Grave

Our eyes met across the hotel bar. I walked over to him.

“I am Danielle and mine’s a Prosecco.”

“Pleased to meet you Danielle.”

He smiled and motioned to the barman, at the same time inviting me to sit on the stool next to him. A flute of prosecco with a strawberry was place in front of me. He picked up his beer and we clinked glasses.

“I’m Stewart” he said. “Tell me are you…?”

“I’ll cut to the chase. Do you want to fuck me?”

He took a sip of his beer and asked

“How much?”

“I’m not an escort” I said, “It will cost you nothing but the drink you’ve just bought me/”

“I’m probably a bit young for you..”

“Fitter and harder, no? Age doesn’t mater to me. My last fuck was with an eighty year old. And he was good, Stewart, good. He has set a high bar. Are you up to the challenge?”

“You bet Danielle.” He leant over and planted a kiss on my lips. He held it here, and I felt his tongue trying to burrow into my mouth. I resisted.

“Save that for later.”

“OK. My room is on the second floor. Shall we go up?”

“It’s such a warm evening, and I bet you like fucking outdoors as much as I do. Besides it’s nearly dark so no one will see us.””

I pressed my thigh against his and stroked his hand. I watched his crotch for the bulge.I stroked his inner thigh and saw his erection pushing against his fly.

“Where are we going?”

He seemed genuinely intrigued.

“A place I know not far from here.”

I put my coat on and took his hand as he tried to gulp down his beer with the other.

“Come on, you don’t need any more beer.”

I led him out of the hotel and down a side street to a main road. We crossed and walked along the outer wall of the town cemetery.   Half way between lamp posts, in a pool of darkness where there was a kind of niche in the wall I pushed him back against it and kissed him. He responded, puling me close and driving his tongue deep into my mouth. He hadn’t shaved that day and I loved the feel of the stubble brushing against my face.

“God I want you!” he gasped, coming up for air and sweeping his hair from over his eyes.

“Where are we going? Are you parked near here?”

I gestured with my head.

“We are going here.”

“The cemetery? You can’t”

“Can’t what? I do what I like darling and don’t let anyone tell me otherwise, particularly men.”

He said nothing.

“Do you want to fuck me or not?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Come with me then.”

I led him down a side street to where works were taking place and there was a gap n the wall and we could squeeze through, taking care not to stumble over the pile of rubble that had once been part of the wall.

He dusted down his suit as we stood in the blackness of cemetery. I took out my it my phone and turned on the light.  He had the uneasy look of a man who is realising that he has got into something deeper than he anticipated.

It wasn’t far to my husband’s grave, tucked away in  a side alley.

“This is my husband”

I pulled my knickers down and lifted my skirt. I lay on the grave, the gravel biting into my back, and spread my legs. .

“Just fuck me.”

“On your husband’s grave? This is fucking weird.I can’t.”

“just do it. Do it now!”

I had reached the submissive inside him and when he pulled his trousers down I could see that he was rock hard under the boxers. I arched my back as he came down. I was wet and he slid straight in and fucked me hard, working quickly as if conscious of the risk of exposure. He came quickly and, withdrawing, knelt up.

“Now wank and come over my tits.”

He was soon hard again and worked his shaft quickly.  He was still nervous about being caught it seemed. I lay back and he stood over me. I shut my eyes and felt the warm stream landing on me.

“You can go now” I sad.

“When will I see you again? Maybe we can do it in like a proper bed next tme?”

“I don’t want to see you again. I have had you and I will pick someone else up next time I need to be fucked”

“You have used me.”

He spat the words out as he pulled his trousers up and zipped his flies. He winced as he did so.

“But it’s not about you. It really isn’t”

I stood up and reached out to him. He brushed my hand away angrily.

“I don’t want a relationship. I had 22 years with a wonderful man and no one can ever replace him.”

“But why DO you fuck on his grave?”

“For him. He will always be with me, he looks out for me. I want him to know at I am OK, that I am desirable, just as he found me desirable.”

I don’t think he even heard the last words as he walked off, no doubt wondering how he would find his way out of the locked cemetery.

I knelt over my husband’s grave and frigged myself

“I am good darling. I am good. I am getting all the fucks I promised you I would.”

As I came I leant forward and kissed his name on the headstone His name which was my name. For ever. I can’t actually remember the last time we fucked. I guess that once we had the diagnosis we fucked as if every time would be the last, raw, intense sex until he was too weak. And now every time I have sex it is the last time with that man.

I kissed the headstone. I needed to get back. I had to pick a dress for tomorrow. Tomorrow at seven at the same place in the same bar.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. For more wickedness click here 

Wicked Wednesday

Magnificat

I am a nun. I am a woman. I feel. I bleed. Underneath my coarse brown habit I burn with passion for my eternal lover, Jesus Christ, the man for whom I chose the life of bare walls, a hard narrow bed, the five o’clock rising bell, the cold chapel where i spend hours on my knees in adoration until the pain becomes unbearable. Every day I receive Him in the Eucharist, the wafer, the wine that through the words of the priest become His Most Precious Body and Blood. His Body is mine, all mine, as assuredly as if we lay in bed, husband and wife, sated with sex, me playfully plucking his gorgeous beard, He putting an arm around me drawing me close, his hirsute warmth making me glow.

The priest is configured to Christ, that the Church teaches, he is another Christ as he presides at the Eucharistic banquet. As I kneel at the altar rail he comes with the pyx, raises a host before me.

“The Body of Christ” he declares.

“Amen” I assent to my Lord and the priest places the blessed Host on my tongue.

He then offers me the chalice with the Precious Blood. I drink a drop, hand back the chalice which he cleans with the purifier.

On the days when I am blessed he lifts his vestments, takes out his penis, hard and throbbing, and says

“The Cock of Christ”

I lean forward, open my mouth wide and take this most gorgeous length into my mouth, I lick and suck, soon feel him stiffen and arch his back slightly as he ejaculates his warm, salty come into mu mouth. He withdraws as I swallow and allows the rest of his ejaculation to drip into the chalice. He lifts it up and says

“The Come of Christ.”

“Amen” I respond eagerly.

He offers me the chalice. I reach into the heavy folds of my habit and take out a clear glass phial. I kiss it and hold it up.

“The Blood of Woman.”

