Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker

by Portnoy, Suzanne

  I enter one of the saunas and see a good-looking fit black guy whom a year ago I fucked two Friday lunchtimes in a row. He’s about thirty-five and is bald and muscular, with a great six-pack and a thick nine-inch cock. I definitely remember him, but he either hasn’t seen me come in or is pretending he doesn’t know me. This is suspect, because typically all heads turn when a new body enters a sauna; even those not on the lookout for fresh meat notice when cold air breaks the heat of a sauna.

  Mr Familiar is rubbing the back of a black woman in a bikini. It’s an intimate moment for the two of them, but I don’t care. I stare at him alone. He continues not to look my way and part of me wonders whether I should interrupt their revelry and say hello, if only to send the message ‘Fuck you for ignoring me.’ Then I wonder if what I really want to say is ‘Fuck you for not remembering me.’ While contemplating this ego quagmire, I don’t say anything, but I continue to stare at him and he continues to ignore me. Ultimately, I graciously decide now is not the appropriate moment to remind him that, just a year ago, we were each other’s Friday lunchtime dish.

  We really had connected on those two Fridays. The sex was great – great enough that he was the only Rio’s man I’d ever arranged to meet a second time. It’s possible that he truly did forget me. That’s the way it goes in such places. If you sleep with enough people, after a while you lose track. The brain can only store so much information before it shunts memories into little compartments that eventually get buried under dust. Still, when his hands reach under his lady friend’s string top, I feel a twinge of jealousy.

  The sauna door opens. In walks another guy I’ve met before. This one’s white, about forty and 5'10", slim and slightly muscular, with spiky dark-blond hair. He’s tanned and quite handsome, with an angular face, beautiful eyes and high cheekbones – Ed Harris with hair. He takes off his towel and sits down next to me on the hot wooden bench. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Haven’t seen you here for a while. I’m John.’

  For a few seconds I debate whether I want to talk to him. The last time we met, John was a major pain in the ass. Yet today I’m almost grateful that someone here remembers me. It’s disconcerting to think you’re a good fuck, and even be told you’re one, and then not be remembered.

  ‘No,’ I respond. ‘I haven’t been here in a month or so.’ I do not add, ‘Nice to see you again.’ Flattered, or relieved, as I am by his attention, I am weighing up whether I want to carry on the conversation. Rio’s was meant to be just a pitstop. After all, I have a web date tonight, Mr Lacoste, and there’s a strong chance, based on his sexy text messages and phone calls, I might end up taking him home after dinner.

  I hadn’t planned on coming to Rio’s for anything more than a chill-out, but John is obviously coming on to me. How do I know this? He’s naked and I can see his cock thickening, already eight inches even in a semi-aroused state. Nothing like a growing cock to indicate a man’s interest.

  What if my web date doesn’t work out? I find myself wondering. Suddenly, like Dice Man, I have options. Should I (a) take what’s on offer now and greedily anticipate a second round in a few hours, or (b) reject the here-and-now man and risk getting blown off by my dinner date? Web dates are notoriously unreliable, and I’m reminded that my one previous experience with a man from TotallyGorgeous was not a success. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Mr Lacoste may turn out to be a loser – or, worse, a no-show. One thing is clear, however: not getting fucked at all is not an option. I love sex. My kids-free Friday nights come along just twice a month, and I have to take advantage of them.

  ‘Do you fancy having a massage?’ he asks. Massage is the code word for sex in this particular establishment.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. I have chosen option (a).

  It’s a good thing John’s cock helps me to overlook his peculiarities. He and I have a history that makes me less than enthusiastic about spending much time with him. One time I had gone to Rio’s with a guy named Andy, who’d advertised his services as a tantric masseur and stud. I’d begun exploring tantric as an alternative to the anonymous swinging scene, but the former hadn’t yet replaced the latter, and I wanted our first meeting to be in a safe public space. Though not an ideal venue for a spiritual sexual encounter, Rio’s certainly is public, so I suggested that Tantric Andy meet me there. He’d had some swinging experiences, anyway, having done his share of threesomes and gang bangs, so, despite his reservations about the place, he agreed to meet me at Rio’s. Tantric Andy and I were in a Jacuzzi when John plunged into the water and sat down next to us. He kept staring at me, and at us as a couple. I got the impression from the way he kept glancing at my tits that he was more voyeur than bisexual. And then I felt his hand on my thigh.

  I’ve met guys like him in Jacuzzis before – guys that start out stroking my leg and are soon rubbing my pussy while jerking themselves off. How far I let them go depends on how attractive I find them. Most times I remove their hand from my leg and that’s where it ends.

  At first, from the way his free hand was moving up and down beneath the surface of the water, it looked like John was jerking himself off while feeling my right thigh. Tantric Andy, meanwhile, had his hand on my left thigh. I found it erotic, the idea that John might be masturbating while looking at me and not knowing for sure if he was.

