I can't sleep and I had a row with Husband earlier over why I'm such a frigid bitch. I can't use the "It's not you, it's me" line because it's such a cliche and besides, it's not wholly true. Some of it IS him. The drinking and consequent lack of erection bothers me. And I don't think I am frigid. I get urges. Sometimes it slams me so hard in the gut I'd happily jump the man in the butchers whose fat hangs so far below his waist, it swings as he moves.
OK. Maybe not him.
I am thinking now; thinking back to pre-marriage, pre-child and pre-weight gain. When I was an uninhibited student. (For uninhibited, read "slut"). There is one encounter that I always draw on when in need of release. Sometimes I wonder if it actually did happen at all, or whether my sexually-frustrated mind wished so hard, it made it into something so real, I can still feel and smell and taste every second of the most memorable night of my life. I'll share it, because if it's written down then it's there in black and white. And you might enjoy it too.
(I have removed my name from the following, to protect my anonymity and those mentioned within. )
The indroduction was short, to the point. "S*****, this is Alex. Alex; S*****." Phil jabbed a thumb at each of us in turn as he said our names. I held out my hand to shake politely, Alex grabbed it, pulled me towards him and kissed me on the cheek. I grinned and we headed into the pub to meet with the rest of the group.
From the beginning the tension between us was palpable. Gazes were held for longer than socially acceptable, as he told his stories from his travels around practically the whole world, his eyes never left mine, as though he was recounting them to me and me alone. Within an hour I'd forgotten where I was. The noise of the bar, the thick smoke, the stench of stale ale and Motorhead roaring out of the jukebox; all that seemed to fade. As we played our drinking games, every accidental touch from him seemed to send charges coursing through my body. The beer kept flowing, tongues were loosened, inhibitions began to subside and I swear, that night, I've never laughed as much. Something about being in the company of good friends, with flowing beer and under the gaze of a dark, intense member of the opposite sex was invigorating.
The more lightweight members of our group soon cried off though: pleading inebriation, exhaustion and deadlines as excuses to leave far too early. The rest of us decided somewhat boldly that we'd hit a strip club after the pub closed. We were down to four, and Phil and his other friend Adam had garnered the attentions of two women and were currently busy making out in dark corners of the bar, leaving Alex and I alone at our now deserted, beer-stained table. In contrast, we were not touching, and in fact, not saying very much. Just small talk. He asked me about my life; my stories were pale in comparison to his adventures, but he listened and asked questions. I was a bar supervisor, he was an armed cop. I was recently single after dropping my deadbeat boyfriend. He was long-term single as his job demanded a level of commitment not conducive to having a woman at home. As we talked, he lightly traced patterns on my hand, which was resting on my knee. I was having trouble concentrating.
Without warning, my stomach rumbled, snapping me back into the real world momentarily as I realised I hadn't eaten since breakfast and I was starving. "Let's go and get something to eat," he suggested and I nodded mutely. After arranging to meet up with Phil and Adam later, Alex and I left the bar and headed towards Piccadilly Circus. Neither of us knew where we were going but it didn't seem to matter. He took my hand decisively and I watched him as he led me across the teeming Shaftesbury Avenue towards Chinatown.
It didn't take us long to find somewhere. Every second shopfront seemed to be some sort of restaurant and the aromas were enough to make me near faint with hunger. After mutually choosing a place, we emerged a while later with boxes and bags filled with duck rolls, pancake rolls, sesame toasts. Finger foods. We ate as we walked around, not heading anywhere in particular, just taking the opportunity to see more of London: its people, its tourists, its secrets. We laughed a lot, at ease with each other and slipped into a comfortable, often teasing banter. He fed me a bite of duck roll and without thinking, I caught his finger in my teeth and licked it slightly. He was surprised for a split second then smiled slightly and I knew that without thinking, I'd caused things to shift up a notch.
