Options, Options

An idle hour, sitting at my computer, waiting for a project go-ahead, too intent on the decision to get involved in anything else.

Distractedly looking for ways to pass the time. Opening the escort website. Fifteen fresh faces within ten miles, all eager to do my bidding, all at a charge rate far less than mine. Reading through the profiles, discarding the formulaic, picking out some interesting ones, adding them to my Hot List.

Opening the Hot List, forty four escorts, my harem. Checking their date last logged in, removing from the list those with no activity for two weeks, means they’ve moved on.

Picking out the ones I’d ring now if I wanted to visit one. Three standing out enticingly. One, two minutes from Swiss Cottage, student, English, the girl-next-door that you’ve always fancied, always liked sex, might as well earn money from it, will make men of any age pant with passion, ethnicity not a problem. Her photos showing a cheeky smile, raven hair, noserings.

The second, tall, slim, redhaired, snippets of her profile culled from others'. My English isn’t good yet, a friend is helping me write this, the language of sex is universal and I’m fluent. The best blowjob in East London, I love the taste of cum. Bethnal Green underground in easy walking distance. Sixty pounds for half an hour or a hundred if you want my friend to join in, have both of us drive you insane in ecstasy.

The third, curvy, hourglass shape, big breasts, a familiar profile on my Hot List, something about the smile in the photo urging me to visit her. A woman of flesh and comfort, to be held and comforted by, somehow looking expert in the business of easing the tension in a man’s body, cheerful and matter-of-fact in matters sexual. Kensington High Street but a few steps away.

The thought of any of the three, salivating. Or any of the other thirty-eight, really. But a sudden thought occurring, maybe from Jane’s emails, I should check how the sex-party scene is going, Opening my preferred website. Parties on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday. Wednesdays and Saturdays being for some reason cheaper.

Three woman attending each party, their photos shown against each date. Wednesday’s, particularly attractive, if a little brassy. Two parties, one in the afternoon, one in the evening. Important note to partygoers, you are paying for the drinks and snacks, anything that goes on between you and a woman is nothing to do with the organizers, but be warned, we’ve been told that a lot does go on, and the women all have very high sex-drives.

Thinking, Wednesday afternoon, I could make that. I wonder whether to go, or see one of those three escorts. Or see Jenny. Options, options. Oh how fine to be a man in sizzling London Town.

Emotional Container

Suddenly for no particular reason feeling in the mood to email Jane.

Hi baby, how is your new life going? You’ve always been such a wonderful sexual person, it never felt right that you were imprisoned in some suburban marriage, it must be so much more exciting now.

I was thinking about what you were saying, you might as well charge for going to a sex-party, well, speaking as a man, I agree.

Strange, but the knowledge that a woman is available, that her consent has already been given, somehow it makes her slightly pitiable, as if there’s something lacking in her life, and it’s the man that’s being sexually generous. Just as in the school playground, easy availability cheapens.

Whereas if it’s a business, then that’s different. The starting point if you have to pay is that the woman knows she’s desirable, she’s not begging. The fact of the money is quickly forgotten, particularly if it’s handled right, normally before clothes come off. It just becomes part of the sexual game, like undressing or stroking or kissing.

And, baby Jane, this is just one instance of the general sexual rule, namely, sex has to be held within some sort of emotional container, if you try to do without, the sex somehow swamps everything, everybody then has to distance themselves. That’s why discovering marital infidelity is so hard to handle, it breaches the emotional container of marriage.

The way I think is that payment creates a commercial transaction, and that’s the container. Like a little walled garden of paradise, you pay your entry fee, stay for an hour or two, wallow in the erotic intoxication, leave, that’s it.

If you can manage it, baby, and it suits you, then it sure is wonderful. After sex with Jenny, the feeling I always have is gratitude, even though I’ve paid, gratitude for her generosity. That’s what I’m sure all your men will feel, you always were such a sexually generous woman. So, as you can probably tell, I’m hoping you go for it and make it work and enjoy it.

Let me know how it goes, baby Jane. Rxxx.

