Getting The Block

I have had a lot of good sex recently. I have had sex with a cisgendered man, a cis woman, and a trans woman. I suppose I count as pansexual. I have been horny for much of the time and would have had more sex of time permitted. But stuff gets in the way, work, domestic matters, and writing. Writing? I haven’t written anything for a month and it seems almost as if  I need not ti be having much sex to be able to reflect on it and write. Some of this sex has been mind blowing, particularly when my friend Stephanie and I seized the moment in Birmingham’s main lesbian bar. Erotic tension had been hanging in the air as we talked and drank pints of Stella Artois.It was a relief when she took the initiative, pushing me into the outside loo and bolting the door behind us. I kissed her, buried my face in her breasts, then knelt on the cold floor to work her clit with my tongue before pushing my fingers into her cunt, which was wet and dilating rapidly. Four fingers went in and worked up and down, increasing the tempo until, she came with a moan which must have been heard by the several people trying the door.

Just like car sex this was exciting because we courted discovery and had little time. It left me the most amazing high but unable to write. I have had ideas for blog posts which I have discarded, others I have written but feel unable to publish  because  they are born of my darkest, most intimate fantasies.

And then came the call for the Eroticon anthology with the subtext “Truth”. I had a day off work and sat for three hours over my new exercise book. I write nothing. I fantasised, I masturbated, I came but no words were out down in the page.

But last week, with a little distance from this wonderful sex, I got some ideas down. I will get my mojo back. I am going to fuck myself creative. And I hope you like the result.

A Fit Bird

I am sure I heard a compliment as I walked into the gym. You know, one of the kind that most women don’t enjoy.

I am sure I hear the words “fit bird” from one of the two builders as they see me go by and haul up their trousers to hide the cleavage.

I look round and glare. They make eye contact and smile defiantly.

“Wankers” I mutter underneath my breath and go in to begin my workout.

I love the feel of Lycra, love the look of my sculpted legs in pink legging the tightness around the crotch. I am aware of the looks I attract as I work out but I pretend not to notice. I always start on the exercise bike and, even at 6.30 in the morning, I am reading. I read obsessively and usually have four books on the go. One of these is always a book of filth.

I don’t mind reading openly in the gym, in fact, if they want to look at me, and admire, my legs , my bum, my tits beneath the loose fitting top, let them know what kind of woman I am.  I read, I pedal my way into an easy rhythm, feel the Lycra hugging my skin. Exercise can be deeply sensual and I am feeling aroused even before I begin to read.

I read a page, dwelling on the words, the images, I put the book down, I feel again the Lycra on my skin, the tightness of the leggings around my crotch.  A damp patch is forming, darkening the pink.

I pull Natalie to the ground, roughly pull down her blouse. I suck greedily at her nipples, pulling the breasts, squeezing hard with y lips and twisting so that she gasps with pain that is at the same time pleasure.  I draw her head close pulling her hair as I do so.  I want to hurt her, want her to feel pain, because this makes me horny. I kiss her, pushing my tongue into her mouth as roughly as I can. ,

“I am going to make you suffer for making me suffer when I read your book, in the gym, on the bus, in places where I ache for relief but can’t get any, because I spend so much time at the office when I should be working, locked in a cubicle in the ladies’, playing with myself.”

I kiss her again. She smells of cider, of the roll up cigarettes we have often shared outside conference venues, the hair is unwashed and unkempt but she smells of animal sexuality. She is so different to me, no make-up, there is a mysterious masculinity about her whereas I am all girl. I kiss her again and smudge my bright red lipstick over her cheek. This is a marker of my ownership.

“You’re a filthy slut and I am going to spank you hard.”

I drag her roughly over my knee and pull down her panties. I rubbed my hand over the blank white canvas of her buttocks and pinched until she cried out. I lay my left arm across the base of her spine and, cupping my hand loosely, took aim.  The force of the first blow reverberated back through my hand.  The second made my hand sting. She cried out as it landed and left a red hand print on her right buttock.

