante wine and the sense of naughty physicality. Cheeky little face of Jane looking at me, nose slightly freckled, ready for things to take any turn, discussions of Chaucer or Heidegger, or just falling asleep in the shade.

Or hugging and kissing and touching, secret groping of bodies, I remember that once, early days, I pushed my hand down your jeans, you looked at me surprised, then unhooked the button, pulled down the zip, parted your legs slightly, then when my finger touched you it was clear your juices were everywhere, you looked at me smiling, said, what did you expect?

You know what, baby Jane, writing this, my hand went unthinkingly to my nose, exactly like I did that day afterwards while you were looking elsewhere, I remember my finger was rich with that wonderful baby Jane smell, it’s almost in my nostrils now as I write.

Lying down on the picnic rug, looking up at the cloudless sky, you off to the toilets and to buy ice-creams, I remember thinking, we can do more lovemaking later at the apartment, maybe take a shower together first. Also thinking, life, I don’t believe it can get better than this. And I figure I was right, baby Jane, it couldn’t get better because it was perfect.

Sexual Genius

Walking through Finsbury Park, air full of sunshine and fragrance of spring blossom on trees. My body still buoyant after Jenny’s touch. A sudden insight. Her sexual genius, it’s not the mere physical contortions, it’s that when I go to her, she sees a man with a wound, in need of healing, and she welcomes it, and she finds the wounds, and she assuages them.

Standing at the hilltop, surveying the scene, pondering. That crucial moment for a woman, confronted with a man’s sexual wounds, she can take it as a gift, like Jenny, to be entrusted with its healing. A gift as profound as a man can bring. Or she can see it as an insult, how dare you presume to exploit me with your disgusting appetites.

On the street below, a blaring of horns and shouting between motorcyclist and busdriver. Both male. Hey boys, you wouldn’t be doing that if you’d just been where I’ve just been. I wonder how many other mistakes they’ll make today, same reason.

Thinking, or of course a woman can just have dull sexual antennae, fail to see the need, fail to see the gift it represents. Like my wife. Maybe like all wives, after a few years of marriage.

Another insight. That sexual genius of Jenny’s, it’s exactly the same as Jane’s, that ready acceptance, that pleasure in being sought out as sexual healer, that instinct for finding the exact cure. Amazing, that thought. Maybe in Jenny I’m recreating Jane, becoming twenty again, exactly how old I feel right now. Maybe not so amazing, that’s what sex is, regeneration.

Watching the traffic, flowing smoothly now, drivers all apparently happy. Interesting, maybe these ones really have been with their Jennys, that’s how they stay calm.

Thinking more, so that’s a male viewpoint, what about female, could it be the same? Maybe that’s what a man should do, become attuned to female sexual wounds, be proud to be entrusted with their cure.

Another sudden insight. That would explain a lot about Carol, she’s carrying a sexual wound, I think, maybe she needs a man who can provide the exact right cure. A cure which, thinking about it, involves patience, waiting until she’s good and ready. Sexual cures, it’s not just the physical technique, it’s also the timing, the lightness of touch.

Secret Life For You, Secret Life For Me

Jenny lying naked next to me, propped on one elbow, using a tissue to wipe away my wayward juices. Me on my back watching her in her natural womanly ways. She burrowing next to me, putting her head on my shoulder, crossing her leg over my hips, her arm over my chest, pulling herself closer. Her skin and mine touching with a soft electricity.

The moment’s absolute sweetness and purity, salve to the soul. But not long sustainable, dissolving with heat of skin and sweat and bodies’ need for movement. Pulling gently from under her, saying to her, lie on your stomach baby. Jenny compliant. My hands rubbing upwards along her back’s muscles, moving to her shoulders, kneading the little knots. Jenny sighing in pleasure, relaxing.

Turning round, rubbing her calves, ankles, feet. More sighs, more relaxation. Chatting. Do you have many friends in London, baby? Oh yes, some. Oh, good, so if you want to go out for a drink or meal, you have people you can do it with. Yes, I like going out with them. Jenny’s answers free of guardedness, sign of acceptance of me as someone trusted.

Lying by her side, stroking her back. Do they know what you do? Oh no, I tell them I’m in event management. This startling vernacular a reminder of her intelligence, absorbing English like the air she breaths.

Looking at me. No, this is my secret life, I don’t have a boyfriend or husband, because that would mean they’d know what I do. Anyway, I’ve got lots of boyfriends. Kissing me. Especially you, baby. But doing this work, nobody will understand, if I tell one of my friends, they’ll all be saying, you see Jenny there, did you know she’s a prostitute. No, this here is my secret life.