I open it, pour my blood into the chalice, shake it gently to mix the three fluids, then drink it, saving a little to rub on the priests’s still hard cock. I take it into my mouth again. I hold it there, lubricate with my saliva, suck to tighten my flesh soft mouth around it. He gasps with pleasure. I draw back, them push slowly forward until I have the full length inside me. He gasps again, I feel his body tighten. He relaxes as I move out, stiffens again as I move back in, faster this time,  before repeating the movement. The third time he lets out a cry he can’t suppress, I know that this second orgasm is intense, really intense and he is struggling to ride the sensation.  He ejaculates again and I cannot take it all in my mouth, it dribbles down my chin, stains my habit, the habit of my eternal devotion stained with the Most Precious Come of My Lord.  I begin to cry.

In my cell. on the hard barrow bed, I want to relay the whole joyful scene, to masturbate as I do so. But I know must not, for masturbation is a mortal sin. I get into bed, turn out the light and lie on my front, clutching my rosary beads, reciting prayers as I grind against the rough monastic bedsheets. This too is a sin for which I will do penance, having abased myself in beautiful humiliation before Reverend Mother to make my confession. This, too. I offer up to my sweet Lord, this and everything.

As I drift away into sleep I can still taste the come, feel ot sticky on my chin, smell it. I say the Magnificat but am asleep as soon as I have said

“He has filled the hungry with good things.”

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here to see more wickedness.

All the Sex We Never Had, All the Places We Never Went

Heraclitus wrote that you can never step into the same river twice. I have been thinking about this a lot recently while reading Olga Tokarczuk’s fragmentary travel novel Bieguni. The English translation is called Flights which is not a particularly accurate translation. There are an journeys in this book, journeys of different kinds, journeys by train, by boat, by plane, journeys in time.  Journeys of escape that are also personal journeys. Even tourists with their suitcases and wallets stuffed with privilege are often  escaping something. And in the middle of these journeys there are lengthy digressions on the preservation of human remains, beginning in 17th century Holland and carrying on to modern day plastination, the presentation of dead bodies as art. Art as the denial of the aesthetic of sex.

The living body changes, time is its solvent. The aesthetic of sex is an aesthetic of decay. Sex is the land of rivers that flow remorselessly on, taking our lovers with them as they head for the sea of death and oblivion. It is also the land of erotic adventures that never happened, of the times we failed to step into the river and knew immediately we never could again.

Estelle

It is July 1985. Graham is on the overnight train from Innsbruck to Vienna. There is just one other person in the compartment.  She introduced herself as Estelle, from Bloemfontein. And, as white South Africans did, she assured Graham that she was  not a racists.

“Everywhere we go,” she said with a sigh, “no one likes us.”

“Are you surprised?” thought Graham but resisted the temptation to say this.

They talked, about travel mainly,  and Estelle accepted his offer of a beer and then another. She moved across to sit next to him. She pressed her knee lightly against his to test his reaction. He didn’t flinch. Encouraged, she placed his hand on his knee. They had another beer, and when he went out into the corridor for a cigarette she joined him.

“I am a social smoker” she said “but only a social smoker.”

She held her smile until he offered her a cigarette. When they had finished she leant into him for a kiss and he responded. Beer, cigarettes and a faint hint of sweat. Graham was getting hard but he pulled away. It was the thought of the unlocked compartment, the thought of well….Bloemfontein.  He had caught a glimpse of her surname in her passport. Van der Merwe. Afrikaner. They were the worst weren’t they? Racists with black servants. She probably had a maid who had to curtsy before her. But he knew this was all rationalisation. The truth was, she repelled him.

Graham woke up at 4 o’cock  tired and sweaty, metallic foulness in his mouth. He looked over to Estelle. She snored and tossed and turned. not waking up until the train rattled through Hutteldorf on the outskirts of Vienna. They parted without a word.

East Berlin 1981

I have a flag. The state flag of the German Democratic Republic. It is Saturday 2nd May. There are flags everywhere. You can buy them in Centrum Warenhaus on the Alexanderplatz. They have different sizes, and plastic sticks to put them on are extra. I buy a medium sized flag without a stick. I have lunch at the Zillestube, I have coffee and cake in the revolving cafe of the TV tower and return to the West with a pile of the classics of Marxism wrapped in coarse, grey paper. And the flag. I used it as a tablecloth until my landlady told me she wasn’t happy with it.

Annette

It was nearly 10 o’clock. Time for bed in the bustling youth hostel on the banks of the Rhine. Peter had been talking to Annette there on the wall as they drank Coke from bottles, for two hours. He was tired, his German was becoming ragged but…..Annette had forgotten about her friends in the school group she had come with. She took his hand and led him away to a spot behind the bushes. She pulled him close, kissed him. Peter responded, this was not the first time he had kissed but, at 17, the first time had felt raw passion from the other person. He squeezed Annette, enjoyed the softness of her body, pushing his tongue deep into her mouth. She pulled herself free, took off her T shirt, unhooked her bra and Peter saw for the first time breasts, large breasts hanging down, large aureoli and in the middle nipples that stood stiff and proud. She unbuckled her belt and began to slide down her jeans.

“Willst du mich ficken?”

He began to feel week at the knees as Annette’s jeans came down, her knickers and he saw, as if in a blur, her slit, her bush. She was aroused, she wanted it but he only felt fear. He mumbled something about an early start, a long walk the following day.

He lay in his bunk and masturbated to her.  He saw her at breakfast the following morning but she ignored him. He hadn’t seen her crying and would he have cared if he had?

Paris 1977

I never knew her name, I don’t think she even looked at me. She got on the Metro at Miromesnil with a friend and got off alone at Strasbourg St Denis. Our respective journeys through spacetime coincided for just 20 minutes but I was fascinated. I don’t think I had seen a woman like her before, in her 20s but with the lines from the corners of her mouth to the nose that come from speaking French. Her dress, the way she carried her bag, the way her hair was dishevelled but actually not, the way she spoke, yes, the way she spoke.  I listened closely to catch what words I could. Later I practised in front of the mirror. That night I lay in bed and thought about her. I did not fantasise. I did not masturbate. I just wanted to be her. I still do.

David 

David met Susie when he was working  in Germany and, finding it hard to make friends,  they clung to each other to avoid  being stuck in their respective bedsits gazing at the wall. One rainy Saturday afternoon he had invited Susie round. He had bought a selection of cakes from the local bakery, he made filter coffee and his attic room suddenly had a homely smell it had never had before. As he only had one chair, they sat on the bed, leaning against the wall. They munched Pflaumenstreuselkuchen and crumbs fell onto the duvet but David didn’t mind. The small space brought them closer together. legs pressed against each other. Susie didn’t seem to mind this at all. David pressed a bit more. He had thought a lot about Susie, how she was nice but boring, not seeing the irony in how own lack of self awareness. And those big, heavy glasses she wore! Then again, the lips, Susie had full lips that he just wanted to kiss. He leaned across and gently took her glasses off.

