The Zing Still Zinging

Meeting up with some friends in a pub, going on with them to a party in Hampstead. Arriving, being greeted at the door, our friends making introductions. The hostess, Laura, reaching across with casual grace to kiss my cheek. Moving on, chatting with other guests.

A brief pressure on my arm. Turning around, Laura standing there smiling at me, hi, just thought it would be nice to talk, all these people are old friends, it’ll be good to chat with someone new. Refined diction, education worn lightly. Before long, common interests established, poetry, philosophy, gym workouts. Amidst the smiles, a soft electric zing.

Later, leaving. Laura kissing me on both cheeks, giving my arm a squeeze. Our friends driving us home. The zing still zinging.

In the back of the car, getting sleepy. The driver, my friend’s wife, chattering away, nice party wasn’t it, Laura was looking good, she’s actually having a tough time, she’s thought for ages her husband’s a bit bisexual, now he’s come out, actually he's more homosexual than bisexual, explains why their sex life is nonexistent.

This electrifying piece of information causing me to have difficulty not responding, don’t want to look too interested. The pieces clicking into place. Thinking back to Laura, she exuded sexual need, the skin even on her hands giving off a static, subtle but undeniable. Or so it seems in retrospect.

My wife and my friend’s wife chatting. No apparent awareness of my interest, they probably think I’m asleep. Maybe I am, it’s late. Dreaming about Laura, wishing I could touch her skin some more, help it become alive again.

Two days passing, Laura’s afterimage still in my mind like a glow, but her features fading, her face refusing to be recollected at will, then occasionally forming unbidden with perfect clarity. A telephone going off somewhere in the house, my wife answering. My attention taken with the cooking of dinner. Coming on nicely, one glass of white wine, then I’ll serve.

My wife coming into the kitchen, oh, do you fancy going on a walk round Hampstead Heath tomorrow, those friends we met at that party are all meeting up there, we can maybe walk for an hour, then get a drink, I said we’d go. Sure, darling, that’ll be fun.

Sipping the wine, thinking, wow, how terrific, I was wondering how to contact Laura again.

Latter-Day Sexual Myth

Getting back from Regent’s Park, making coffee, thinking, suddenly in the mood to email Jane.

Hey baby, yes, as we’ve been saying, sexual ambivalence, in other people’s heads and in our own. The other day I was at a dinner party, one of the guests was a historian, he was talking about sex and marriage, how we think differently about them today.

Apparently passionate love within marriage is a fairly recent notion, until a couple of hundred years ago there was no reference to it in any historical record. Plenty of passionate love, just not on the marital bed.

Today, he says, marriage is supposed to contain a permanent sexual buzz, everyone thinks this is sanctified in ancient tradition, but they’re just wrong, it’s a latter-day sexual myth.

If you look at actual references to passionate love, until a few generations ago it was always clear that passion only comes outside marriage, and obviously so, marriage is permanent, passion is inherently short-lived. Passion only has duration if it’s frustrated, not if it’s fulfilled.

In which case, he points out, marriage is basically desirable as an organizing principle for the conduct of human affairs, especially inheritance. But you handle your passion elsewhere.

Then for some reason for the last eight or so generations that’s no longer how people think. So now marriage is supposed include passion, something it can’t possibly do. No wonder break-ups happen more.

Hey darling Jane, that thought makes all the ambivalence easier to deal with. The madness lies not in your head or mine, but in dimwitted ideas about permanent faithful passionate love, ideas accepted as incontrovertible truth. But they’re falsehoods.

So Jane, what you’re doing with your parties and me with my sweet little escort, those things aren’t weird or wrong, they’re normal. A fine thing to have in your head next time you’re providing all those blowjob services and other things that you do, which, incidentally, give me a big turn-on lying in bed at night thinking about.

Keep going baby, don’t forget you still have to tell me about that particularly naughty thing that you did. Rxxx

I Was An Old Man Once

And suddenly, beautiful winter weather, clear, bright, not even cold. The leafless trees letting in oceans of light. Too good a day to waste indoors. And now here I am on my bicycle pounding laps round Regents Park.

Pedals moving rhythmically beneath, cleansing the brain above. Pondering, a couple of years ago, doing this, I might have been thinking of women I have known, ancient conquests, past loves. Interesting, I hardly give them a thought now.

The watershed moment, finally getting the courage to visit an escort. Thinking back, my first one, I was lucky, she was beautiful, she had the skills to see exactly the detail of my need, and the generosity to do the things to meet it. Since her, not every escort has been so good. But I knew how it could be, how it needn’t be seedy, how it can be valid love. Love for half an hour maybe, but still love.

