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.

Extreme Sexiness

Strolling through the Kentish Town throng, sunshine bright on the pavement, crowds in loud voice as if in medieval feast day. My mind still filled with the supermodel’s smile, my body still tingling from her skills. Feeling lucky to be alive and to be here today in Kentish Town, free to do the things I want to do.

Thinking, other men, how many of them have had an hour with a supermodel? Not many. How many would like to? In fact, how many gape at magazines, ogling the pictured women, dreaming of a world where they could have one of them? Most of them, probably. And here I am today, eighty pounds spent, same as the cost of dinner for two, probably less, and just done what for them is a hopeless dream.

Pondering, some men may achieve their dream, bed a supermodel, get married, celebrity wedding photographs in glossy magazines, years later, regretting the day they met, turns out all she wanted was his money. And now here I am, the fruits tasted, nay, guzzled, and I walk away free.

Remembering the feel of her skin, the curve of her buttocks, the smoothness of her pussy, the gently separating lips. Gently probing with my finger, feeling an increase in moisture, exciting and unusual sensation with an escort, usually they use lubricants. A woman’s natural juices, nothing more sensual, the smooth silken texture not capable of being reproduced in bottles.

On impulse, smelling my finger. Yes, how exciting, it’s still there, that sex smell, deep, earthy, sanguinary, lucky I didn’t wash my hands afterwards. The smell taking my mind straight back to her bedroom, her mouth round my cock, her legs spread for my fingers’ exploration.

Stopping in at a cafe, ordering a coffee, sitting down by the window, soaking in the scene. Occasionally, a surreptitious sniff at my finger, the world filling again with the supermodel’s essence, her extreme sexiness, the generosity of her sexual giving.

Pondering, not long ago I would have had all sorts of moral queasiness about being with someone like her, now it feels like an absolute affirmation of life and living.

Or Would You Prefer Another Girl?

Waking up this morning, loins jittery again, familiar sensation. Time to see Jenny.

Ringing her number, no answer. Probably too early to be with another client, maybe she’s with her children in Hungary. Searching the escort website, scanning, feeling slightly unfaithful to Jenny, ridiculous when she’ll have been with dozens.

Selecting one, ringing her number, arranging a time. Making my way along the thronging streets of seedy Kentish Town, raucous in late summer sunlight. Thinking, this is a mistake, I should cancel and wait for Jenny, this new escort won’t have the same skills. But persisting, the thrilling thought of new flesh drawing me forward.

Ringing her, hi, I’m downstairs. The door opening. A pretty face appearing. About four inches taller than me, supermodel proportions. Welcoming me in, smiling. Do you want me or would you prefer another girl? Oh, you, please.

Showing me into a kitchen, asking me to wait. Disappearing, presumably to tidy up a room. Other escorts coming in and out, grabbing water, answering phones, searching for things. Most of them very attractive, none of them beautiful like mine.

The supermodel returning, taking me to the room, taking the money, eighty pounds for an hour, stashing it elsewhere, returning. Chatting, smiling, removing our clothes. Leading me to the bed, lying me back, kissing my body, stroking my cock, taking it in her mouth. Occasionally forcing it deep, beyond the gullet’s usual restriction, a thrilling and different sensation.

Ten minutes of blowjob and my supermodel seemingly happy to go on forever. My fingers gently probing her pussy and anus, her body kneeling and spreading to allow access. Saying to her, stop awhile baby, I’ll cum too soon, I want to make it last. Her pretty face smiling, complying.

Chatting. Snippets of a life emerging. From the Czech Republic, studying, taking a gap year, six months work then six months travel, you can make more escorting than waitressing and it’s more fun if the man’s clean. Then one day it stops and she walks away and forgets it ever happened. A radiant innocent student smile on her face.

After a while asking her, hey baby, can you carry on as before, let me finish in your mouth. Sure. Her face searching out my cock again, taking it in expertly. My whole body swallowed in ecstasy. Timeless moments ticking by. The world gathering force, becoming still, my loins issuing in a twanging spasm. Her mouth and its pretty student face taking me deeper for the climax.

Relaxing for a minute, bodies together, holding her close. Rising, dressing. Kissing her cheek, thanks baby, you’re fabulous. Walking downstairs back into the noisy sunny street below.

Porn, Reliable Standby

Another day dawning and still out of sorts, Carol in my mind like a virus that won’t shift. Sexual restlessness compounding the malaise.

Turning to porn, reliable standby, mood lightened by its refreshing shallowness. My preferred website reassuringly familiar. Over the last month, a few thousand new porn postings, each with preview photos, all free, just click, settle back, enjoy.

Checking some out. Tons of bimbos with false boobs and choreographed ecstasy. Quickly paging past them, in search of authenticity or imagination.