“Why did you do that?”

“I want to see your face.  I think you’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled.

David pulled her towards him, paced his thin lips on her full lips, and pushed his tongue into her mouth as the lips parted. Susie responded and they rolled over. She put a hand on the back of his head and pressed to lock him in the kiss.  David felt he was getting hard, he slipped his hand inside Susie’s knickers and fumbled to find her slit. He pushed a finger in. She was wet.

He felt his cock getting hard, the bulge in his jeans called for release. With his free hand, he unbuttoned his jeans, started to wriggle out of them. Then Susie pushed him off.

“I can’t do this David. I really like you, I could even love you, I think, but I can’t.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s not you. It’s my faith. I promised God that I would remain a virgin till I marry. It’s not that I wouldn’t, you know … with you…because I know I would like to and it would be nice. If you were my husband. ”

“I am sorry Susie I had no idea. Are you not angry with me?”

“No I am not David. I think you are a really lovely guy. I do. But it wouldn’t be right. Not yet. ”

She gave him a hug.

When Susie had gone David pounded the wall with his fists.

“God, God, God! Why do you do this!” he shouted and saw, to his astonishment, that he was crying.

He met Susie fleetingly at Derby railway station several years later. She had her four young children with her, she looked tired. They spoke briefly.  Susie had devoted her life to her family, what little spare time she had to the church, and her husband, an elder of the church, had left her for another woman. They both felt regret but neither of them could say it. The unspoken mutual feelings weighed heavily on the conversation and it was a relief to them both when David realised he was on the wrong platform for the Nottingham  train and had to run off up the stairs. As his train pulled out he avoided looking out for her. This was not a second coming of the river. That much he knew.

Vienna 2003

There was a time before selfies. We were approached on the Karntner Strasse by a young woman holidaying on her own and asked to take a photograph of her in front of the Stefansdom. We obliged. Later we headed out to Gasometer to eat. I liked Gasometer because it is not coffee houses and kitsch. Not a slice of Sachertorte in sight. As we ate, my partner mentioned the woman again as if feeling sorry for her.

“Maybe we could have invited her to join us?”

I could only think that I admired her for just getting out there and having a holiday and not worrying because she hadn’t got anyone to go on holiday with.  It’s happened to me, it’s happened to many people. It is not a disease. I was just wishing her great sex. That happens on holiday too.

“I bet she’s somewhere having more fun that she would with us” I replied.

Caroline

It had been a bit of a red letter day for Caroline. She has been to the hairdressers in the morning.

“There’s enough to style” said Laura. “I think you’ll like it.”

And she blowed and brushed and busied herself as Caroline sipped her tea.

“Have a look” said Laura with a smile. And Caroline looked in the mirror and liked what she saw. Her hair was still shortish, still grey but it had been shaped nicely and had the beginnings of a short bob.

“I like it.”

“You’re not putting that bloody wig back on are you? Are you Caroline?”

“No Miss” said Caroline and they both laughed.

As she left the salon Caroline did a jig of delight.

She was still on a high that evening when she met up with friends for a night in Birmingham’s Gay Village. Drinks and food at ‘spoons, pool and lager and karaoke at The Fox, a cigarette in the garden and she fell into conversation with Amy.

“You’re lovely” said Amy taking a second cigarette from Caroline. “Can I add you on Facebook?”

“Yeah, of course.”

They both took out their phones and conducted the modern friendship ritual.  Caroline was feeling a new confidence and wanted to chat some more but Amy stood up and said

“I’m off to The Village now, meeting a few friends.”

It was nearly five hours later that Caroline pushed her way through the crowds to find a space in the garden of the pub to sit down and light up. It was only after she at down that she realised that she was sitting next to Amy.

“Hello again” she said.

“Hi” said Caroline realising that the night’s drinking was taking its toll, the fizzy lager and the shots that her friends had been buying all evening. They were still going strong  and were doubtless looking to see it through to closing time at 8 am. Caroline was thinking of going home. She had had enough and was making a mental note to be careful in the future when it came to going out with 20 something lesbians. It had been fun though.

She felt her head being grabbed and turned round to look Amy in the face. Amy loved in and kissed her, forcing her tongue into Caroline’s mouth. Alcohol had removed her inhibitions and she responded. She ran her arm behind Amy pulled her closer, thrust her own tongue into Amy’s mouth. Her head began to swim, she was hard, she cold still manage an erection despite the hormones, she was glad she was wearing a loose fitting summer dress that hid the bulge, she wanted Amy, wanted her so much, wanted Amy to finger her, to……

Amy unbuttoned Caroline’s dress, reached inside and took a breast in her hand, kneaded it, moulded it in her lovely warm hand, before tweaking the nipple. Caroline yelped in surprise but found the pain quite pleasant.  Amy undid 2 more buttons, reached behind to unhook Caroline’s bra and, as it fell, moved her hand inside the flapping dress to suck at Caroline’s nipple, twisting it with her lips, flicking it with her tongue, making Caroline more and more aroused.

“Come on” said Amy “let’s go to the loo, I so fucking want to go down on you.”

She stood up, grabbed both of Caroline’s hands and pulled her to her feet. Caroline stood there, her left breast hanging out, hair dishevelled, frantic with desire for this woman, fuzzy headed with drink to the point that she was struggling to stay on her feet,  but clear headed enough to know she couldn’t go through with this.

“Sorry Amy I can’t. I so fucking want you but I just can’t!”

She ran, falling out of the door, her dress still open, her breast still hanging out.

A doorman grabbed her arm and steadied her.

“Are you OK love?”

Caroline nodded.

“Are you sure?”

She went to the corner of the street and rested against a wall. She buttoned up her dress and lit a cigarette. As she smoked she gathered her thoughts. It was now nearly four o’clock and the summer night was getting chilly. She hailed a taxi and jumped in.

The taxi drive off. Caroline didn’t look back at the throng outside the pub. She looked resolutely forward, at the dark shadow of the driver, the red numbers changing every few hundred yards on the meter.  She began to cry.

Boston, Massachusetts 2000 

In the year of The Big Dig there were people in Boston worried about the future of Little Italy in the city’s North End.  Tucked away on the far side of Interstate 93 on its rickety looking green viaduct, almost a town beside the city.  But when the road disappears into a tunnel, when Little Italy is opened up to the rest of Boston, the acid of property developers’ money will surely dissolve the area’s character. The works continue. The contractor’s boards are painted with the coats of arms of Italian cities. It seems like a defiant gesture. Our meal is too. We find a trattoria,  sit with plates of pasta, tomato salad, a bottle of red wine. We are enjoying slow food in the land of the Big Mac.