Somehow Too Juvenile

At my supermarket checkout, a new woman, nothing particularly remarkable, fair skin, brown hair, elegant in movement, ready smile. My thoughts directed less to her than to packing up my purchases, paying, leaving.

Two days later, more shopping to do. Waiting in the queue. Seeing the woman in the adjacent checkout. My heart lurching slightly, cogs suddenly meshing into gear. Her quiet charm, soft smile, elegance, how could I not have registered more fully before?

Our eyes meeting, brief smiles, recognition maybe, she must remember me from the other time, or maybe it’s just automatic pleasantness.

Now, a new passing interest to brighten up my life, a long-term low-key seduction campaign on the woman at the supermarket. The next time, choosing her lane carefully, saying hello, chatting, how long have you been working here?, do you have far to travel?, it’s windy outside, suchlike.

Shopping no longer a chore. Sometimes she’s not there. That’s fine, I’m not there all the time either. Then sometimes she is. A surge of happiness, the joy of a beautiful woman’s presence.

Tiny bits of her life emerging. She’s a student, studying mathematics, just started her first year, just finished school. Realizing with a shock how young she is, probably explains it, she makes me feel like a first-year student myself, falling in love years ago with a woman like her, out of my depth, out of my league.

Thinking about her on my way home, wondering what she’ll do. Maybe pair up with one of her contemporaries, yet students seem somehow too juvenile for her. Perhaps that’s just me projecting my own desires, kidding myself, what she needs is an older man, one such being conveniently to hand, namely me.

And it’s true, some younger women are attracted to older men. Question is, why? Answer, the female search for security, an evolutionary imperative. The older man, attractive because of imagined wealth.

Getting home, unpacking. The girl still on my mind. But the thought of her actual presence now ambiguous. Having her, an exciting thought. Providing for her, who needs the burden? Better to enjoy her for what she is, a pleasant daily distraction.

This morning, half-awake, her body curving into mine, her eyes closed, her hair fragrant, the smell of her sex still on my fingers. Slowly with wakefulness disappearing. The fantasy so fantastic as to make actuality inconsequential.

Offers of Marriage

Today, my hour with Jenny, treasured beacon in my life, its fortnightly flash illuminating everything around. Signals transmitted and received, starting with text messages. Hi Jenny, are you free midday? Sure baby, just text me again when you arrive, I’ll open the door.

Going into her room. Disrobing. Her warm body against mine, skin against skin, the healing process beginning. Touching, licking, stroking, stretching, inserting, murmuring, smiling.

Afterwards, getting dressed, chatting. Telling her, I hope all your clients care for you as much as I do. The mention of other clients okay now, friends, free to discuss other aspects of each other's life, though not too much. Jenny telling me, yes, actually, they do.

Asking her, are most of them regular clients, or mostly new ones? Oh, mostly regular, some new ones. Telling her, not surprising, I can quite see the reasons, being one myself, I expect they all want to marry you.

Jenny looking at me, smiling. Yes it’s amazing, they have their wives and families, but never a month goes by without at least two offers of marriage, serious ones, they want to take me away, my children too. Also hundreds of offers to take me to on a date somewhere.

Using a tissue to wipe a glazed drip of my juices from her chin. It’s funny, I know I’m attractive, but I’m not beautiful, my legs are a bit heavy, my breasts are small, my nose is big, I'm not that young, but I must have something, the men all come back and want me as a friend, and they all come here desperate and leave smiling.

Me thinking, don’t I know it, baby, it’s your genius.

Jenny continuing, but what they don’t understand is, this is only an hour. If I said yes, I’ll run off with you, make a life, then he’ll expect that all day every day will be like it is once a week or month for an hour. Then it’ll wear thin. Then he’ll start remembering my past life. Then one day he’ll get drunk and start calling me a whore, and maybe start beating me up.

My clothes now on, Jenny still on the bed, naked, and comfortable being naked, a special form of loveliness.

Kissing me. So I just tell them, I’m flattered, darling, but no, strict rules, I’ll do anything but you pay for the time, you can use your hour to buy me coffee somewhere or for me to suck you, but you pay.

Leaving, walking down the street, London’s bright clear weather still shining. Thinking, just as well she said that, I was half going to offer to take her out for a coffee myself, good to be reminded of the realities.