I continued, building up the tempo, feeling the warmth I generated. I felt arousal as I began to hit hard and rhythmically and she began to moan. After a while I stopped and caressed her glowing buttocks before digging my fingernails in to twist and scratch,

“Stop it you bitch!”

“You what?”

I dig in harder.

“Fucking bitch” she shouts as I drew blood.

“Your turn now” she says. She stands up, walks across the room and picks up a dildo and harness.

“I am going to take you up the bottom.”

I am soaking wet by now.

“I just want you inside me. Just do it.”

And she bends me over a chair, felt for me with two fingers, before pushing in inside slowly, with a cold slap of lube. She thrusts and I pedal. She is strong, she is forceful and I am aware of a shift in the power dynamic of this encounter. She is pushing harder than I have known before. I clench the muscles to tighter my passage against the invasion. But yield as I must. I cry out as if seeking rescue. Natalie’s buttocks sting and now she is turning the tables on me.

I lean forward and increase the speed of the exercise bike a notch. I feel a stabbing brain in my quads. I need more of this. And when Natalie has finished, she takes off the harness, throws it casually aside and returns to her writing.

I am wet.  A patch of darker pink is spreading across my crotch like tea through a sugar lump. I raise myself slightly out of the saddle from which I am starting to slip to keep pedalling.  I am nearly done, I have burned a bacon sandwich worth of calories but I will resist that temptation as I pass the café on my way home. I pedal hard, embrace the pain.

And even now that I am so nearly spent, Natalie isn’t finished with me.  She looks up from her laptop and motions to me to lie down again and spread my legs. Once more she straps on the dildo and approaches. She is magnificent, six feet of Amazon in stockinged feet, a toned body. She takes my wrists and holds them tight, pushing them roughly to the sheet twisting the skin in her hands as he does, Chinese burn style, .

“Stop it” I say “You’re hurting me.”

Sarah says nothing, just slips a finger inside my c**t, holds it against my mouth.

“Taste” she orders quietly.

Then she takes a longer, fatter dildo, and goes down on me, pushes her way in and begins to pump forcefully. I arch my back to allow her to penetrate more deeply.

I look furtively around the gym, slip a finger inside my leggings and rub my clit as I pedal harder and faster to a climax.

I come with a scream and sink back onto the bed. The exercise bike bleeps to tell me my workout is finished.  I take a sip of Lucozade, pick up my book and kiss it.

Natalie withdraws and slides the condom off the end of the dildo. She leans over me and kisses me gently on the forehead.

“You’re a fit bird you know that?”

She smiled.

I pack my things into my gym bag. The workmen are still in the gym reception area as I leave. I smile at them and they look away, avoiding eye contact.

I swing my bag over my shoulder for the walk home.

I can’t stop smiling.

Identity

This post arises from the happy coincidence of two books I have been reading recently, books which, at first sight, don’t seem to have much in common. The first is Maya Angelou’s “See How The Caged Bird Sings.” We discussed it this morning at the monthly Birmingham Feminist Book Club. Part of a wide-ranging discussion revolved around literature as a means of self understanding, this arising from Angelou’s won discussion in her book of what reading the classics of English literature, and especially, Shakespeare, meant to her, and how she was able, by engaging with the texts, to make sense of her own experience.

This was a concept that was made real for me a couple of years ago when I was a volunteer buddy for a Community Interest Company that worked with adults experiencing mental health difficulties, in particular by encouraging them to read literature and sharing their experiences. To get a flavour of what they did I was invited to attend one of the meetings. We were reading Rose Tremain’s novel The Road Home. The group consisted of people of varying ages, many of whom lived in considerable isolation, an isolation made worse by anxiety and phobias. Some of them only left the house for the weekly meeting in a local library. Most of them had little experience of serious reading. From the discussion, however, it became clear that the book was opening doors for them and all of them were able to use the text to make sense of their own lives, at the same times bringing their won experiences to bear in interpreting the text. As they talked they gave me new insights into the book. This experience was both illuminating and humbling.

