‘I find that hard to believe!’ I reply and he looks away, playing the martyr.
Our food arrives. Alex picks up his fork and pushes a snail stuffed with something green and disgusting around his plate, but he doesn’t eat it. Instead, he takes a sip of wine and asks how long I think I’ll be. In reply, I tell him I’ll be a while because I have a nice big bowl of handmade ice-cream – a real culinary work of art. I slowly dip my spoon into it then slide it into my mouth just as unhurriedly, revelling in the taste and rolling my eyes.
Alex is avoiding looking at me by staring out of the window, but it’s so dark now that nothing is visible except the flickering red and white lights of passing cars.
And now it seems that my tipsy brain wants to talk about life.
‘You know, I don’t agree with placing restrictions on ourselves. I mean, why should we deny ourselves pleasure? Life already has so little and is so short!’
And that’s when he fixes me with a piercing look filled with lust. I realise that nothing now remains of his defences; the deep moat has dried up and I’m closing in on my goal.
But Alex’s willpower is made of reinforced concrete. His eyes are fixed on a full glass of expensive white wine and his plate of food is untouched, suffering in silence from his pointless picking.
*** ‘Radioactive’ by Imagine Dragons ***
‘I need to cheer the poor guy up,’ I think to myself, so I scoop up a large spoonful of ice-cream and say, ‘Do you want to try my dessert? I bet it’s a lot tastier than your green snails!’
Alex raises his eyes to mine and they are filled with torment. I open my mouth and slide the ice-cream in, the action mercilessly seductive. His stoicism slipping, he watches me, enchanted, no longer even bothering with the window. Slowly, gracefully, I stand up, walk over to him, take hold of his chin and transfer the ice-cold sweetness from my mouth to his. Our lips touch. Or kiss.
Could he have refused? Of course not. It was an unfair move on my part but a pretty safe one because anything to do with my mouth is a powerful stimulant for my extraordinary lover’s rampant sexual energy.
My act of sabotage defeats Alex once and for all. He jumps up, throws some money on the table, grabs my hand and pulls me towards the exit. We literally jump into his car, which is luckily parked somewhere relatively dark and deserted, both of us trembling with impatience.
The seatbacks go down and suddenly Alex’s mouth is on me. His lips tease me passionately, greedily, unrestrainedly. I think he even bites my thigh, but it doesn’t hurt, just inflames my desire even more. When his hands feverishly pull off my dress and he discovers I’m not wearing any underwear, it’s not a groan that escapes him, but a deep male roar.
And I feel triumphant! Every one of my missiles hit its target and this man is now uncontrollable. His hands are on my waist; my palms are on his hot chest. He pushes into me forcefully, hungrily, and it’s like he’s quenching a thirst that has been tormenting me up until this moment.
Alex doesn’t search out my gaze and, in fact, he’s not looking at all. His eyes are squeezed closed, his eyebrows are joined together in a triangle, and his forehead is wrinkled. He throws his head back, biting his lip, and starts moving faster. It is the sexiest thing I have ever seen: so much sincerity is in this man’s love making, he is so completely absorbed by it. Finally, his slightly swollen lips form a passionate ‘O’, but he stops himself from letting out what I’m guessing would be an animalistic roar by biting his lower lip, but he can’t hide it – I can already feel him throbbing inside me. Long and intense – two months of accumulated seed fills me with its energy and satisfaction.
There is nothing more beautiful than the coupling of a man and a woman and its natural conclusion intended to continue the human race. I mean, what follows speaks for itself: the man’s face glows, and his ardent lips stretch into a slow, sweet smile of satiation. With unparalleled tenderness, he snuggles up to his beloved and covers her face, neck and shoulders in kisses of happiness because this is what now needs an outlet!