Both of us rising from the bed, engaging in that strange intimacy, getting our clothes back on. Saying to her, exactly, baby, secret lives, this here is yours, this here is also mine. Me and you, making love. None of my friends knows about it either, if I tell one, soon they’ll be saying, you know he uses prostitutes. The only way, secret life for you, secret life for me.

Both of us smiling complicitly. Jenny hugging me, suddenly kneeling, kissing my crotch, making as if talking to it, saying, hey mister, you don’t listen to him, come back to see me soon, feel my mouth around you, give me some more sperm, mmmm, delicious. Rising, smiling, kissing me goodbye.

Unless You Just Want A Blowjob

Texting Jenny, hi baby, are you free for half an hour at twelve o’clock? The phone silent for a minute, then beeping. Message from Jenny, hi baby, I’m on a period, sorry, unless you just want a blowjob, come round, you promised you’d do that anyway when you didn’t cum last time so I could finish you off.

Enticing, this image of Jenny in clothes ministering to my male needs. Loving her, for her sexual straightforwardness and warmth. Nevertheless, declining the offer, what I love about her even more than blowjobs is the feel of her nakedness and her tastes and skin. Texting her, let’s meet up when your period’s over, tomorrow?, day after?. The phone beeping again, her response. Tomorrow should be fine.

And now today, ten minutes early, strolling around her streets. Taking a quick detour into a supermarket, buying a bunch of flowers for a fiver. Waiting at her door for her to come down to collect me. Her face peeping around it, breaking into a smile, giving me a hug, kissing me on the lips. Her body offering itself through a white teeshirt, thrusting slightly into me.

Proffering the flowers. Jenny taking them in half surprise, giving me an extra hug. Leading me up the stairs. Chatting like an old friend, the weather, the birdsong, other pleasures of a London spring. Getting into her room, Jenny plonking the flowers in an old carafe, filling it with water. Her smiles, those of a woman valued for being the person she is, treated like a fellow human, her profession a secondary issue.

Peeling off the teeshirt, her sole item of clothing. Waiting for me on the bed whilst I undress. Pulling my naked body toward her, pushing me on my back, taking my cock immediately in her mouth, licking it into hardness. Clambering over my face for me to lick her, her pussy’s clean smells overlaid slightly with the metallic aftermath of yesterday’s period. Her sphincter soft and stretched and smooth against my stroking fingers.

My body tautening, Jenny’s tongue on my cock guiding its energies. Spellbound with her colorations and curvatures and smells. Suddenly, that silent final inevitability. The spasm of release. Jenny’s tongue flicking my tip, playing with the jet of sperm, imbibing. My body’s stiffness departing, a heavenly peace descending.

Jenny unwinding her body, coming to lie next to me, hugging. Stroking my hair back, kissing my forehead, hey baby that’s good, I love it when you cum like that.

Everything Utterly Different

A business deadline looming and a lot of work to do, a decade ago it would have taken weeks and required endless travel, today it’s just a question of staying organized, using the internet. Comments on a document here, an email there, a spreadsheet here, and it all comes together.

Reaching a breakpoint, making a cup of tea, spring sunshine filling the kitchen. Checking my secret email account, seeing one from Carol.

Hi R, just to say thanks for a fun morning, thought I’d try the email address you gave me, I’ve just set up a secret one for myself, good idea, protects against curious eyes and ears, much better than a cellphone. Also, just wanted to let you know, forgot to mention it, I was too engrossed in our conversation, I’m actually away in Mexico for ten days or so, helping out with an archeological dig, maybe it’d be okay to contact you when I get back. Please reply – I want to be sure my new email address is working. Carol xxx.

Emailing her, hi Carol, got your email, have a great time in Mexico, sounds exciting, yes, email me when you get back, R xxx.

Sipping my tea, enjoying the kitchen’s sunshine warmth. Pondering the joys of technology. Carol will probably pick up my email somewhere in Mexico. Jane will email some time, let me know how things are going in Australia. Different secret worlds, each in its separate domain, kept effortlessly separate. A few years ago, a world of landline phones, no emails, no internet, and the secret worlds would have collided. Today, everything utterly different.

Firing up the escort website, just for the devil of it. The screen filling with profiles and photos, vistas of blowjobs and anal ecstasy and pussy delights. A rumbustious and unashamed purveyance of pleasure. Proved in my own experience to be highly effective in delivery. A few years ago, no such thing existed, if you wanted any of this you’d have to wade first through streetcorner sleaze and predatory pimps.

Switching to a porn website, again, just for the devil of it. Surveying the thousands of new videos, thinking of clicking one, not in the mood, maybe later.