Stupid Not To Charge

An email from Jane waiting in my inbox.

Hi R, great to get your email, hey, the thought of you making out with an escort has reached a deep warm place inside me, she sounds wonderful, what you have with her is what i need with a man. also, thanks for sharing, R, it’s very reassuring having one of your secrets, somehow it makes me feel less exposed for sharing mine with you.

Interesting how at your sex-party the women were paid, that’s what i was thinking at my sex-party, there were a lot of men there who came solo, C told me afterwards that it was actually useful to have more men than women because most of them had their orgasm and then were pretty useless, women can keep going longer.

Anyway, C said that she and A are setting up regular parties and tons of men want to come but not enough women, so they’re going to start charging the men, so it’s only fair that some of the money should go to the women, so if i want to come i’ll get some money. gettin’ paid for bein’ laid, as the song says.

You know what, R, i’m tempted. i was thinking about it when i got your email. your relationship with your girlfriend seems completely unaffected by paying her money, in fact, it seems better because everybody knows where everybody stands and you don’t have the problem of having someone in your life for longer than you want.

Speaking as a woman, anyway, it almost seems that if you go to a free sex-party it tells everyone that you’re desperate, and this is somehow more demeaning than charging a fee. C says that lots of men think this too, they think that you’ve got to be a bit stupid not to charge when you know men will pay.

Actually C was telling me that there are a couple of men who have specifically asked if i’d like to go with them on a date, C says essentially that means a night in a hotel or a dirty weekend, she says i could charge for that too, in fact she occasionally does just that.

C says i should come along to the next sex-party without any obligation, but if i participate i can have the money. or i can turn it away, if it’s not something i want to do. i’ve told her i’ll go along on that basis. now i find i’m looking forward to it.

Actually i’m finding all this very exciting, R, it makes me feel young. email soon. Jxxx.

Warm Companionship

Lying in bed half-awake in the early morning, my wife’s hand reaching over to stroke my shoulder, her touch containing tenderness, different from the semi-detachment of our usual physical contact.

Reaching across my chest, my hand stroking hers in response. A soft warm exchange, affirmative of affection.

But entirely unsexual. For me, the natural path would be to extend the stroke, caress her neck, maybe touch her breasts. Not with particular intent, more an exploration of the moment, reaching for a latency, seeing if it blossoms, fine if it doesn’t, fine if it does.

My wife now turning on her other side. Soon the sound of her regular breathing and gentle sleep.

Remembering, the first time I recognized the fact of her unsexualness, the slight shock, realizing that I’m in a situation that’s foreign to me, that not everybody is the same as me, that this is a cold reality I’m going to have to get used to. A watershed moment. Innocence lost and maturity achieved.

After that, applying mild tests. As now, responding warmly to physical touch but not sexually. Trying to be unforthcoming. Feeling strange, as if becoming cold. Surprised to see my wife responding well, a weight of expectation removed.

So now we have mellow companionship and occasional warm gestures, and exchanges of affection. Probably as much as can be hoped for, there are plenty of people who’d love to have that.

And for sex I have Jenny. Or if I want someone new, a thousand women waiting on a website, ready for me to phone them.

Lying in bed, thinking, this is fine, it’s how I now prefer it. Endless sex with the same woman, even if it never faded, which perforce it does, maybe after seven years, ten if you’re lucky, but even if it didn’t, is that what I’d want? Sounds an impoverished way to spend a lifetime on this rich earth.

The room slowly getting lighter, my thoughts becoming less sleepy. Well, of course, one thing I could do, explain this all to my wife, keep things open and honest. Such a course of action, something I might once have naively done. But my thoughts going back to that moment of maturity, recognizing that other people aren’t the same as me, remembering the corollary, you can’t explain to people who can’t understand.

Better to treasure the warm companionship, share the things we can, shield out the things we can’t.

She Likes Me

An invitation to a wedding in some remote shire, impossible to find an excuse, finally having to go. Taking the train, grumpy all the way. Coming up, hours of faux celebration, high voices, tedious ritual, too much alcohol.