All That Is Solid Melts Into Air 

The last time I was in Berlin the Palast der Republik, the home of the puppet parliament of the German Democratic Republic, where I had once eaten lunch and bought a newspaper, was an ugly  twisted metal frame. It was an eyesore and its final removal, a week after I left, was a blessed release. Cities change. Cities evolve. It is as if the moment you leave you have never been there. One minute after your plane has taken off, the city has changed. I have Austrian friends who have a collectors’ approach to sightseeing. Been there. Seen that. Done that. “Abgehakt” as they say in German.  I don’t think they realise the futility of the freezing of motion as if the frozen moment is all that matters. They remind me of those sad men who keep a notebook of all the women they had had sex with. Or claim to have had sex with.

The sex we never had is no less real than the sex we had. Or rather, the sex we had is no more real. All the bodies I have loved have been dissolved by time, made anew or not, remade as ageing parodies of what they were. Mine too, and let’s face it, mine has changed more than most. Consider the vaginas I fingered, the clits I tongued, the glistening bellends I took greedily into my mouth. They are no more. Every single cell dead, replaced by new cells, regenerated but decaying, changing even as they appear to stay the same. But decay is inherent to the aesthetic of sex, it is the art of bodies in flux.

And Finally Plastination……

I write, not to freeze sex in a moment, but to hint, offer fleeting glimpses, and let you, my readers, engage with me as you wish. Because only the act of reading, being in the moment of that reading can make that sex real.

I once thought about being plastinated myself. Any part of me, or even all parts of me, just not my genitalia. Let all my partners come and enjoy my sinews, my muscles like taut wires, as lifeless as the steel cables of a suspension bridge. Let them enjoy me without the parts of me they most enjoyed, or were destined not to. That river has already flowed on to the sea.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness

 

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Anita

“Right on the edge of fear was where trust could grow”

Cherise Sinclair

When I was a boy I wanted to be an amoeba. I liked the idea of being a creature that didn’t have to bother with sex. I adored Debbie Harry,  I masturbated till I was sore, I took my mother’s magazines to bed, I picked a model from the fashion pages and made her my wife, my lover in my fantasies. I imagined the house we would live in, the dinner parties we would host (which were oddly similar to the ones my parents hosted  but they were the only templates of adulthood I had), the bedroom where we would make love. I wanked to her in quiet adoration but when the sticky ejaculation flowed out to matt my pubic hair and dampen my pyjamas I felt a desperate sadness. These were things that would never be more than fantasy for me. Women belonged on posters, in magazines. In real life they were to be feared. Feared because, some time, a woman might ask me for sex. I avoided girls at at school. I took up trainspotting. I don’t even like trains. I found my fellow trainspotters weird. Yeah I know, I’m weird too but compared to these guys? But it was a safe environment, a long long way from sex.

I was 37 and a virgin when I met Anita. She was a few years older than me, divorced with 2 grown up children. I guess she was lonely. She must have been. Why else would she have been interested in me? But we starting meeting up. Just a drink in the local pub, a country walk. I liked her. She had a ready laugh, she could talk about football, she began to look after me. On my birthday I took her for dinner. She bought me a present, shirts and I realised she might be looking for more than friendship. That evening she invited me back to her house for coffee.

Coffee. And it’s not always with granules is it? I made myself comfortable on the sofa. . She poured whiskies and sat next to me. We talked, she sat closer, pressing her knee against my leg, played with my hair.  When she sat on my lap and pressed her lips gently against mine I felt sick. I was alone with her in her house, the bedroom was directly above us, the bedroom, the bedroom. Shit! The bedroom! This is real. This is going to happen. I felt my head go light as she took my hand and led me upstairs.

I failed. I cried. I apologised to her, told her I felt a failure. She cradled my head against her chest. kissed me gently on the top of the head, assuring me it was fine, she wasn’t angry,  it would be better next time. I unburdened myself there and then and 20 years of pain flowed out onto the soft sheets, like waters from a broken dam. She hugged me close, reassured me.

Next time, she kissed me gently, moving her lips from my mouth, down my body to my cock,  she took my cock into her mouth and sucked and licked and flicked the end with her tongue until I was hard. I knew I could keep this erection.  I knew I could. I wanted this. My fear was gone as she lay back, took me in her had and guided me into her wet, warm cunt. It didn’t last long. I felt the foreskin rolling back, felt wonderful sensations I had never known before. I pushed in and out  as she told me what to do. I came, felt the pulse of the ejaculation, saw a brilliant array of lights and colours as I sank down onto  her and submitted to its force.

I was spent. I was high on the joy of the moment. Anita sad she hadn’t come but that she was happy for me. She would come next time. She had enjoyed it anyway and next time would be even better. I cried as I thanked her. I knew that she had dome something special for me, something loving. She had taken my fear and turned it into trust.  And as for amoebas well………imagine one splitting into two and the second  is so much better than the first. It wants to fuck. It needs to.

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Lessons in Life

This is Part Two of a story which began with Lessons in Love which you can read here.

Some years ago I was in therapy and learned the principle of mindfulness. My next encounter with Fiona put me in mind of these. A week after my first visit I arrived at her house, carrying the 400 lines neatly folded and sealed in an A4 envelope with a card. I had been careful to count them before placing them in the envelope. I had, too, her beie boots, reheeled and freshly polished, in a tote bag.

“Hello again,” she said, inviting me in. “I was wondering whether you would come.I didn’t scare you off last time then?”

She smiled as she said this and I relaxed.

“I’ve been thinking of nothing else. I have been spending quite a lot of time writing lines for you haven’t I?”

She smiled again but this time I felt there was a hint of mischief. I began to get nervous again.

“I’d better have a look at the lines then hadn’t I?”

I handed her the envelope and she opened it, took out the sheets of A4 paper and the card. She looked at the card first.

“How sweet of you” she said, smiled again. She came up to me and kissed me on he cheek.

“I do hope you have done your lines properly. What do I do back in your schooldays?”

“If you weren’t satisfied you ripped that and made us do them again. Doubled.”

“And you wouldn’t want 800 lines would you? That would keep you busy for most f w weekend. Mind you, it would keep you out of the pub wouldn’t it?”

She looked pointedly at my beer belly and counted the number of lines on the first page. Thirty lines per page, thirteen pages and ten on the fourteenth page. The final line was a bit faint as my pen had started to run out. I actually hoped she would overlook this. I actually didn’t fancy doing 800 lines. I had plans for the weekend and imagined it meant I would have to wait another week to fuck her.  She counted quickly, she had after all taught Maths among other subjects.