  Then I felt John’s hand move further up my leg, before stopping just inches from my pussy. I removed his hand. No words were spoken. Soon after, he put his hand on my leg again, and again I took it off – on and off, on and off. If I’d been alone or not on a first date, or if my date was not sitting next to me, I probably would have left John’s hand there. If he’d been unattractive and kept at it, I probably would have twisted his wrist and maybe even reported him to the management for harassment. Rio’s may seem like a sexual free-for-all, but, as with all clubs, there are rules, the most important being: ‘Ask before you touch.’

  John was pissing me off, so I suggested to Tantric Andy we leave and go back to mine. Andy had by then passed the test. He was sweet and kind of cute and, from what he had told me, he could give me a damn good massage. And then, of course, there was his not insubstantial cock that I’d casually stroked in the Jacuzzi for the purposes of research.

  When we stepped out of the Jacuzzi, John followed us. He stood at the entrance to the showers, cock in hand, stroking himself. I pretended not to notice. I’d once broken up a fight in the same place, under similar circumstances, when one man took offence at another’s hard-on. He didn’t realise the other guy’s hard-on was not inspired by him. That time, I stepped in to clarify. This time, I was relieved that Andy, like me, chose to ignore the voyeur wanking in the doorway.

  John had followed me from the showers to the grooming counter, still wanking as I blowdried my hair. When I emerged from the women’s changing room, he came out of the men’s changing room. The timing made me wonder if he was stalking me, not merely interested in me. This was annoying. Surely he could see I was with someone.

  ‘Are you wearing stockings?’ he asked, hard-on in hand.

  ‘No,’ I said. Then I thought I’d give him enough information to help him finish himself off. ‘Hold-ups, no knickers. Now leave me alone.’

  ‘Can I see the tops of your hold-ups?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and pulled up my skirt and showed him the place where my hold-ups ended and my skin began. ‘Now you’ve seen enough,’ I said. ‘You’re taking the piss.’

  ‘C’mon,’ he pleaded. ‘Can I see your pussy?’

  ‘You’ve already seen that,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m with someone, OK? Know when to stop. You’ve seen plenty.’

  Tantric Andy came out of the men’s changing room just then, and as we moved towards the door John followed, walking a few feet behind us. I was still ignoring him when, instead of another come-on, he apologised for overstepping the mark. ‘I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t think I was being too rude.’

  ‘Thanks. You were,’ I said.

  Andy ignored him.
>
  So here we are again, and, even though I know he is a bit of a voyeur and I had found him an irritant the last time we met, part of me just wants to fuck him. His attentiveness, coupled with his impressive hard-on, is beginning to arouse me. I’m horny.

  We go upstairs to one of the relaxation rooms. The word, of course, is a misnomer. It’s not a room built for relaxation. There’s no mistaking when you enter what is going to happen. A gym mat covers a wooden platform base. White tiles edge the platform, more utilitarian splashback than décor, useful for cleaning up spontaneous spillage. There’s a metal receptacle on one wall for tissues, used condoms and other rubbish. It serves as the only decoration in the room.

  John lays some towels down, as a kind of protective layer over the platform. It covers the who-knows-what that’s gone on before. Plus, it’s added comfort; it would be hard to fall asleep on such an unforgiving surface unless you padded it first with towels or had not slept for a couple of days. I love the relaxation rooms for the way they marry sleaziness with functionality.

  I lie on my stomach and John starts massaging my back with baby oil. Then he moves down my leg, then between my thighs. His right hand is working the inside of my leg. The other he is using to work his own body parts. I can feel his left fist bumping rhythmically against my left leg, a telltale sign. In other words, a typical Rio’s massage. I’ve got my head down, my eyes closed, and am relaxing into the sensations. Time passes.

  ‘Do you want to fuck me?’ I ask.

  Assuming the answer is yes, I raise myself on to my knees and grab a condom from my toiletry bag. He mounts me from behind, doggy style, and slips his cock inside me. This is a position almost guaranteed to get a guy off: it facilitates deep penetration; it looks hot from the man’s perspective; and it gives the guy total control. Yet after a few minutes I can feel him going soft.

  When a man loses his hard-on, a girl wonders if she’s the problem. Is it me? Is it because he’s wearing a condom and isn’t used to it or doesn’t like condoms? Or does he prefer watching to fucking? Based on our history, I suspect the latter.

  Still, John soldiers on, focusing on the verbal, in what I assume is an effort to stay hard. Alas, it’s the usual stuff. ‘You’re such a slut,’ he growls. ‘I bet you really like being fucked by guys. Lots of guys. Lots and lots of guys.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Should I give you more of my hard cock?’

  I continue to say nothing, but think, Yes, I would like more of that hard cock, preferably a little harder than it is now. We are, after all, in a private room together.

  The verbal, though not of huge interest to me, seems to work for him. His hard-on returns. ‘Do you like my cock? Does it feel good inside you?’