Looking satisfied and content, Alex stares affectionately into my eyes, and I bite my lip to stop a tell-tale smile from giving me away. So what if I deliberately and treacherously destroyed his Taoist fortress of abstinence? The important thing is that he’s happy now. At this very moment, he’s holding my hand and his heart feels like it is ready to jump out of his chest. Not from the tension of repressed sexual energy, however, but from the endless stream of joy emanating from him.
He is a completely different person. It’s as if he was seriously ill, suffering both physically and mentally, but now he has been cured and is radiating all the colours of the rainbow.
We drive home, relaxed and content, and Alex’s smile never leaves his face. His eyes are shining and I can’t stop looking at him.
‘Why are you doing these experiments on yourself?’ I ask.
‘Why? Think about it!’ he replies, his smile momentarily gone.
‘I’ve been trying! I even did some reading on the internet,’ I admit.
He is silent for a while, then says edgily, ‘At best, I see you for maybe two days out of thirty or even less. What am I supposed to do for the other twenty-eight days when I’m already climbing the walls by day five?’
I’m horrified. This simple mathematics never occurred to me, nor did the thought of Alex trying to be faithful. Not for the whole time, of course. It’s unlikely he has gone without women all year. I mean, it would be almost impossible with his sexual appetite. I suddenly realise that my stupid question has ruined both our moods and put me in an extremely awkward situation. This man, this very hot man, wants to live with me but I have said no, yet here he is, trying to convince me that his intentions are genuine by being faithful. I never thought that such a poetically romantic idea as fidelity could turn out to be such a monstrously cruel reality when it comes to a man’s physiology.
I am furious – at myself, that is – and very nearly direct this fury at him with a stinging remark like: ‘Well, we never swore we’d be faithful to each other ‘til death do us part!’ But I bite my tongue just in time – literally, in case it has any more ideas about running away with me. It seems Alex is right. The less you say, the better.
We arrive back at his apartment and Alex says unkindly: ‘We’re not finished with this yet,’ before disappearing to take a shower, although he had one not so long ago.
I get undressed and climb into bed, on my side this time, in anticipation of some kind of exquisite sexual punishment. And, as always, I’m right.
*** ‘Shameless’ (Sofia Karlberg cover) by The Weeknd ***
Alex gets out of the shower completely naked. His wet hair is combed back, making him look slightly devilish, but also breathtakingly gorgeous. He stares at me for a long time, mysteriously, predatorily. Then he begins his caresses. He uses every one of his techniques and methods – everything he knows definitely works – and whips me up into a frenzy. I am on the brink, teetering on the very edge for what feels like an agonisingly long time, but my experienced, seemingly furious, lover has complete control over my orgasm and keeps my body at the very peak without letting me climax.
‘How’s that? Feels good? Now imagine that for two months...’ he says, but his voice cracks, crumbles. I can see how sorry and ashamed he feels, but I know he’s doing it with the sole aim of getting through to me.
‘So come and see me more often,’ I snap.
And he gets angry again, bitter. ‘Yeah? Or why don’t you actually give it some thought? Why don’t you use that big brain of yours, put everything into the cells of your analytical matrix, and finally arrive at the conclusions that would be fair to you and everyone else?’
For a brief moment, he doesn’t seem twenty-seven years old, but more like thirty-seven or even forty-seven. There is definitely something in his eyes that just doesn’t fit with his age.
His hand is placed confidently between my legs and I exhale in anticipation of relief, but his strokes are unbearabl
y slow, impossibly tender. They barely make contact, touching nothing that could alleviate my suffering. It’s starting to feel as if this level of arousal will tear me apart, kill me. At this moment, at this very second, I am a solid mass of energy so dense that I’m probably as powerful as a black hole, but this energy is being denied release and absolutely everything is being done to ensure it continues building.
His brown eyes are staring deeply into mine, and suddenly I hear, ‘I’ll help you. Just say “Yes”!’
I really hate him now. He continues stroking me.
‘One word. Just say “Yes”!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Yes, I’ll be your wife...’ he says slowly, and it now seems as if he’s making love to me with his eyes.