She refolded the sheets and lay them on the table.

“What are you?”

“A misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.”

“Quite. That is exactly what you are. Don’t think I wasn’t deeply hurt by your stupid comments last week. That sort of thing is not easily forgiven or forgotten. ”

“I am truly sorry.”

“I have no doubt. Men are ever so sorry  when they think there might be something in it for them.”

“Meaning?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

She fixed me with a steely gaze.

“And my boots?”

“Reheeled and polished as you requested.”

I took them out of the bag and held them up for her inspection. She took them off me, held them to the light, inspected the new heels and said,

“You’ve done a good job. I’m impressed.”

As she went to put them in the cupboard under the stairs where I  knew whe kept her shoes I began to feel uneasy.

“Bit I thought you were going to wear them for me?”

“Did I promise you anything?”

“No, but”

“But nothing. I don’t need you to tell me what to wear do I?”

“No” I answered quietly, feeling more than a little humiliated.

“Follow me” she said and opened the patio doors that led out into the garden.

“Actually I have a little job for you to do before we go upstairs. I have just had a pile of rocks delivered, I’m building a rockery and  need a strong man to put them in place. I was going to ask my neighbour but them I thought, as you are coming and as you like doing things for me you wouldn’t mind. You don’t mind do you?”

“Well no” I said, a little surprised by this turn of events. But then I began to think of it in as labour to ear a sweet reward. I looked at her, began to imagine her without  clothes, imagine my cock sliding into her cunt, imagine her sighing with pleasure as I ……

“So what I need you to do is this.”

She reached into her bag and took out a piece of paper which she unfolded.

“This is a drawing of the rockery as it is meant to be when it is finished. So I need you to take the stones from over there, the big one are at the bottom, and arrange them like this, around the pond. I think there should be 30 of them? And when you have finished we can and have some fun can’t we?”

She smiled and ran her hand over my arm.

“Shall I get you a cup of tea?”

“Yer……er please.”

I took the plan and studied it closely.  There was easily three hours work in this and it was starting to get hot. I knew that I was being used but I really couldn’t do anything about it. And Fiona Howe knew this.

I set to work. The task was complicated by having  to take the smaller rocks first and make a separate pile before I was able to get to the big ones that formed the base of the rockery. Even the smaller ones were heavy and I cut a finger on a jagged edge of the first.

“Oh fuck!” I shouted, sucking my bleeding finger.

“Is something wrong?” asked Fiona who had appeared at my side with a cup of tea.

“No, it’s fine” I lied. I was seething with resentment, angry with myself for my lack of assertiveness,  hot and sweaty as the sun rose in the sky. My arousal of earlier had completely gone. What if we went to her bed and I couldn’t well, couldn’t get it up? I could just drop all this and go. Was it worth all this humiliation just to get to stick my cock up the dry, shrivelled cunt of an old woman? Even as this thought came into my head I went red with shame. It was true. I was a misogynistic arsehole. She had seen this and was punishing me for it. And I had to embrace this punishment for her. Fiona Howe always could see through people, she was smart in a way I never could be, And that was what I adored her for.

Sot I continued with the task. Soon I had made a separate pile of the smaller rocks. I set to work carrying the heavy larger rocks to arrange them around the pond as instructed. After the first two I was exhausted and seething with resentment. Then I remembered my therapist and his words to me on mindfulness. Be in the moment, draw the positives from it, enjoy it for what it is. I was working for a woman I adored. So I dedicated the third stone to her. I imagined it as her breast, I stroked it tenderly, kissed it after checking she wasn’t watching though the patios door, picked it up with reverence, like a priest raising the chalice at consecration, carried it  across the garden in the way we carried Our Lady in the streets around the church on the Feast of the Assumption.

The next stone was Fiona’s other breast, the third had a path of rough on he surface and I pictured this as her cunt, set in a luxuriant garden of hair, like the stones I was setting among shrubs, Her cunt, the prize to which my life had been heading since I first set eyes on her at the age of eleven. I kissed, flicked it with my tongue, rested my face on it, smelling it, dry stone and spoil, which I wanted to commit to memory.

“Are you alright?”

Fiona had brought me another cup of tea.

“Yeah um, it’s what my therapist called mindfulness, it’s like ”

“Being in the moment, I know. I’ve had therapists tell me that.  Don’t you think it’s bullshit?”

Actually I didn’t.  It had really worked for me. It was working for me now. But I couldn’t disagree with her. Not in 1974. Not now.

“I guess you’re right.”

“It’s going a bit slowly with all your mindfulness isn’t it? Enjoying the journey is all very well but it is good to each the destination, particularly today’s destination.”

She licked her lips and smiled.

“I am going out at seven so I really you need to finish by four to give us time for your little after work treat.”

She smiled again and there was, I thought, a hint of mockery in her voice.

“What’s the time now?”

“It’s just gone three. And you have already been doing that for over an hour. I think you need to hurry up.”

“Yes Miss” I let slip and felt myself going bright red. Fiona smiled, said nothing and went back inside.

I picked the stone up and went back to work.

“Reverence and speed” I said “reverence and speed.”

I was sweating profusely. My arms ached. I remained mindful. I dedicated it all to her. By the time I finished I was rockhard. I slipped my hand down the front of my boxers and felt a dribble of precome merging from the bellend. I was hot and tired but I would be ready. I would not disappoint her.

I would like to say that Fiona was pleased with my work but she didn’t mention it. Instead she told me I was too sweaty and sent me to shower.

“Upstairs. On the lift”

In the bathroom I took my clothes off , leaving them in a pile by the door. I stepped into the shower and saw that she has one of those high tech showers with a control panel like a Boeing 747 cockpit. I stood bemused, shuddering as cold drops fell onto me from the shower head,

The door opened and Fiona walked in carrying a big fluffy towel.

“You’ll need this once you have worked out the shower. Just wait there and I will come and join you.”

The door opened again and Fiona walked in, wrapped in a towel,  a shower cap covering her hair. She took it off and I saw her body for the first time, still slim, the two small breasts still firm, every bit as enticing as I thought she would be. She joined me in the shower, pressed me against the cold tiles, pushed her tongue into my mouth.

She handed me a sponge.

“Wash me then get on your knees.”

I took the bottle of shower gel,  squeezed some onto the wet sponge and began to rub it gently over her body. I stopped at her breasts, to caress them as mindfully as I had the large stones in her garden, carried on down. By the time I reached her cunt I was kneeling, water was running down her body like streams down a mountainside after the rains. I dabbed cautiously at her pubic hair, like a surveyor mapping a new country. I felt her push my head lower and soon I was bent double washing her feet which I kissed before she grabbed my hair and pulled my head up.