These experiences and thoughts are particularly relevant to the other book I have been reading. This is an anthology called Identity, whose contributors all attended the recent Eroticon conference. I have to declare an interest. I was one of the contributors. But that is now why I am writing about it. The content is pretty eclectic, some of it personal reminiscence, and painful reminiscence at that, some of it fantasy, some of it opinion, some of it seriously hot, you know, the stuff you read one handed.  And then there was Meg-John Barker’s piece on erotic fiction as means of self understanding which got me reflecting again on my own identity, or in this case my sexual identity and what it means to me. This short essay was in my head as I read the other pieces and enriched my reading experience.  This really is as a wonderful anthology and I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Erotic fiction has changed my life. I really don’t know why, one day in 2012, I felt the urge tio write a story about a carer in a elderly person’s home who has a relationship with a gay man whose carer he is. Other stories followed. I went online, I set up a Twitter account, I read voraciously, I discovered Eroticon and became part of a community. And a new Eve emerged, an Eve who is kinky, bisexual, who is proud to know sex workers she can call friends, an Eve committed to the freeest possible expression of human sexuality (subject to consent). In short an Eve I could not have imagined even existed only 6 years ago. It is through erotic literature that I have discovered what was previously latent, and been able to articulate it.

The main protagonist of my first story was Eric, an Oxford graduate who had been jailed for “gross indecency” in the dark days before 1967 and who experienced late sexual joy with a younger man. I killed him off at the end as the younger man had to move on and make his own way as a gay man in a different age, but acutely aware of the debt gay men, indeed all of us who are in some way not heteronormative, owe to those who suffered for daring to be different. I made sure, however, that Eric died happy, at peace with himself. I knew then that I owed him that. I know now that I owe him much more.

I’m Off to Eroticon 2017

There are just two weeks until the most awesome weekend of the year. Erotioon is the sex writer’s conference to end…….Ok cliche over. Here is my online Meet and Greet. Please check out the other awesome posts by following this link

NAME (and Twitter if you have one)

Eve Ray @EveRay1 although I attended last year under a different name. This is the name I always wanted to attend under and now I finally am. As such this is the closure of a significant chapter in my life. If you really want to know why I didn’t come as Eve before buy me a cocktail and I will tell you.

 What are you hoping to get out of Eroticon 2017?

Just as last year I just want to spend time with awesome people, a number of whom I can call friends. This is actually a precious opportunity to talk freely about aspects of my life I simply can’t tell many people about. Even on the local kink scene I don’t feel anything like the freedom I do at Eroticon.

I am also looking to learn and be inspired. I have not had anywhere as much time for writing as I would like but if I came away with my head full of ideas it will all have been worthwhile.

This years schedule at Eroticon is pretty full on but which 4 sessions do you already have marked down as ones you want to attend?

Myles Jackman is always worth listening to. I will go to Kate Lister’s Sunday session. Sex work is something that I once write about extensively and it remains a significant interest and campaigning focus for me. Sarah Bryn –Holiday’s session sounds interesting and I hope I have made the cut for DJ Fet’s rope class. I was totally awed by her scene with Lola Day at Eroticon 2015 and determined to learn even though it had never particularly been a kink of mine. I am a slow learner though!

Tell us one thing about yourself that not many people know?

I am a published poet under my real name.

If you made the papers, what would the headline be?

Revealed: Saucy secrets of the cocktail drinking pin-up girl (News of the World if still existed)

If you could have one skill for free (I.e. without practice/time/effort) what would it be?