Finally, finding something. French, often the best porn. A woman collected from a Metro. Smartly dressed. Seemingly excited but not overawed. Friendly chat. The interviewer checking that she knows what’s planned, a session of debauchery, a young stud waiting in the apartment. Her shoulders in a Gallic shrug, sure, as we arranged on the telephone.

In the apartment, the woman sitting on a sofa, facing forward towards the camera, discussing her sexual situation and preferences. Her eyes distracted leftwards, widening, looking back, smiling, continuing to talk. A man entering the scene, naked, standing next to her. Her hand reaching out, stroking his flank, moving to his cock, taking it in her hand, still talking.

The man pressing toward her face. The woman turning, pushing out her tongue to touch his cock. Her eyes looking sideways, seeing herself on a television playback of the scene. Taking the cock deeper in her mouth, still looking at the scene. The man silent and passive, nothing more than a prop, provider of an erection.

The woman standing, removing her clothes. The man turning her round, bending her over, separating her buttocks, spreading her pussy’s lips, licking her clitoris. The woman arching her back down for a wider spread, shoulders low. The camera panning to her face. Her eyes checking the playback, studying it, skin flushed in excitement.

The camera moving back. The man’s hands on her buttocks stretching her sphincter, ramming his tongue deep inside. Her eyes shutting, her mouth slightly gasping. Her hand moving between her legs, stroking her clitoris, rocking her hips.

The scene continuing. Me, watching, hand on cock. The woman opening her eyes, looking at the camera, straight at me. Suddenly, the excitement exploding, tension leaving my body like the spark of static. Quiet for a moment. Then wiping with a tissue, closing down the site, collecting myself, feeling better.

Amateur, Anal, Blowjob, Group

Delving through the porn videos, finding nothing erotic so far.

Contemplating the site’s logistics. Each video advertising itself with a photo, scroll over it and it flashes photos like a carousel, snippets of the action. Enough to get a sense of whether it’s what you might be after. Click on one, try it, get drawn into it or move on.

Nearly all of them, rotation through rote positions. The actors, plastic. Sufficient for po-faced critics denounce the form, a logic that would pick up a book, find it to be pulp fiction, therefore denounce literature. You want to tell them, lighten up dammit, it’s not the dross that matters it’s the good stuff. But it’s the finding of the good stuff that’s difficult.

Forty videos on a page, most recent postings first. Quick arithmetic, three hundred posted every day. And all for free. And all for me.

Down the left, filters to let you find what you want. Amateur, Anal, Blowjob, Group, so on. About fifty categories. I wonder how much they’re used. Me, I prefer not to be prescriptive, I like surfing them all, looking to be surprised.

Flicking through the pages, alighting on one, looks interesting. The photos showing a woman with spectacles, smiling at the camera, slightly shy.

Clicking the video, finding myself being drawn in. That distinctive mental click, a switch turning on, a slight breathlessness, The video showing normal people, the woman different from the usual silicone pornstar masquerading as amateur. Unsure what to do, taking directions from the more experienced among them. Excited by the presence of the camera. Slightly breathless, like me, and prone to giggling.

The woman removing her top, sliding out of jeans. The men doing similar. Clothes discarded in piles, kicked out of the camera’s vision. One man kneeling between her legs, licking her, the woman gasping. The other man taking a second camera, filming from a different angle, turning to film the first camera, turns out it’s being operated by a woman. My screen showing both films edited into a video.

The dynamic developing, all four taking turns filming the others. Their individualities developing through the action, their secret sexual urges enacted. One man unable to hold back, exploding, the woman’s face round his cock widening its eyes, smiling, pulling back, the sperm dribbling on to her cheek. The other couple laughing, clapping. The video ending. Exciting, enticing porn.

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.

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.

Intense Sensory Thrill

The door to the apartment swinging open. Now, milliseconds away, that critical moment, seeing in flesh the woman only glimpsed previously in computer profile. The transition from hopeful imaginings to actual knowledge containing potent capacity either way, to sink the spirits or lift the heart.

Her face appearing round the door. Sunshine filling the room. Half recognizing her, then realizing, she looks just like a student at my college, the one every man wanted to conquer but couldn’t, except, this one’s even prettier.

Leading me to a huge bedroom, tall windows with a view over the gardens. Smiling, but in a professional way, like a receptionist. Taking the money. Waiting for me to get undressed. Patting the bed for me to lie on. Pulling a moist disinfectant tissue from a carton, wiping my cock.

Pulling off her clothes, revealing her body. Its curves and softness and firmness and coloration having an immediate transfixing effect. Peach, a good choice for her name.

Seeing my male response, and taking it as normal. Curling into my body, nipples touching my chest, kissing me. Moving down to my cock, taking it in her mouth. Her actions and motions, those of an expert, smoothly overriding any preferences I might have had or thought I had. In doing so, proven correct, my body reduced to grateful submission to her touch.