“Now give my pussy some attention.”

I leaned in uncertainly and licked at the hairs, then pushed in with my tongue, ran it up and down the slit, buried my face in the wet hair as the warm water streamed down, shutting my eyes to keep out the soap. Then, guided by her hand I lifted my head and began to tongue her clit, lapping at it like a cat at milk before flicking it with swift rhythmic motions until until she came with a scream.

I knelt there as she turned the shower off, opened the door and stepped out onto the mat. She took her towel and threw me mine. I looked at her as she towelled herself down. I was struggling to get the words out.

“Are we going to …um …”

“Are we going to do what?”

“Well, sex, like you promised?”

“I didn’t promise you anything! What a thing to say! And besides what do you think we have just been doing?”

“I want to fuck you Fiona.”

“have you got condom?”

“Well no, I thought”

“You thought it wouldn’t;t be needed because I am so old and old bats like me don’t need to think about contraception, Is that t?”

“Well yes, kind of…”

“And you don’t think safe sex is an issue at all for me?

I said nothing. I shuffled my feet. I was too embarrassed even to look at her.

“And I bet you didn’t think about lube either?”

“Lube?” I asked gormlessly.

“Didn’t you know? Have you never been with a post-menopausal woman before?”

She fixed me with a look and a smile that told me she had already guessed the answer.

“I have never actually been with any…”

“I guessed. Are you really surprised with your attitude to women?”

I said nothing, picked up the dirty sweat stained clothes and began to dress.

“I think it is time for you to go. But thank you for your work on my rockery.”

Fiona closed her front door behind me. I didn’t look back as I walked down her path and turned into the road for the short walk home. I felt sick with shame and self disgust. Used and humiliated. Those words kept going round in my head.  Used and humiliated. Used and humiliated. As I repeated the words I felt myself getting hard.

I went to bed early that night. I was tired from the hard physical labour and from the emotional strain of the day. Fiona Howe had used me but I had showered with her, I had knelt before her, I had worshipped her cunt. Did I need anything more? I had the stuff of a million fantasies swirling round in my head.  She belonged to me in ways she could never know.

I turned out the light and masturbated to her, on my knees, my head buried in her bush, my lips pressed against hers. I came quickly, the creamy come wetting my pyjama bottoms. I rolled over, ground against the mattress and fell into deep, contented sleep.

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Lessons in Love

“That” said Fiona Howe, “is the most misogynistic thing I have heard in a long long time. Do you actually know how old I am?”

I shuffled my feet in embarrassment and struggled for an answer.

“Well I thought erm maybe…”

“I am 72. Is that a problem for you?”

“Well no”

“Or maybe it is. You were thinking about how much older I am than you and thought that I might possibly be under seventy and that if I was you might ask me for sex. Is that right?”

“Well yes.”

There was no point lying. She had seen through me. She always did. I took a sip of the milky tea she had made me.

“And seventy is a magic number that makes a woman unfuckable but doesn’t make a man too old for sex. Is that what you think? Is that what all men think.?”

“Well yeah I …”

“If a man of 72 has sex with a younger woman that is fine isn’t it?”

“But the other way round you have a problem with?”

“I’m sorry. It was such a stupid thing to day.”

“It was. Offensive and misogynistic.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? Is that the best you can do? Sorry?”

I felt myself  going red with shame.   I shuffle my feet and looked at the floor.

“Look at me.”

I complied amazed at how quickly I had resumed the role of immature schoolboy in her presence.  She has the same wavy short hair as 46 years ago, now silver grey, the same snub nose, her face, older obviously, was barely lined. She was beautiful, as she always  had been.

“Would you like to fuck me?”

I nodded, feeling an utter fool.

“When was the last time I saw you?” Fiona asked.

“I think it would have been when I was 14, so 1974?”

“The year I left King Aethelraed’s High. The year I got married and what a disaster that was.”

She sighed.

“That final lesson you gave me 400 lines and the last time I saw you was we I came to the staffroom to hand them in.”

“So not a very happy memory of me then?”

“Well, actually, you set me lines quite regularly and I enjoyed them.”

“What did I make you write?”

“Discipline and obedience are the key to learning.”

“Well I always was inventive wasn’t ?” she laughed, “But you enjoyed writing them?That’s not really the idea. They were a punishment.”

“Yes I know but I liked being punished  by you.”

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose I worshipped you really. I was the only boy who did. The girls all loved you didn’t they? Always complimenting you on your hair, and your clothes. And those beige boots you had.  Every adolescent girl wants to wear boots doesn’t she , it’s like a sign that she is not a girl anymore. And I so wanted to compliment you too and openly adore you the way that girls did. But I was a boy. So I was naughty  so that you would punish me with lines and I sat and wrote and worshipped you, in that lovely tartan skirt you had, in those boots. I’m sorry, you must think I am weird.”

“Not at all.”

She touched me gently on the arm.

“You had a crush on me that’s all. These things are quite normal.”

She looked at me tenderly and I felt a tear running down my cheek.

Fiona changed tone and said briskly.

“I think I would like you to fuck me, it’s been a while. Only the once though. I am very happy on my own and I don’t want you to think there could ever be anything between us.”

I stood there silent, looking into my mug. I hadn’t come looking for a relationship, I hadn’t come well I don’t know. I had  found out that my class teacher from the Third Form had moved into a new house just a quarter of a mile way from where I lived and here I was, 60 and retired, turning a social call into a confession of a teenage crush, Fiona Howe could still make me feel hopelessly inadequate, hopelessly naive, just as she could have done 46 years ago.  At 72 she excited me more than she did then. But I lacked the courage to tell her.

“And if I still had the boots?”

“Well Miss…”

“I am Fiona, we are both adults aren’t we?”

“Fiona, could I see them?”

“You can take them away, get them reheeled, give them a good clean and bring them with you next time. If we are going to fuck I might as well wear them for you.”

I felt myself going bright red with embarrassment.

“I didn’t fantasise about you that way back then I mean….”

“It wouldn’t bother me if you did. I am sure you weren’t the only one. And isn’t that what what spotty faced hormonal boys do?”

I smiled.

“I suppose so.”

“I am going to back the boots in a bag, And there will be a envelope containing your task.”

“Task?”

“A task. Something I require you to do. The chance for you to show me how much you want me.”

I said nothing.

“Sit down and finish your tea. I will be back in a minute”

Arriving home I shut the front door behind me. I leaned back against the door, in the gloom of my hallway and breathed heavily. I unbuttoned my trousers and masturbated to her, coming quickly. Come spilled out over my hand and I rushed to the kitchen in a crouched gait to avoid getting stains over my trousers. I cleaned myself up with kitchen towel, thought again of the boots and masturbated again. I grabbed the bag, pulled out a boot and came over it before greedily licking it clean.