Thinking, if all this didn’t exist, the pressures would just build and build, eventually explode, like my first marriage. Interesting, maybe I’d still be with her if I could have done what I can do now. I wonder how many marriages all this technology is saving today.

It’s The Knowledge Not The Fact

Walking back with Carol, chatting inconsequentially. Stopping for a farewell coffee. London traffic outside the window proceeding with customary combination of smoothness and vexation. The blast of steam in coffee machines percussing. Friends meeting, hugging, chatting. Everyday noise and activity asserting.

An unspoken understanding not to talk about our parkbench moment, or not yet. Touching like that, it happened, it was wonderful, it might or might not happen again, talk about it now and it becomes too big a deal, forces us into some sort of lover’s groove. Maybe some other time, but not now.

Leaning toward her, saying, there’s still that question about your husband and my wife, what they’d think if they saw us here, I’m not trying to duck it, in fact I think it’s crucial, if you want I’ll give you the long answer. Carol smiling, nodding, okay, go on.

It would probably do damage, if they knew. So that gives us a choice. We can tell them, and damage them, and unleash malign forces with power to wreck. Or we can not tell them, keep things separate, you and me a separate domain, nothing to do with them. Or of course we could decide to keep life simple, renounce one another.

Carol looking at me, interjecting, yes, and that would mean that we’d know that we’d been pure and true and we’d have that consolation for a life of soul-sapping blandness.

Yes, exactly, good word, bland, that's exactly it, so, Carol, just telling you how I’m dealing with it, not suggesting that it’s necessarily the right thing for you, my position is, I’m free to do whatever I like, just as long as I don’t do damage. And it’s the knowledge, not the fact, that does the damage.

So, as you ask, that’s where I’m at. Me, I don’t want my life to be in permanent marital lockstep. And I don’t want to play all change partners, either, you land up in the same place. And I don’t want a bachelor existence, I’ve tried.

So, that’s it, the long answer. Smiling at her. And where it leaves me is, if you ever want to have coffee with me, then that’s a great life-enhancing thing and I’m going to do it, and I’m going to avoid any incontinent leakage of the information to my wife.

Carol leaning forward, taking my hand in both hers, smiling, thanks R, it’s good you’ve arrived at something so clear, it’s more for me to think about, figure out whether what’s right for you is right for me.

Soft Shiver

Pondering Carol’s question, what would her husband or my wife think, figuring out a response.

The tranquil scene disrupted, a young spaniel chasing a squirrel with wild enthusiasm, swerving to avoid our park bench, continuing its harebrained pursuit. The squirrel hurtling up a tree, the spaniel forgetting its canine limitations, trying to follow it, falling back, trying again, giving up cheerfully, trotting back to its owner. Impossible not to smile at the spring exuberance.

The little scene itself providing some sort of answer for Carol, forget about what might be going on in other people’s heads, instead, relish the thrill of being alive, like the spaniel. Still, the spaniel has an advantage, it’s unburdened by the clanking machinery of a human brain.

Carol looking at me, still smiling at the spaniel’s antics, speaking, well, that was what I wanted to ask you, R, now I’m here the answer seems obvious, who cares what they think, we’re just two people sitting on a park bench enjoying the view.

These sentiments corresponding so exactly with my own as to precipitate the impulse to hug her, chatter in enthusiastic agreement. But staying quiet. She’s like a small animal from a dark cave tiptoeing into the sunshine, feeling the warmth, relaxing, if I get noisy now it’ll send her scuttling back inside.

Still, impossible not to respond at all, I’m not trying to be her therapist, the trick is, keep it cool. Looking at her steadily in the eyes, hey Carol, I have an idea, I’ll tell you how I look at it, what works for me, then you can decide if it works for you. That okay? Carol looking at me intently, okay.

Stretching out my hand, reaching for hers. She offering it, trusting. Turning her palm upwards, stroking it. Looking down, stroking her wrist, the inside of her forearm, the hollows inside her elbow. A soft shiver running up her arm’s length. Her face flushing faintly,

Smiling at her, giving back her arm, well, Carol, that tells me the important thing I need to know, namely, whoever it is that’s responsible for looking after your physical needs, he’s not doing a very good job. Settling back into the park bench, looking for the spaniel again, watching it chasing another squirrel. My point made, now withdraw, give her some space.

Carol looking at me, oh God, R, is it that obvious, I didn’t realize I was broadcasting it, in fact, I’m not sure I was even aware of it. Sweeping her hair back, laughing, well, you’re going to have to let me think about that, wow, you touching my arm like that, I’m still tingling, I think I need some time to settle down.