Checking into the hotel, trying to be cheerful. Ersatz atmosphere of country club, golf courses and swimming pools and archery and hot air balloons. Weekdays for company training courses, weekends for weddings.

Trying again to be cheerful. Changing clothes, coming downstairs, arranging for a taxi to the church. A woman’s voice beside me, oh, are you going to the wedding too, could we share the fare? Sure, it’ll be a pleasure.

Only a minute ago trying to put a smile on my face, now trying to take it off, or at least take some wattage out of it.

Climbing into the taxi after her, admiring her calves, glancing again at her face, feeling a flash of recognition, she’s a television newsreader. Her clear voice, her radiance, her presence.

Throughout the afternoon, making occasional contact, exchanging smiles. The feeling growing, she likes me. Her sudden hand around my sleeve, come on, let’s dance, shake it up a bit. Dancing together, smiling. Her moves more fluent and expert than mine, somehow making me feel good rather than awkward.

Celebrations ending, time to leave. Pause. She looking at me, aren’t you going to invite me for a drink? Sure, what would you like? Champagne, ask them to bring it to your room, I’ll see you there, what number are you? Telling her. Her lips briefly on mine, a brushing kiss and a squeeze on my arm, okay, see you in five minutes.

The sudden sound of a dog barking, waking, the room familiar, my wife beside me, the hotel dissolving in dream’s disintegration. Lying on my back, glowing in the aftermath. The lovely wedding guest’s presence and perfume still half real. The sense of her body and its imminent nakedness still palpable.

But gradually feeling relieved, she was too strong, she’d invade my brain. If she wanted me around, I’d be enslaved. More likely, probably because of that, she’d move quickly on, then I’d be distraught. Altogether too hot to handle.

Pondering, that television newsreader must have got into my head more than I realized, in fact, it was more a film than a dream, an adolescent fantasy, maybe adolescence never really goes away.

Shared Sexual Secrets

Waking up early, thoughts drifting to Jane’s last email, asking me to share sexual secrets, wondering whether to do so. My instincts and philosophy running counter. Best to keep lovers in their separate chambers, break down the separating walls and contagion spreads like a disease.

Yet also thinking, it’s so exciting when she shares, I owe her, I know she won’t blab, and besides, revelation of one new sexual confidence even if it occurs won’t be worse than revelation of confidences already exchanged.

Getting up, the household still asleep on a cold weekend morning, hardly light yet. Coffee and toast and solitude. Sitting down, emailing her.

Hi baby Jane, I’m still semi-erect the whole time at the thought of you sucking an unknown stranger through a curtain, I envy him, I can still remember how good you were at doing that.

Well you asked for a sexual secret of mine and here’s one, a big one for me, don’t tell anyone. I’m in the same situation as you, able to do without sex for a while but not forever. So I too found myself at a sex party, but one where the men had to pay, a hundred pounds I think it was, seven or so men with three women, quite a good deal.

Right toward the end I finally got to be with the third girl, Jenny, less vulgar than the other two, more retiring, and the thing happened with her that once happened with you and me, it suddenly felt as if our bodies spoke to each other with their own mysterious language, a sort of magic. Her skin and shapes and movement and the way she curled into me, cure to a fever, calm and warm and peace gently descending. Sexual but beyond mere titillation.

So Jane I got her details and now see her quite often, about once every two weeks or a month, I guess. I pay her eighty pounds for an hour of her time, that’s how she earns a living, she sees a lot of men, but I don’t care. When she’s with me she takes the tenseness from my body and mind, the other men are irrelevant. I’m sure she loves me in her way, and I sure love her in mine.

Sometimes she’s away and I have to wait, it’s normally because she’s visiting her children in Hungary. A tough situation for a mother trying to get by, I don’t think there’s much money back home.

So there we are Jane, a sexual secret from me. Down with sexual asphyxiation, roll on sexual adventure. Rxxx.

Genuine Nymphomaniac

Three men and a woman sitting around a table having lunch, strong French sun shining through open patio doors, wine bottles and glasses and a meal's detritus all around.