Prolonged oral immersion for my cock, sometimes deep, sometimes almost withdrawn for her tongue’s tip to titillate. My head resting raised on a pillow, my eyes surveying the pretty student face engaged in its work.

Stopping, picking up a condom, tearing open the pack, stretching it, putting it on me. Lying on her back, pulling me over her. Holding my cock, using it to stroke herself open. Her casual practicality and her overwhelming feminity and the intense sensory thrill on the tip of my cock setting off an electric charge, spreading throughout my loins like a tingle.

Entering her. A low moan, too soft to be contrived. A truly wondrous fit. The electric charge gathering for lightning strike. My efforts to arrest and postpone, futile. A sudden and total crumbling, a seismic spasm, a volcanic spurt, body and soul voiding into her womanhood.

Clenching her to me. Relaxing, releasing. Exiting her, rolling on to my back next to her. She sitting up gently, getting tissues, removing the condom, wiping me clean. For her, nothing out of the usual.

Getting dressed, giving her a hug, leaving. Checking my phone for the time, noticing, barely twenty minutes gone since I first saw her face.

Walking down the street, body and mind tingling with pleasure and health.

Peachy Bum

Once again, low-grade scratchiness on my skin and that sizzling feeling inside, sure signs of need for a woman’s sexual touch. A big business presentation coming up in the next few days, better sort myself out or I’ll start getting things wrong, miss the nuances, push too hard, start annoying everybody.

My wife for once free of pressure at work, spending time with me, planting in the garden together, playing boardgames in the evening. Smiling and sharing. But the closeness having no sexual possibility. A philosophical point for me to ponder, other people can be utterly different from you, beyond your understanding, and it’s still fine to share a life with them. For me, sex lies elsewhere.

Tempting to email Jane, I need to respond to her, reach out across the seas, but I can’t arrange my thoughts properly, can’t think of anything to say. I really must sort out myself out.

No text yet from Carol inviting me for coffee as half agreed after changing her flat tyre. Probably for the best, I can’t think how that would work out. Last night, lying in bed, thinking about something else, suddenly the whole scene with Carol replaying in my mind, her face and voice and demeanor casting an absolute spell, making me fall helplessly in love with her, now I can’t make her face come into focus when I try to remember it.

Ringing Jenny, my absolute comfort in times of sensual desperation. Straight to her voice message. Could be she’s with a client. Trying again periodically, same result. Probably means she’s gone back to Budapest to see her children, hope she comes back soon, I need you Jenny.

Logging onto the escort website, alighting on Peachy Bum. Sixty pounds an hour. Soft, pert and peach shaped ass for you to feel and fondle, then you can suck my nipples. We can french kiss, have oral both ways, no protection needed, and have unlimited sex, protected only. Have me sit on you face while you eat me and lick me everywhere. Cum as many times as you can. No extra charges. The photos in Peachy Bum’s gallery giving credence to her peachy boasts.

Ringing her cellphone, making arrangements. And now here I am, filled with excitement and slight nervousness and the sense of being alive, standing before an affluent suburban residential development, landscaped gardens and trellised walls, finger just about to press the buzzer to Peachy Bum’s apartment.

Slightly Too Much Makeup

Christelle walking towards me, waving, arriving with a smile, perfect teeth on display. Holding out each cheek to be kissed, then again, slightly formal bearing in mind past sexual adventures. Putting her hand under my arm, directing me, keep moving R, don’t look back, some man is following me, let’s find a place with more people.

Making our way eastwards along The Mall, turning left up the stairs, chatting. No sign of anyone following, but the story quite believable, just about every passing man taking an extra look. Her poise and style and sense of dress, noticeably superior, and set off by calves of unsettling shapeliness.

To my mind, however, this new Christelle at my side, she’s, well, too buttoned-up. The men looking at her are doing so in Piccadilly, a place of teethgrinding materialism, the role of a woman for them, look good in a sportscar or at a social event, they're probably thinking less about her than about what her presence on my arm says about me.

Slightly too much makeup on her face, dammit Christelle, it’s me, R, you don’t need all this stuff, how about you get rid of it, maybe let’s go somewhere and you can lose the couture as well.

Tea in the grand entrance of her hotel, served in clinking china by unctuous waiters. Christelle talking. In London to buy art at some auction. Husband’s recent appointment as chief executive. Upcoming holiday on some island. More of same. Conversation free of sparkle or wit, as if rehearsed, all directed at effect.

Hey R, actually I’ve had to change my plans a bit, I don’t have much time, but I did want to say hello, it’s been fun. Me thinking, well, if you’re short of time, it must have been really important to you to show me how thunderously successful you are, how everybody must envy you, the time we did have, that’s what you spent it doing. But managing to stay courteous. Saying goodbye, the same tedious kissing rigmarole, promising to stay in touch.