Behind me on the bicycle, three riders in a line at racing pace. Swishing past. Their bodies motionless, their legs spinning. A beautiful sight.

And now I’ve got Jenny. Until she goes, probably back to her children in Hungary, or to seek her fortune in new lands. And then I’ll have to find someone new. The search as interesting as the discovery. All those lovely women coming to London, escaping poverty or persecution, or seeking adventure, making money as best they can, all waiting for me.

Riding, thinking. They’re welcome to my money, it isn’t much. Less than the restaurant bill racked up in the seduction of a girlfriend, and more certain of success. Less than the bill for an hour with a therapist, the thing you’ll need sooner or later if you don’t sort your sexual needs out.

Another rider passing, this time less expertly. Pulling into his slipstream, his head turning, acknowledgements exchanged, we’re an impromptu team. Before long, taking turns in the front.

Settling into the new rhythm, thinking. Damn, life can be good. I was an old man once, living on memories, feeling bitter. Now today here I am feeling like a teenager, planning future loves.

Porn Psychology

Twenty minutes medium pace on the rowing machine, sleet pattering the windows of the gym. Only four other people around, mid-morning, a good time to avoid exhibitionist throngs.

In the corner an attractive woman on the stair machine, paying me no attention, my rowing however spruced up in case she does. Another woman coming in, tights, bare midriff, workout top, pulled-back hair, white plastic water bottle. Standing in front of the mirror, stretching, warming up, looking like a dance teacher.

Moving from my rowing machine to the weights corner. Starting my upper body routine. The women also moving from exercise to exercise. Nobody talking to anybody else except cursorily, tacit mid-morning protocol.

The scene far removed from porno setpiece. If this were porn, the women would be panting, they’d turn away from their workouts, find a place on the floormat, start kissing each other, remove clothes, beg the men to join them, invite multiple serial penetration.

Adding some iron to the bar, thinking. This porn psychology, starting with beautiful women, willing and somehow sex-starved, what does it tell us? Almost nothing about women, really. Other than that porno starlets are happy to play along with male fantasies.

But standard porn relocates the fantasies, abstracts them from the men, introjects them into the women. Their bodies squirm in ecstasy not to please the men but because it’s what they themselves want. Or rather, are desperate for. The men are accessories. The women are brazen, they do the initiating.

More iron on my bar, a satisfying clanking sound. The extra weight plus growing fatigue starting to make things difficult. But pushing through it.

The porn psychology, absolute opposite to what’s happening here, now, in this gym. Both women here are studiedly disengaged from men’s attention or even the possibility of it. If they have wanton carnal needs, they’re disguising it well.

And yet, their disguises not complete. Quite a lot of thought and time invested in their look, clothes, hair, trainers. So not completely averse to admiring glances. But no more than that. Proposition one, and they’d look at you like you’re some sort of reptile.

Maybe that’s it. The normal male experience, no way in. Porn fantasy, gates wide open, always, with no effort. No wonder males like porn.

Bodies Intertwined

Three couples in masks sitting on sofas in a lounge, chatting. One of the woman addressing the camera, slightly unsure of her words, explaining, we got talking about swinging, um, decided to give it a go, thought we’d take a video, um, maybe put it on the internet.

Um, we got some masks, white ones for me and my husband, matching ones for the other couples, so you’ll be able to see whether we’re doing it with our own partners or someone else.

The woman turning to her husband, kissing him. The couple in yellow masks doing the same. A woman in the red mask sitting alone, her husband presumably working the camera.

The kissing couples stopping, separating, turning to another partner, reaching out with tentative touch. The camera following the woman in the red mask, hand stroking her new man’s cheek, chest, crotch. Her fingers finding his cock through his trousers, grasping it, gauging it, working it into hardness. His hand reaching down her blouse, finding a nipple. Two bodies exploring each other for the first time.

The camera panning out. Two couples in gradual awkward process of undress. An invisible line crossed, sudden joint decision for each to take off their own clothing, far more efficient. Soon, bodies intertwined. One woman lying back, naked except for stockings, knees drawn up, new man licking her clitoris. The other woman’s tongue teasing her new man’s cock.

The camera changing hands. One man entering his wife from behind, doggy style, leaning round, studying her mouth around a new man’s cock. The wife more interested in the cock in her mouth than her husband inside her from behind.

Positions changing, the couples moving away from initial moves, working through deeper fantasies. One man lying on the floor, a woman sitting on his face, another on his cock, both women themselves sucking cocks, the third woman left to operate the camera.