I would love to be able to swim

Complete the sentence: I love it when…

Gentlemen stand up and offer me their seat. ……..I may be debauched, I may be a feminist but I’m an old-time gal at heart

 

 

Why I Write

I’m going to start with a piece of advice. Windmills of Your Mind is a haunting and beautiful song that lodged itself in my head nearly 40 years and, I am sure, will never leave. It is, however, a song that has rather more than its fair share of bad interpretations. The bad ones are all bad for the same reason; they are too slow, stretching the melancholy of the lyrics into sickly and maudlin sentimentalism. This is a song that needs to be suing at a tempo that reflects these lyrics. These are full of motion. They are also, as we see as the song develops, about the remorseless passage of time. Noel Harrison’s interpretation, whilst not perfect, captures this and its 2 minutes 18 seconds are just about right. My advice is, therefore, to stick to this version but of you want to look elsewhere avoid all those versions that stretch the song out to 3 minutes plus. In particular avoid Barbra Streisand’s version.

It is with this song that I want to start, One section, in particular, speaks tom me with increasing power as I grow older:

“Lovers walk along the shore

And leave their footprints in the sand.

Was the sound of distant drumming

Just the fingers of your hand?

Pictures in a hallway,

A fragment of a song,

Half remembered names and faces

But to whom do they belong?”

Consider the fragments of songs. My life, like that of everyone of my age has had its particular soundtrack and particular songs take me back to places and times, not all of them places I want to return to. The last part is the most striking of all. I am constantly reminded of the number of people I have known, family members, people at school, at university, at work, friends who have come into my life and, in many cases, drifted out of it again.  There are those I remember well, those who are simply “half-remembered names and faces.” Even the half remembering can be troublesome or maybe burdensome. Who were they fir me? How have they influenced my life? Where are they now? Do they remember me or even half remember me? At times it seems that these people, or maybe the years of life already lived that they represent, weigh heavily on my spirit. There are days when I will suddenly remember someone from the past and start to think about them.  Sometimes when I do this I feel that memories can be destructive of memory, the sheer number of them defying any attempt to order them and make them into the coherent whole that, for me, is memory.

This is really why I write, to make sense of tall and recreate my own past. When I write I may well be living in it but a creative and ordered sense of living in it, that, I find empowering, I am taking back control from an oppressive melancholy and to misquote another song “I free my mind, I free my soul.”

Writing fiction takes this a stage further and helps me to mould my lived experience into new realities. Like reading, like learning a new language it is a genuine broadening of experience, an enrichment of my life.

And those who are half remembered are in there somewhere. I may have given them a new name, a remembered face and placed them in sexual contexts they never dreamt of, (or maybe they did!). But they are there as one day, dear reader, you may too, when time has continued its remorseless progression and

“You are suddenly aware,

That the autumn leaves are turning

To the colour of her hair.”

.

Cutting the Sage Derby

This story arose from a challenge I took on last week to write a short story involving cheese.

CUTTING THE SAGE DERBY

I was about to order when a man’s voice interjected

“Excuse me, I was next.”

I looked around startled and the only words I could find were to apologise.

“I’m sorry I…”

“No worries” he said.

He brushed past me as he went up to the counter, a little too firmly, I thought, to be entirely unintended. I watched him order a wide selection of cheeses, there was Jarlsberg, Roquefort, Gruyere, the stinking Alsatian Munster, Reblochon, Shropshire Blue, Sage Derby. Observing him I decided that he was about 15 years younger than me, trim. Bearded and well….he obviously didn’t eat that much cheese. A connoisseur definitely. He picked up his jute shopping bag, now bulging with cheese, took his plastic bag of cheese and smiled as he made to walk past me.

“You know your cheeses don’t you?” I observed in a conciliatory tone.

He smiled.

“Well yes. Actually I’m having a few friends round for cheese and wine tomorrow evening. Would you like to come?”

The following evening I walked the short distance to his house, two bottles of Gewurztraminer clanking in a plastic bag as I went.

“I’ve got a confession to make” he said as we clinked glasses and looked at the cheese laid out on the table. “I said I was having a few friends round. In fact there’s only going to be us.”