It is a mix of pleasure and torment, spilling smoothly over into torture, and my entreaties and cajoling fall on deaf ears. It is the first time I have experienced cruelty at the hands of the gentlest, fairest and kindest person I have ever met, and I feel emotionally on edge and shaken, almost destroyed.
At this exact moment, I desperately want to give him what he wants, but instead, I remind him, ‘You promised!’
And when the tears start to fall from my eyes, despite my efforts to hold them back, Alex stops. I can see that he’s already regretting what he’s done. His lips are pressed so tightly together that they are almost white, and his eyes are filled with pain and resentment.
An instant later, he is between my legs, pushing them wider and lifting me up slightly, his hands supporting my lower back, and enters me gently. Just a few thrusts give me what I need, but the relief isn’t immediate. Barely has one wave of internal convulsions subsided than another washes over me, even more powerful. And another, and another, again and again.
That’s how I discover what a multiple orgasm is, on this long, strange day in Paris when I have been taught the cruellest of lessons.
I’m annoyed. Really annoyed. After sex, I turn my back to him, sobbing. Not out of anger, however, but owing to the intensity of what I have just felt. For the second time in my life, my brain shamefully shut down during orgasm – the first time was on our second date in the shower.
Alex asks me for forgiveness and there is an ocean of regret in his remorse-filled words, in the timbre of his voice. He hugs me from behind, his hand pressing painfully into my stomach, and makes promises to the back of my head that he’ll never do that to me again.
But I don’t need his promises. I mean, how can I be offended when I have essentially been doing exactly the same thing to him except using female methods? He is suffering because of a limited sex life that goes against his nature and abilities.
That night is the very first one we spend annoyed with each, but we still manage to make love twice more.
The third and final time, Alex makes love to me standing up and, while my body shakes from his thrusts, he whispers into my ear softly and tenderly, ‘You are so beautiful, so desirable, so sweet... My hunger to make love to you every day, many times a day, is killing me... Tell me what to do! How can I deal with it? How do I live?’
But in place of an answer I don’t have, my mouth opens to let out the groan of yet another orgasm.
CHAPTER 11. THE CARD GAME
*** ‘Take It Easy’ (MatstubsRemix) by Jetta ***
The next morning, I am woken by the feeling of being stared at intently. The very first image sent to my brain for processing that day is more beautiful than ever: large brown irises surrounding dark pupils, with black eyelashes curving slightly upwards – Alex’s deep, intelligent eyes. They clearly want something from me, these eyes.
My gorgeous lover’s head is resting on his bent arm and he is looking fixedly at my face. For how long? I don’t know.
‘How long have you been watching me?’
‘A long time.’
‘See anything new?’
‘I wasn’t looking for anything new.’
‘So what were you doing?’
‘Sending you the right thoughts.’
That day, we visit all the main attractions in Paris: the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame de Paris, and the Basilica of Sacré-Cœur in Montmartre. But, to tell the truth, I’m not as impressed as I thought I’d be. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m here in this dream city in the cold month of February. Of all the places listed, only the Mona Lisa really sticks out, looking unexpectedly small and lonely as she does on a giant wooden stand, shielded behind glass and fenced off with a blue rope, unapproachable in so many ways, but mostly because of the crowds of tourists filling the room. I still manage to squeeze through to at least look at her from a distance of five metres or so, but I can’t see anything, anything at all. I mean, maybe if you removed her from her glass cocoon, placed her on a stand right in front of your nose, turned off the light and illuminated the canvas with special lights, then her enigmatic smile would reveal itself, but why bother? Why bother when I can look at a much more exquisitely expressive and versatile smile by simply turning around, where there is a tall young man with long, slightly curly black hair and intelligent brown eyes.