One of the men talking, okay, I’ll do as you asked, explain about my girlfriend right here in front of her, she’s a genuine nymphomaniac, isn’t that right cherie. The woman slightly bashful, nodding, reaching for his hand, clasping it.

The man continuing, like I told you, it sounds good and it is for a while but I can’t satisfy her, ten minutes after sex she needs it again, and then again, so eventually I said I’d bring some friends to help.

The other two men only peripherally in shot, shuffling, embarrassed. The first man continuing, also, I’ve set up a video camera, it’s running now, I want to film the action, my girlfriend wants to watch it afterwards. Silence. Then, okay, let’s stop talking and get started.

The two visitors making their way to a sitting room hesitantly, the woman leading them on. The videocamera unsteadily following. One man kissing her fully on the mouth. Her body undergoing an instantaneous transformation, folding into him, surrendering, his touch sufficient to conquer her.

The second visitor stroking her thighs, unbuttoning her shorts. Soft groans from her at each new contact with her skin. All clothes removed. Her mouth reaching hungrily for lips or cocks. Her body compliant to every suggestion, bending itself to instruction, orifices yielding to tongue or fingers or cock’s penetration. The videocamera changing angles, recording fresh intimacies, new facial responses.

One of the guests walking away to fetch a drink. The other settling into steady sexual grinding. The woman with unbelievable quickness stiffening, squirming, quivering, face in a rictus, voice in a soft scream. Pulling suddenly away from the penetration, turning, hugging the man’s torso. Her boyfriend making a joke. Everyone laughing, the woman’s face lighting up.

The other guest returning, sitting on a sofa. The woman going to his side, stroking his cock, climbing astride him, guiding him into her. Her body quickly stiffening again, the same pattern, a wrenching orgasm.

Watching on my computer, one of millions of free videos. Her orgasms far different from standard pornstar simulation. Erotic in many ways, utterly authentic, but something strange, yes, that’s it, she’s a slave to this, captured by her own body.

Thinking, well we’re all slaves to our bodies, we all do what we can.

Cross My Heart And Hope To Die

Drawn onto my bicycle by London’s unseasonably hot weather, pounding out laps round Regent’s Park, thinking about Jane and her sex-party, thinking I must email her, but not sure what to say, anything would seem a bit tame compared to her escapades.

Unless of course I tell her about Jenny and the supermodel and all the other secret women in my life. I’ll have to think further about that.

Getting home, pink-faced from the heat. Showering, sitting at my computer, still wondering what to say to Jane, then seeing my inbox, another email from her.

Hey, R, i know i’m doing a lot of emailing, but there’s a lot on my mind and you’re the only one i trust, if i tell a local friend what i’ve been doing then it won’t be five minutes and everyone will know and i’ll be renowned as the harlot. i could talk to A and his new wife, i finally found out her name, it’s C, but i don’t want them to get any closer to my inner thoughts, not just yet.

So R, that means that you’re my priest and therapist and counselor, no change from school and university days i guess. in fact, let’s pick it up from those days, i’ll tell you my secret stuff and hopefully you’ll tell me yours, that would be really great, come on R, tell me one of your sexual secrets, cross my heart and hope to die if anyone else ever finds out, i’ve never shared our confidences with a single soul in the past and won’t in future.

You know what, R, now i think about it, having a secret of yours would make me feel like i’m not the only one with a wild side, here i’m surrounded by suburbia and respectability, it’s driving me crazy, and entering this new sex-party demi-monde makes me feel schizoid, i need to live with both parts of me, you help me do that, secrets of yours would help me more.

Meanwhile even without that, R, i hope you don’t mind if i still use you as confidant, i need to get it out of my head. you see the thing is, R, i can’t stop thinking about that sex-party and the man’s dick in my mouth and how good it felt, A and C are going to get in contact again and when they do i’m pretty sure i’ll tell them that i’m game for more of the same.

There we are, i’ve made my confession, not only was i a harlot that one time at the sex-party but i’m resolved to be a harlot again, no past tense about it, it’s my present state and future intention. and i feel like it’s a metamorphosis, i’m becoming a different person. and it’s so liberating.

Anyway, R, email soon. your sweetheart Jxxx.