As we headed back to meet the others, he suddenly stopped dead and pulled me in close. We stood there, noses millimetres apart for what seemed like an hour, and the kiss when it came was a shock. It was so delicate, so faint. I'd expected him to be aggressive, every move on his part that night was executed with an underlying dominance. However the kiss was soft but suggestive as I felt the gentlest flicker of his tongue on my lips before he pulled away.
We reached the others shortly after, paid the exhorbitant entrance fee into the strip club and climbed the stairs into the dingy bar area. I can't remember the name, I'm not sure I ever knew it, I wasn't paying attention. Phil led the way past the bar and into the stage area. It wasn't very big, not at all what I'd expected, meaning that the girls were close. VERY close. It made it all the more erotic and as we took our seats I sat down fascinated, watching a very pretty brunette writhe around a silver pole in the middle of the tiny stage. She was close enough so I could see the faint regrowth of her pubic hair and it was nothing like I'd expected it to be. A quick cursory glance around revealed I was the only woman in there; in fact apart from us, the rest of the clientele were middle-aged men.
Alex took off his jacket and laid it gently across his knee then placed his left hand on my thigh. He began to lightly trace his fingers across my leg, down to my knee where he idly circled his fingers and thumb. Sometimes little more than a feather touch, then he'd knead a little harder. His actions and the naked girl on stage were starting to make me incredibly aroused.
This went on for ages; the girls came and went and he just kept on caressing and stroking. He was priming me and I knew it. Slowly getting me more and more turned on until I'd be all but powerless to stop. I shifted in my seat slightly to get comfortable, and it was then that he carefully placed his jacket on my lap, covering his hand. I looked down in confusion and then at him and what I saw on his face made my stomach churn. I knew then what he was going to do. He studied me for a second, his expression questioning, giving me one last opportunity to say no. I didn't. I smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly and he began. He turned slightly to face me in the tacky red velvet chair and he switched hands, his right one now, moving it inwards, in between my legs, gently pushing them apart at the knees. With one eye on the stripper and the rest of the room he began to lightly caress the inside on my thigh under my skirt. He never rushed, never forced. He took his time, making damn sure that every single nerve in my body was alert with anticipation. As his hand moved slowly higher my breathing became more shallow. His other hand snaked behind my head and he gently played with the nape of my neck, kneading it softly with his thumb. Then he leaned in and rained soft kisses on my neck, jaw and earlobe. I was on fire. I squirmed in my seat as blood pooled in my groin and there was a roaring in my ears. I felt like I was going to burst if he didn't move his hand to where I wanted it soon. He knew what he was doing though. The most torturous of foreplay is always agonisingly, deliciously slow. I moved my hand across to his lap and was surprised to find him rock hard. I couldn't move my hand much though as he had me pinned. All the time he was whispering in my ear, filthy and suggestive phrases peppered with the odd command and request. "Don't move." "Where would you like my hand to go?" "Do you like this?" I was a gibbering idiot when his fingers finally glanced ever so slightly over the crotch of my pants which were pretty wet by this point. He seemed pleased that I was so turned on, called me a "wicked girl" which I loved, and his pressure increased slightly as his fingers found my clit. That was all it took. Just one touch. I gasped and climaxed so suddenly and so hard, my head snapped back in the chair and I arched, raising slightly out of the seat. He kept his hand where it was as my whole body trembled and only moved it to rest on my thigh once I'd stopped shaking and got my breath back.
"Fuck me," I breathed in awe as my tremors subsided and he murmured in reply, "Count on it."
We left then, making our excuses to our friends and practically falling down the stairs onto the street. I was in charge now, and I led him by the hand towards the nearest tube station, almost getting run over by those wobbly rickshaws and the occasional black cab. We weaved our way through the back streets of Soho, running and laughing. Every single one of my senses was on fire. We weren't far from Covent Garden when he suddenly pulled me into little more than an alley. All foreplay gone now, the kiss that came next was hard and forceful and we slammed against a wall as lips parted, tongues clashed and I vaguely remember it was raining. Within minutes my dress was soaked and clinging to my body, somehow intesifying every sensation, making my nipples as hard as pebbles so that with every movement of his torso on mine, the contact sent shivers pulsing down into my groin. He had me pinned with my back to the wall and I blindly fumbled with his belt and the fly of jeans allowing his cock to spring free, gasping, panting and moaning.