I took the other boot out of the bag. I put them on the table and looked at them closely.  They were scuffed, the leather was dry and beginning to crack in places. Were they the actual boots? Or was this part of her game? I didn’t really care and they certainly looked like the boots I remembered, they had, too, a patina of age. Most important of all, she had worn them.I kissed each one gently and placed them back on the table. I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper on which she had written,

“Before your next visit I require 400 lines. These must be in blue ink and must be in your BEST HANDWRITING. You will write ‘I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.'”

I laid paper and four blue pens out on the table in front of the boots, which I kept in my eyeline as I wrote.

“I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.”

400 lines. Only 400? I was a little disappointed. For Fiona Howe I could write for ever.

 

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Skin Deep

Skin, I once read, is the heaviest organ in the human body. The thought disgusted me. I saw myself being peeled to the muscular redness of  the grotesque cadavers you see in medical schools, my skin an amorphous pale mass plopping onto silver scales, all two and a half kilos of the stuff that holds me together. It disgusted me. My skin disgusts me.  For my most of my life I have suffered from eczema. I hate my skin. My skin hates me back. It cracks and bleeds, lets infections in through the perfidious gaps it leaves.

There came the day when I lay in bed, ill, my skin blotched, red, and cracked, oozing blood. My hands were incapable of holding a pen. I lay helpless and repellent. I cried but there was no one to hear, no one to wipe away the tears, before they seeped through my cracks and raised my torment up a notch.

Then she came. I could not make out her face through my tears , just the whirl of clothes bring taken off before she pulled back the duvet and climbed into bed next to me. She leaned over me, tugging down my pyjama bottoms, pulling out my blotched, ugly cock. I felt it harden.

She said nothing, but took it in her mouth, closed her mouth round it. I felt the foreskin slide back and she began to work the exposed head with her tongue, a rhythm of flicks alternating with gentle sucking, increasing the tempo as I swelled in her mouth until I came with a shout and felt the urgent force of the flow into her mouth

Come was dripping from her chin as she set to work licking my torso, my neck, my face, her tongue pushing into the cracks, applying the balm.

“I’m not disgusted by your body, you know that don’t you?”

She flipped me over and I felt her tongue running down my spine, felt it gently explore my bum crack. I came again.

“Kneel up.”

I did and she slid underneath me to take my cock into her mouth again, suck up soem more come for my legs, my feet.

I don’t remember her finishing, I don’t remember her leaving. It was after ten o’clock when I woke up. I had slept for, I don’t know, maybe 10 hours?  My skin hurt, still bled, but by Monday I could see that it was starting to heal. The following Saturday I went swimming.

And that is the thing with eczema. It comes and goes without warning, without reason. One day my whole body is cracked and bleeding and I cry in despair. A few days later the eczema goes, but never completely. There is always a small rough spot just below my left thumb that never clears up. My eczema is always there, lurking, lying in wait for the times when my mystery lover stays away, when I have no one to bring me to sweet, creamy orgasms, when I am too down to wank. When I cannot be myself. .

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Special Delivery

The card looked official. It said “A Message from Direct Mail Services. Your special delivery will arrive tomorrow at 12 noon. As this is an official court document it is a legal requirement that you be at home to receive the delivery.” The card has a very imposing looking stamp with a crown and the wording Her Majesty’s Courts and Tribunals Service. I held it in my hands for a few seconds, reflecting, Then I put it down.

I went to the kitchen, made a cup of tea and lit a cigarette. I was puzzled by this message but also a little worried. I mean, what did the courts want with me? I had no debts, I had never been in trouble with the police, and the more I reflected on it, the more worried I became.

The following day I woke early after a restless night and phoned the office to say I had a heavy cold and would not be in. And then the time dragged and dragged. I tried to do things, the washing up, read a book, anything but I just ended up smoking too many cigarettes and scrolling listlessly through my Facebook timeline.  The time dragged but, at the same time, moved remorselessly forward. Just as it must have done for condemned prisoners once upon a time I reflected.

I started when my phone burst into life with its jingly jangly alarm call melody.  It was noon. I was about to find out.

I looked through the front room window as the delivery man opened the gate and walked confidently up to the front door. His uniform was dark blue with yellow trim, not quite like the Direct Mail corporate uniform, and then he had his cap pulled down to obscure his face.  But the way he walked seemed familiar. I smiled to myself. I was feeing better already.  I went to the door but he didn’t knock.

“On your knees by the letter box” said a commanding masculine voice. I complied. The flap of the letter box opened and I was suddenly eyeball to eyeball with the fat purple bell end of a most magnificent cock. It was hard, ribbed with veins, the tip already glistening.

“You know what to do.”

This was as much a command as a statement. And I set greedily to work, long slow movements punctuated by whippings with the tongue, feeling it grow ever harder in my mouth as I quickened the tempo. I pressed face against the door to give him the space to face fuck me. He pushed hard as I sucked on his end and three hard choking thrusts later he came with a moan that someone surely must have heard in the street outside.

I gasped and coughed and the come dripped down my chin and onto my top. Then he knocked the door as I hoped he would, document or no document.  As I opened the door, he pushed his way in, bow with a stocking over his head.  I had never enjoyed his cock before but now that I could smell him I was sure I knew who he was. And he was welcome here, especially if I could enjoy his cock again.

He whipped out a pair of handcuffs and used them with a speed and dexterity that left me unable to resist. He attached me to the stair rail.

“You have been a naughty girl” he said. He took a paper handkerchief and wiped the come from around my mouth. Then he pulled down my skirt and panties, bent me over and fucked me from behind, fucked me hard, fucked me until I could take no more and I felt warm come flowing down my inner thigh.

He freed my hands and handed me a delivery note to sign. In my orgasmic daze

“Sign here please Madame to confirm the delivery was safely received.”

I handed it back. He tore off a copy for me and smiled.

“My number is on there if you have any problems with the delivery.”

“Thank you” I muttered.

“Well I am sure we will meet again. I am glad I could be of service.”

He turned and left without looking round.

I sat for a while, enjoying a cigarette (and cigarettes after sex are always the best ones aren’t they?).  picked up the phone and dialled the number on the delivery note. I was sure there was more to be delivered. And I wanted it before dinner.