“And your friends?”

“I kind of uninvited them.”

He smiled.

“And if I hadn’t come?”

“That was a risk it was well worth taking.”

He took the wine glass out of my hand and placed it on the table.

We kissed. I buried my face in his luxuriant facial hair, pushed back against him, forcing my tongue in deep. After a while he struggled free and said

“We really can’t let this cheese go to waste can we?”

On the table he had laid out the cheeses on wooden boards. He took a piece of Sage Derby and with the knife carved it into a green veined cock. I dropped my skirt and took up handfuls of the soft goats cheese and smothered my mound in it. He knelt before me, licking it off eagerly before tonguing my swollen clit. He moved down to nibble gently, teasingly at my labia before sliding the Sage Derby dildo into my rapidly dilating pussy. Slowly, cautiously at first, then gradually picking up

the tempo, he slid it in and out. He pulled it out, and offered it to me. I sucked, gently, felt the cheese soften in my mouth, gently tongue whipped the end, then bit off a chunk, swallowed it with my sour juices as I did so. .

I took a piece of Gruyere from the board, placed two fingers in the largest hole and rubbed gently to widen it. I slipped it over his cock and moved it backwards and forwards. As his prick hardened and swelled, the cheese broke and I caught the pieces in my hand, put them in my mouth, chewing slowly before dragging him forward and placing my mouth over his, passing the cheese from mouth to mouth. With a violence that caught me by surprise he pushed me back onto the table. I felt a Camembert squeezed under my back, its ripening softness gushing from the crust. Biscuits fragmented under my buttocks as he forced my legs apart and climbed on top to fuck me, slow and hard, slow and hard, then gathering in speed and intensity as he moved in and out until the orgasm ripped through me and I could see nothing but green veins of ecstasy pulsing through me, to every corner of my body like the sage spreading through a Derby cheese.

As he withdrew he sent come spilling onto a piece of Reblochon. I licked greedily and ate.

“I presume you’ve planned dessert?” I asked.

 

No Trumps at the Ace Cafe

This is a chapter from a novella I am working on. Claire, my heroine, is a young lady with a passion for vintage who sets out to find her perfect man and have loads of good sex as she does so……..

Claire was delighted at Dorothy’s news but it had the effect of increasing her own frustration. She redoubled her man hunt. Her encounters so far had been unsatisfying. So she placed an advert in the personals section of a classic car magazine.

‘Lovely fifties girl. Has Zodiac, will travel. Seeks mechanic with a piston for her cylinder.’

There were just two replies and only one of these seemed worth following up. She soon found herself driving down to London for a rendez-vous with a man called Paul at the Ace Cafe. It was the evening of the monthly Mark Two Consul/Zephyr/Zodiac meet. There would be loads of sexy cars and Claire  hoped too that Paul, with his Zephyr, would be the man of her dreams. She was day dreaming even before the day she had arranged to go down to London to meet Paul. She imagined the traditional semi they would live in with the period furniture, the box television set with the nine inch screen, the his and hers Zodiac and Zephyr parked on the drive.

 

She wore a skirt to drive down the M40 to London, cruising at a stately 55 mph, with her left hand

down her front playing with herself. It was going to be a long drive back if she didn’t score and, in

any event, she needed to be wet enough to do it quickly, round the back of the cafe or maybe on his backseat after dark. Either way, she was going to be gagging for it. She was going to be ready.

 

The Ace Cafe is a London motoring legend, located on the North Circular Road. Claire had long planned to go down, to one of the Owners’ Club meets. Claire enjoyed petrolhead talk. She knew her stuff. It’s just that she felt that a girl does need a little looking after and surely a man should be able to look after her car in exchange for his home-baked treats, the pleasure of having a woman as striking and as stylish as Claire on his arm, most of all for being able to have sex every day and three times most days. It was Claire’s first visit and when she pulled onto the forecourt and parked her Zodiac among a bevy of its brothers and sisters and Ford Consul cousins, there were hosts of admiring looks. And not just for the car. A crowd soon gathered round. One man stood away from the crowd looking a little unsure of himself. He waited until Claire withdrew a little way to light a cigarette and introduced himself.