The only place that really impressed me was Notre-Dame, with its Catholic grandeur and the historicity coursing through its high arches, its carved candelabra, and its elaborate stained glass windows that continue to dazzle humanity with their beauty hundreds of years later. The Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris is compelling in its magnificence and beauty and unparalleled in its elegance, tranquillity, and creation. It is also unique in terms of the wisdom of those who built it and departed this life a little less than ten centuries ago, bequeathing to us this masterpiece for our edification.
The enormous, ancient organ wraps the congregation in its divine music and also the tourists, of which there are countless numbers in an endless flow. Hot tears are streaming down my cheeks. For my poor soul, tormented over the last twenty-four hours and overflowing with an incomprehensible longing, this sacred music is the final straw my emotions were missing to make me start crying.
Alex hugs me especially tenderly and kisses my wet cheeks, his hot breath burning them, my neck, my ears. He whispers words of regret and begs forgiveness for what he’s done. But I don’t know what, exactly, he’s asking forgiveness for.
I mean, I really don’t understand, because it seems completely obvious to me now that I am solely to blame for what is going on. From the very beginning, Alex has had nothing but the purest of intentions. In his desire to be my husband, he is only following the natural progression of his feelings provided by nature, assigned by God, dictated by duty. Unlike me, who is steeped in sin, selfishness, adultery, and even cruelty towards him.
Back at his grey glass apartment, no sooner has the door closed behind us than we throw ourselves at each other and can’t let go. Neither hunger nor the need to take a shower after a long day visiting tourist attractions can stop us – we are ravenous. This is the most common scenario when we get together, with the plot usually centred around either lack of restraint, irrepressible desire or unbridled chemistry.
Alex is just trying to pull off his jumper without breaking off our hungry kiss when the door to his apartment opens to reveal the glowing face of Alex’s blue-eyed friend, Mark.
‘Whoa, guys! Still eating each other, I see,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Fancy spending the evening with some friends of mine?’
Alex is clearly unhappy at the interruption and looks at me questioningly.
‘That would be great!’ I beam.
Alex nods without much enthusiasm, I suspect mostly because I agreed to Mark’s request, but I’m interested in getting to know him better. It’s not often I get the chance to spend time with real Americans, because I don’t think of Alex as a ‘real’ American. He might have been born there, but he loves our old films and speaks Russian perfectly.
*** ‘$’ by Sofi de la Torre ***
Two lovely, beautiful French girls are already waiting for us when we arrive at Mark’s ap
artment, which has exactly the same layout as Alex’s, but rather than being completely grey, it is full of amusing trinkets and the walls are covered in bright, colourful paintings of Paris.
Both women are slim and modestly, even simply, dressed. Neither is wearing make-up, but they still look very feminine. They mostly speak French between themselves and very basic, sometimes extremely broken, English with Mark, and I can’t wait for the unique opportunity to practice the two languages I love and speak almost fluently.
We haven’t chatted for long before Mark starts handing out the wineglasses. We begin with a passable red wine, move on to a white, then the girls switch seamlessly to cocktails and Mark switches to whiskey. Alex firmly refuses all offers of alcohol and I know why – he has plans for me later.
Feeling tipsy and having discussed all the topics available to people who have only just met, we decide to play cards, and not just any card game, but strip poker – it is the French women who suggest it. Mark’s eyes immediately light up like headlights, but a look of tension flashes across Alex’s face. Flashes and disappears.
We start to play, sitting cross-legged on the white floor. It is not long before the French women are down to their t-shirts and I get the feeling that they’re not even trying to win. The next person to lose is Mark. He takes off his striped shirt to reveal a sculpted body reflecting time spent at the gym. The inebriated French women greet the sight with a long-drawn-out “Wow!” and rush to flirt with him, especially Vanessa.
Alex doesn’t lose once and nor do I, and it doesn’t take me long to work out that he’s helping me, often to the detriment of his own hand.
Monogamy Book One. Lover: This is one love for life and beyond time Page 12