I remember a fumbling with a condom and then blazing heat as he thrust into me hard, all the way to the hilt. He had his hands under my butt and I had my legs wrapped around his waist. He held me there and with every thrust he slammed me into the wall behind. Only later on did I realise I was covered in grazes across my back and shoulders from each repetitive thrust but at that moment it only served to arouse me more. Something about that pain mixed with the pleasure I was getting from him set me on fire.
His teeth grazed and bit my neck, my ears and my lips; my hands were clenched in his hair. I was vaguely aware that I was half sobbing, half laughing as he brought me closer and closer to orgasm. He came with a roar and a final thrust and afterwards as we were disentangling ourselves, every limb movement felt slow but sore as every muscle had been stretched taut and clenched.
The journey back to my hotel was one I can only recall vaguely. From the moment we stepped onto the escalator at the tube station to the minute the elevator doors opened and we fell out onto the third floor corridor of the hotel, laughing and whispering "shhh!" we'd probably only stopped kissing three or four times. I knew we were getting all manner of looks from the other tube passengers, but I didn't care and neither did he as he never let me go once.
We pretty much destroyed my room. As the door closed behind us, we were tearing at each others clothes, occasionally laughing at stubborn buttons and clasps. I ripped his shirt, he tore my bra clean off my body. Clothes were strewn everywhere as we made our way across to the bed, but we didn't stay there for long. We fucked on the floor, the armchair, the table, against a wall, in the shower. Lamps fell and smashed, a curtain got yanked from its rail and a shelf in the bathroom got seriously loosened. I have no idea how he managed to stay hard, I know we got through a full pack of condoms. We tied each other up and terrorised each other with tongues, fingers, ice, and spirits from the mini-bar. We finally fell asleep at around 6am, totally exhausted and so sore I knew I wouldn't be able to sit properly for a week. I'd been spanked, slapped, licked, sucked and I made damn sure I gave as good as I got.
We woke up about two hours later and were both too exhausted to move, so we just laid there talking and recalling exactly what we'd done the night before. We had a chance to scrutinise each other's bodies as the murky morning sun beamed through the window; the curtains still open from the night before. He showed me scars he'd obtained as a result of his job and then marvelled over my various dents and scrapes and tattoos. Upon discovering my back was filled with tiny bits of gravel from being slammed into the wall, he was mortified until I told him it was okay and I didn't care. We had sex again then, not frantic and intense like the night before, this time it was slow and sensual and brought with it a whole new batch of sensations.
I checked out early and we went out for breakfast after desperately trying to put the wreckage of my room back together and sharing a long shower. No sex this time as I'm not sure either of us had anything left. It wasn't uncomfortable between us though. I don't suppose it could have been really as we were laughing too hard over the amount of damage we'd done. I was only mildly concerned that my credit card would be hit for the damage later.
My train home was at noon, his shortly afterwards, so the rest of the morning we wandered around and ended up on a tour bus where we headed straight for the back seat, and missed most of the tour as we made out instead. No urgency this time though, it was far more tender, as though we were a new couple, still in that honeymoon phase.
I was standing on the platform at the side of my train by 11:50 and we both knew that this was it, just a one time thing. I didn't mind too much - we swapped email addresses and phone numbers but I knew we'd lose contact quickly, we were from two different worlds. We kissed deeply for a long time once more time before I boarded my train and I think I smiled all the way home.
I'd like to thank Club Quarters in the City of London for advertising your rooms cheaply on LastMinute.com. I'm also very sorry about the mess to my room. Thank you for never charging the damage to my credit card.