 

‘Hi I’m Paul. You must be the girl in need of a piston.’

Claire smiled. ‘I certainly am. I hope it’s a big one and that it throbs and gets really really hard.’

‘Well’ laughed Paul nervously, ‘I’ve got loads of spares in my boot. Would you like to have a look?’

Claire was puzzled by this. Surely he didn’t mean piston literally? Sadly he did and opened the boot

of his Zephyr to reveal a mass of Ford spares chucked in any old how.

 

‘This here is a layshaft for a Consul gearbox’ he explained with a smile ‘and this is a Mark Three

Zephyr steering box and this, I got this at an autojumble…. how much were you looking to pay?’

‘Paul’ she said crossly. ‘I have come from the Black Country to see you and your car. The least you

can do is take me inside and buy me something to eat.’

 

Inside the Ace Cafe Claire ordered a burger and a banana milkshake. She was going to do things in proper fifties style. Paul seemed suddenly nervous as if Claire’s intentions were slowly dawning on him. As the drinks arrived and he could see whatever Claire wanted was to be put off for half an hour or so he relaxed. Although clearly shy he began to talk animatedly about his interest in cars. Claire tried to steer the conversation round to sex but he didn’t get the hint. Then Paul asked

 

‘Why does a girl like you drive a Zodiac?’

 

‘I love the Fifties’ she said, ‘the styles the fashions, the cars. And the Mark Two Zodiac is perfect for sex. Bench seats front and rear, a big throbbing six pot to get me in the mood. It turns heads. It’s not only men that can use big cars to pull you know.’

 

She looked at Paul who was clearly a little uncomfortable. Claire continued.

‘I will clean and wash and iron. I love being a girl and I will pamper my man. All I ask in return is that my man look after my car and looks after me, that he brings me flower, hugs me when am I sad and, most of all,’ she leaned forward again to continue in a whisper, ‘is always ready to fuck me. I need sex every day, lots of it, and if you don’t want it as much as I do then you’re not the man for me.’

Paul continued to look gormless. He shuffled nervously in his chair as Claire sucked intently on her straw and looked at him.

‘I’m sorry Claire I didn’t realise I…’

Claire ate a last mouthful of burger and said

‘I’ve driven down from Dudley to see you. I haven’t been fucked for four weeks. What are you going to do?’

‘Well I suppose, if you really wanted to…’

‘I do want to’ said Claire fixing him with a stare. ‘Do you want to?’

‘Yes’ said Paul quietly.

‘I’m going to pop to the loo. I’ll text you when the coast’s clear. If anyone sees you and asks what you’re doing, I’m stuck and you’re coming to help me. Alright?’

Paul was shaking as Claire strode off . Paul watched her go, listened to the heels clattering up the metal stairs like a ringing out of hos doom. It seemed like an age but was in fact only thirty seconds before his phone buzzed and shook on the formica topped table. He put it in his pocket and went off to his fate.

As he entered the ladies the door of the first cubicle opened and he was pulled inside. He heard the latch slide in behind him as Claire put her arms round him and pulled his face towards hers and slide her tongue into his mouth.

Paul was unused to sexually assertive woman, or at least to those who didn’t take money off you. As they kissed Claire let her skirt fall around her ankles and took Paul’s hand and guided it to her pussy. Pausing from kissing him she whispered

‘Put a finger inside and feel if I’m wet enough.’

Paul did as he was told. He said

‘You’re quite wet.’

‘I played with myself all the way down the M1 just to be ready. Before I set off I lay on the bonnet and felt the vibration of the engine against me. Six cylinders, six rock hard pistons going in and out. What does that remind you of?’