 

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The Only Sex I Ever Wanted

I am one of the rare exceptions. I was a virgin when I got married. And I wasn’t in a hurry to have sex with a woman. I mean, I had always wondered what it must be like and I felt a bit of a freak because I had never penetrated a woman. I would sit on the bus to work, observe other men reading their newspapers, gazing out of the window or picking their noses thinking no one was watching.  And I would think, they have all had sex, they all know what is like to get hard, thrust their penis into the warm wet channel that was the biggest mystery of all to me, and I felt inferior, I felt a stranger in the world. And now I was going to get married, I was going to consummate the marriage (how massively important that sounded!), father children, be a real man who could look the nosepicker in the hi viz on the number 9 bus full in the face, man to man.

But I had my little secret. I had already discovered the only sex I ever really wanted. I was 16 when I cast off the particular shame of my Catholic altar boy background and massaging my bellend with my left thumb, ejaculated thick creamy come over my pubic hair, rolled over to grind against the bed sheet feeling the damp spread underneath my groin, breathing hard to capture the new smell that made my retch at first but which I quickly got used to. I rolled over again and enjoyed the way that the semen had matted my pubic hair. I kind of knew then, as I lay in bed, listening to John Peel that autumn evening in 1977 that this was really it. That my need for PiV sex was really just socially conditioned.  Which didn’t mean I could do without it.

12 years later, 19th August 1989 to be precise, Julie and I climbed into my rusty Ford Cortina which friends had thoughtfully decorated with tin cans tied to the rear bumper, waved goodbye to our wedding guests and set off to spend our first married night in an airport hotel.  And there we made love. It wasn’t at all bad. I got hard quickly, maintained my erection, Julie was wet and I managed it despite my nerves.  Julie didn’t come but reassured me that it will all get better. She had read it in a book.

She got out of bed and went to the bathroom. My left hand darted below the duvet and I masturbated to completion, finishing just as she came back into the bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

“Er nothing.”

She lifted up the duvet and saw the damp patch.

“You’ve been playing with yourself. Why? Why?”

I had no answer.

“You’re married now. That changes things. If you want sex you’ve got me. Or am I not good enough for you?”

Again I said nothing. Julie sat on the edge of the bed and began to cry.

“How do you think that makes me feel? How?”

“How?”

“Humiliated. Humiliated David. This was supposed to be the biggest day of my life. And look how it’s ended up. I have a husband who prefers playing with himself and I daren’t think what you fantasise about while you’re doing it, why you prefer it to what you are supposed to do as a husband. I feel sick.”

There was a single bed in the room. She went over to it and lay down, her back to me.

I turned out the light and tried to sleep but couldn’t.  The silence was punctuated by Julie’s sobbing.  I rolled over in the damp stickiness and smelt my come. I was quickly on my feet, rushing to the toilet to be sick into the white porcelain.

Julie and I did get divorced but only after fifteen years by which we had 2 lovely teenage girl twins and a younger boy. Our life together wasn’t unhappy but never quite what either of us would have hoped for on that hot August day in 1989.

Julie did get used to my need to masturbate. She realised that it didn’t have to be a substitute for sex with her but was a kind of reward for me and one I looked forward to. After a few years I began to have problems with erectile dysfunction and it saved our marriage, for a few years at least. For I was able to use this reward as the incentive to get hard for her.  It took time and patience, not least on her part, but the thought that I could have a wank helped me get there. And if it didn’t I punished myself with self-imposed chastity until the next time. I tried Julie, I really did.

Nonetheless it was a relief when I moved out. On my first night on my own I took Sophie Dahl out of the drawer and masturbated to her, slowly and satisfyingly. I knew I would be single from now on. Because this was really the only sex I ever wanted.

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Home Alone with Svenja

I was in a hurry that evening, the 9th November 1989. I was probably the only Westerner fighting his way through the crowds by the Wall, waving away proffered bottles of beer as I headed for the border checkpoint.

“Where are you going?” I heard shouts. “The party is here.”

I kept my head down. I needed to be in East Berlin on this of all nights. I needed to see Svenja who I hadn’t seen for four months, turned back at the border each time. I figured I could get through unobserved, unchecked in the jubilant chaos.

And I was right. I pushed my way past crowds flocking the other way, past exhausted and bewildered border guards who had no will to check anything anymore.  I ran and soon found myself at the U Bahn station from where I could take a train to Svenja’s flat.

Fifteen minutes later I dashed up steps into a dimly lit and empty street. I was once again in East Berlin and I had the city to myself. I pushed open the wooden door of the decaying building where Svenja had her flat. I flicked the light on and ran up the stairs, still polished to a shine even as the plaster crumbled from the façade, needing to make the next landing before the light went out.

I flicked the next switch and has light for the final push to the second floor. I was now hard and cold feel precome leaking out and soaking my boxers. I needed Svenja, I needed Svenja the convinced Communist who would never, surely, leave for the West, Svenja who I worshipped in her blue Freie Deutsche Jugend shirt, Svenja who was probably informing on me to the Stasi, Svenja who could have anything she wanted from me.

Her front door opened. As I turned right into the landing she stood before me, dressed, as I had  hoped, in only her unbuttoned FDJ shirt, which both cloaked and emphasised her breasts.

“I knew you would come” she said simply.

There, in the doorway I knelt before her, kissed her feet, worked my way up her legs, and when I began to lick at her cunt my head was already enveloped by her shirt, the shirt that I had longed to have. I pressed my face into her pubic hair, tasted her juices, like a traveller tormented by thirst who had stumbled upon an oasis.

She grabbed my hair and began to pull me along the hallway to her bedroom. The door to the flat remained wide open. We didn’t care.

I kissed her breasts, kissed the badge on her shirt, took my swollen cock in my hand and moved into position to push into Svenja’s wet cunt.

Less than a mile away history was being made. But we didn’t care. We had each other, four months to make up for, and a city all to ourselves. I thrust hard and long and came with a loud cry.  Svenja didn’t come so I worked her clit with my tongue until she, too, climaxed. Then we sat in bed, drinking Bulgarian brandy and smoking f6 cigarettes. We said little. It was as if we didn’t need to. I wanted to fuck her again, this time more slowly but I was tired, it had been a long and exhausting day and I fell asleep in her arms.

She had to shake me to wake me the following morning. I knelt up on the bed, looked out of the window to where the TV tower was flashing its red light over the grey morning as if noting had happened.  Times were changing and there were things I needed to ask Svenja and which she could surely now answer. But, as so often, she was first to speak.

“Kneel up and say what I like you to say.”

“Es lebe die Deutsche Demokratische Republik!” I said, parodying the voice of the recently departed First Secretary Honecker and went down on her.

If one socialism was about to pass into history, I reflected, Svenja and I would build another. Fuck by fuck by fuck.