Walking back across St James’s Park, remembering, all those years ago, the excitement. So electrifying at the time, now it feels as if maybe then I didn’t have the years to realize, I was just a bit part in the script she’d written for herself, and for those around her, including me. Thinking, well, not all bad, helluva thrilling bit part.

Still, interesting to ponder, her boundaries, years ago they felt so much wider than mine, now they feel so much narrower. Who’d have thought it, Christelle, that you’d be so happy in some gilded cage? That’s if indeed you are happy.

The trees in the park standing leafless in mute commentary. Her spell over me, gone. And mine over her. Nothing of Christelle left in me now but a slight ache of loss.

Seven o’clock Blowjobs

On the escort website, another riveting profile, window on other people’s worlds.

Wanted. Spare bedroom in your house in Central London. Quiet needed during day. Payment in kind.

Hi. My name’s Marsha. You’ll see from my photos that I’m in very good shape and have a pretty face. I’m also skilled at sex. These are the reasons why I’m so much in demand.

I’ve decided to work outcalls to classy hotels, which usually involves working at night. What I need is somewhere I can go home to, and mostly sleep through the day, so I’m fresh for my night’s work. At the moment I stay with other sexworkers, but the house is too busy as men are coming and going all the time. I need somewhere quieter.

If I’m your lodger then instead of money, you can have sex with me once a day. You’ll see from my list of likes that I do most things, in fact everything except pain. The things that I normally charge extra for, like anal sex, you can have for free once a week.

I had an arrangement like this before, but the man had to leave to work in China. It worked very well, and we became good friends. He called me his alarm clock, because I woke him up with seven o’clock blowjobs. My trick was to see if I could get him hard in my mouth while he was still asleep, then nudge him awake so that when he came he knew it had happened instead of just being a dream. He said that it made him go to work every day with a smile on his face. He wanted me to move to China with him, but I like it here in London.

If you want you can ring him, to check that I can be trusted. Also, you can have a copy of my passport and driving licence. I’m happy to do this because I know that if you’ve got a nice place you’ll want to know that I won’t make off with your things.

If you want, I’ll service your friends, and charge only half my normal rates.

Other than the sex, we need to lead separate lives. I have my working career to attend to, just like you.

This will only work out if you have a nice house in Central London, and if we get on well. We can give it a try for two weeks, then decide.

Call me on my cellphone, and we can arrange to meet up.

She Didn’t Like Being Licked

A late night car journey through town, the roads all free of traffic, pleasant variation from London’s normal buzz. On impulse, deviating slightly through Holland Park, remembering the streets, reliving teenage days.

Ah, there it is behind the trees, Sonia’s parents’ mansion. Sweet innocent days. Meeting at a party, Sonia being by general repute the most desirable girl there, not however to me. No problem in agreeing with my friends, though, item, long shiny hair, item, long legs, item, clear skin, only trouble was, no chemistry somehow, not for me.

Nothing remarkable, really, happens often both ways, except one thing, Sonia choosing to hit on me. Thinking later, it was exactly my insouciance which she found attractive, sharp contrast to attitudes of other men. An important life lesson, relearned subsequently through not applying it, ardor repels more than it attracts, except if you can keep it down to about one out of ten.

Over the next month, spending more and more time together. A matter of near indifference to me, the most interesting thing being my friends’ response, slightly chary, I now think borne of envy.

After a while, finding ourselves in bed. For the first time, discovering that you can be naked with a woman, and also bored. No initiative of mine sparking off any response in her, she taking no initiative herself save leading me to her bedroom in the first place. Also, that telling thing, I couldn’t make her laugh, or if she did it was forced. Another telling thing, she didn’t like being licked. Another, she preferred to have the light off. The sex therefore feeling constricted, free of orgasms on either side, my simulated twitching being merely a means of discontinuation.

Nevertheless, carrying on in some sort of relationship, desultory for me, more assiduous for her. Meeting her parents, answering enquiries as to my school, my parents, my plans. Being assessed as to suitability for pairing with an heiress. Found to be wanting, and glad to be so, being uninterested in a life dedicated to wealth and tiny social gradations. Her parents, like her, profoundly boring.

Finally, breaking it off. Leaving her with her pain, as you have to do, feeling it too from the memory of having been on the other side. But of course much easier for me this time. Walking off, buying some cold beers and peanuts, heading to Kensington Gardens to consume them in the sunshine.

Ah, driving now through the winter’s early morning, I can almost feel that hot sun on my skin, the icy taste of the beer, the oily salty peanuts. Freedom from social expectations and feeble sex and demands on time. Heaven.

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.

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.

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.