Paul said nothing.

‘It’s the sexiest car I’ve ever had. I’ve got Ford publicity brochures at home and thee are shots of women in fifties dresses and driving gloves and I bet you’ve seen them too, dreamed of fucking them, I bet you lie in bed with pictures of them and play with yourself. I’m like them, I’m your dream come true. Satisfy me now and you can have me in my Zodiac next time, and I’ll wank you with my leather driving gloves and you can come all over the seat, and I’ll lick it up and……feel me again’

Paul put a finger in.

‘How many fingers?’

Paul tried with two, then three, then four and Claire whispered

‘I’m going to lean over the loo and you can take me from behind. I’m so wet you’ll go straight in. I want it deep and slow’

Claire took a condom out of her handbag and handed it to him.

‘If you’re a good boy I’ll put it on with my tongue next time I see you.’

She let her panties fall on top of her skirt turned away from Paul; and bent over the toilet. She heard him fumble with the condom wrapper then heard him roll it on. So he had used one before. That was a relief. She felt his hands on her buttocks and the fumbling of his penis searching for the right opening.

With a touch of impatience she reached beneath her crotch seized the hardening member and guided into her.

‘In deep and work slowly’ she gasped and let out a sigh as Paul set to work.

‘I’m sorry I’ve slipped out.’

‘Then try again’ hissed Claire.

‘Think about your car, if that turns you on more than me, think about a piston moving in and out of the cylinder, think about McPherson struts, think about any fucking thing but shag me. Give it to me hard.’

As Paul fumbled again she felt tears of frustration running down her cheeks.

‘Please Paul. Please, just fuck me and when I’ve come you can go home. I just need you inside me. Please.’

He moved in again and entered Claire unaided and she gasped with pleasure as she felt at last the piston enter her cylinder and move in and out.

‘What’s the firing order in a Mark Two Zodiac?’ she asked him as he warmed to his task.

‘1 5 3 6 2 4’ Paul answered without thinking.

‘Good boy’ said Claire, ‘now give me the six strokes quick and hard. I want to feel you thump against my buttocks.’

Paul withdrew until his swelling penis was right at the edge of Claire’s labia then thrust back in hard/

‘One’ he shouted. Then he repeated the action, and Claire felt a surge of pleasure coursing through her as he said

‘Five’ and Claire was suddenly far away from the toilets of the Ace Cafe; she was suddenly on Beachy Head on a summer’s day as the wind blew across the grass and she lay, legs apart on the bonnet feeling the engine at her back as a man (Paul?) worked his way in and out, straining every last muscle for her pleasure. She closed her eyes and waited for the orgasm that was waiting to explode.

Then Paul slipped out.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Claire angrily.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve gone soft…………I ……….. I only ever do it with, you know and they have no expectations just as long as I pay and they make no demands, they are kind to me but you…you want it so much.’

He began to cry.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be a real man for you Claire.’

Claire pulled him close, placed his head against her little breasts, kissed him on the top of the head and said

‘It’s alright Paul. You’re a very nice man and I’m sure you’ll find someone just right for you.’

Paul freed himself from her embrace, hoisted up his trousers and left hurriedly, not wanting to see Claire again in this moment of humiliation. Claire waited till he had gone and shouted

‘FUCK’ as loudly as she could. She beat the wall with her fist. Then she looked at the floor.

‘He could have taken the condom with him’ she thought as she picked up the used rubber with distaste, wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet. She went outside. She needed a cigarette.

It was late when she arrived home. In the bedroom, with the big welcoming double bed that was not getting the use it needed, she took the laminated Ace Cafe menu card and wrote on it in marker pen.

‘PAUL = ZERO. I WANT TO CRY’

She inserted it into her Man Hunt exercise book which she threw angrily against the wall. She shouted again

‘FUCK’ and climbed into bed. She played with her clit and dreamed of sex on the bonnet at Beachy Head before going to sleep.