Her camerawork itself revealing of her interests, dwelling on her husband, his tongue working another woman’s clitoris, panning down his body, moving round, showing from behind a woman’s body grinding on his cock.

The camera suddenly shifting, A man close to orgasm, groaning, His cock in a new woman’s mouth, his fingers working it. The scene becoming stiller, all participants observing. Then the climax. The observers whooping and cheering. The new woman turning to the camera, opening her mouth, showing the evidence, white fluid on her tongue. Swallowing. Smiling.

The group on my screen breaking up for refreshment, chatting. The video ending.

Jolt of Electricity

This weekend, my turn to look after my daughter. Walking back from school, chatting. From her, a regular supply of questions. What do I think of girls who have their noses pierced? What time to you think it’s reasonable for young people to stay out at night? What do you think of all-girl schools?

Each of my responses eliciting from her a moment’s pause, as if holding them up to the light, checking how they compare with what she and her friends see as cool. My ideas on how late to stay out, immediately dismissed, it’s just a generation thing, daddy. Maybe that’s because I’m from a different generation, sweetheart, just happens to be the generation making the rules about how late to stay out.

All the time, trying to find that father-daughter balance, not too close, not too apart. Accepting her assessment of me as an out-of-touch old man.

Saturday afternoon, her friends visiting. The lounge appropriated, a regular stream of young girls coming in, going out. An older sister of one leaving them to their childish chitchat, walking down the corridor, coming into the kitchen to get a drink. She and I almost bumping into each other. Our eyes crossing. A tiny jolt of electricity. Recognition by me of precocity in her. From her, a holding of my eyes for slightly too long.

Helping her get the drink, making some coffee for myself. She choosing to stay, chatting. Cutoff jeans, legs’ pink skin, slight freckles. Sleeveless top, glimpses of brassiere straps and cleavage and firm small breasts. A sexual vibrancy ringing from her, setting off answering vibrancy in me.

Impossible to do anything about it. Probably not of legal age, and regardless, she needs to develop her protective shell. Even were she willing, it would be a violation, her life will be richer sans contact with a grizzled veteran such as me. Not to mention my daughter, her boundary lines razed, her innocence also entangled.

Finishing the coffee, smiling at the older sister, walking off toward another room, okay then, see you later, have fun.

Don’t Stop, Don’t Stop

Jenny’s outside door swinging open a few inches, her face appearing round the edge, finger on lips, whispering, sshhh, the landlord’s around, quick, get upstairs. Both tiptoeing, scampering into her room, closing her door.

Both of us smiling, schoolkids on an adventure. Our voices still hushed. Catching up with how things’ve been since last time. Her body in a short clinging black shift, nothing or not much underneath. My hands busy untying my shoes, kicking them off, removing my clothes.

The last of my clothes now off, Jenny lifting her shift over her head, using her naked body to push me onto the bed. Her soft smooth skin against mine like a salve. Holding each other close, lovers long parted, now together again. Jenny sighing in likewise pleasure.

After a while, pushing me away, smiling, hey mister, I need to check up on how things’re going with my buddy down there, you just lie back. Sliding down, kissing my cock, hey there buddy boy, have you been missing your Jenny, show me how hard you can get. Taking it in her mouth, rearranging herself into comfort for a long sucking session.

Me on my back, tingling. Pondering our bodies’ mutual pull, a miraculous force, unheedful of shyness or intentions or artifice or thought, merely existing and asserting. My hardness in her mouth, absorbing her physic, making me drowsy as with a narcotic.

Jenny suddenly stopping, crawling to my face, whispering, hey, I want you inside me. Brooking no denial. Reaching for a condom, putting it on me, mounting, guiding me inside. Her face softening, eyes closing, a slight whimper. Grinding her hips, driving me deeper, finding some soft fleshy spot within, rubbing it on my tip.

Opening her eyes, pulling my shoulder, rolling me over on top of her. Our bodies sliding together away from the bed’s edges. My cock deep inside her, hips thrusting slowly. Her breathing shallow. My hand cupping her buttock, finding her sphincter, stroking it, wetting my finger with her juices, pushing it inside, her voice in my ear, yes honey, that’s fantastic, you’re going to make me cum.

My finger inside her feeling through her flesh the movement of my cock, both moving in reciprocal sexual thrust. Her body surrendered utterly to mine. Her breath on my cheek in short gasps. Time stopping. Pulling gently away, seeing if she needs to adjust position, her arm gripping me like steel, no, keep going, don’t stop, don’t stop, keep going.

Her body suddenly still. No sound, just the stillness. Our skins wet with exertion. Pulling apart, smiling, lying side by side, my fingers stroking her hair, my lips kissing her forehead.