  There’s no pause between his questions. He’s not expecting an answer. And that’s fine. I’ve heard it before and every word is a cliché. Guys do this because they think it turns women on. But, in my case, having had lots of sex and watched far too much porn, it just sounds ridiculous. Nothing’s original anymore.

  Talking dirty has its time and place, but this is neither. A monologue is a distraction. The focus becomes the words and not the actions. Used sparingly and with someone I really like, it can be turn-on. I can pretend it really is all about me and forget I’ve heard the same stuff come out of the mouths of lots of other men who, as in John’s case, perhaps didn’t fancy me quite so much. His hard-on comes and goes, and I suspect he is now fucking me more for my pleasure than his own.

  About forty-five minutes have passed and he still hasn’t come. I’m starting to think about the web date that I’m meeting in an hour. Not a good sign. If this guy doesn’t get a move on, I think, I’m going to be late. In an effort to save him embarrassment and also pleasure myself, I take over. ‘Lie down. I want to suck your cock.’ There’s a ninety-nine per cent chance my world-class technique will do the trick, for both of us.

  I remove the condom from his cock and throw it in the rubbish bin.

  I straddle one leg, my clit brushing against his thigh, while my right hand is jerking him off. My tongue does circles around the head of his cock. More time passes. I’m getting bored now, although giving him head for two minutes has aroused me more than I’d been in the previous forty-five.

  ‘Lie down with your legs closed,’ John says. I lie down on my back, legs closed. He stands on the platform by my feet and begins to wank furiously over me. ‘Open your legs.’ I open my legs. ‘No, that’s too much. Just a very little.’ So I close them. ‘Now open . . . Now close . . . Touch yourself . . . Just a little.’

  In my head I’m preparing the vegetable curry I’ve earmarked for dinner the next day. And I again think about my date that evening, and of being late, and God, would you please hurry up? And what is it with this open-and-close thing?

  ‘Do you want to come?’ I ask again, adding, ‘I have to leave soon.’

  I’m not even watching him. I’m just opening and closing my legs on command, waiting for it to be over. The blowjob was fun enough, but this is just weird. It must be horrible to have such a specific fantasy, I think. I wonder how many other girls would have put up with this shit. I wonder if he knows he hit the jackpot with me, someone patient and willing to indulge him. Most girls would have gone home half an hour ago to prepare that curry.

  I’m not hating it or loving it. I’m just bored. I want to wash out the conditioner that’s been medicating my scalp for the past hour and put on some make-up.

  John is jerking himself off manically now, the up-and-down strokes blurring into one another. This is the best moment I’ve spent with him: finally, we’re getting somewhere. For a change, he’s silent. The wanking is taking all his concentration.

  There’s something so pent-up and frustrated about this guy, who has to wank so furiously to come. For most men, it’s a struggle not to pop in the first five minutes. I bet the only relief John ever gets is giving himself a hand-job while looking at a porn mag.

  Finally he comes. Still standing over me, his spunk projectiles out and splashes all over my tits – there’s a lot of it. He looks down at me and says, ‘How gross!’ He sounds disgusted.

  His words and tone surprise me, as much for their inappropriateness as for the sheer stupidity of the comment.

  ‘It’s your stuff,’ I say, stating the obvious. ‘How is it gross?’ I’m genuinely curious to know why he’d devote so much time and effort to this performance, all for an outcome that would make him uncomfortable.

  ‘It just is,’ he says. ‘Look at it.’ He looks away.

  I reach for a towel and begin cleaning up. ‘It’s your spunk,’ I remind him, ‘and now you’re telling me it’s weird? It is what it is. And you produced it.’

  ‘So, are you a sex addict?’ he says, not responding. ‘Do you do this often?’

  It occurs to me again that John probably has not done this much before. It is as if he has fulfilled a fantasy, and the outcome was anticlimactic; even though he’d climaxed, somehow it was not what he’d thought it would be. And then there was the horrible reality of come. I suspect he is quite sexually inexperienced. He is surprisingly uptight for someone who had been so aggressive in the Jacuzzi.

  I feel like a sex therapist, reminding him that bodily fluids exist and are natural, that there is nothing gross about them. I could just leave, but I want to help John to understand and feel good about his own behaviour, although I don’t owe this to him, and I’ve got a date within the hour.

  ‘So, are you a sex addict? Do you do this often?’ he asks again.

  ‘Often enough,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if I’m a sex addict. I just like sex. Don’t you?’

  He is silent.

  ‘I’m not hurting anyone, am I? Are you?’

  ‘But do you think you’re addicted to sex?’

  ‘Is fucking two or three different guys every couple of weeks, group sex once a month and masturbating twice a day being a sex addict? I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But it’s healthier than taking drug
s or getting drunk and crashing into a tree. There are worse things in life than enjoying sex, aren’t there?’

  ‘God, I haven’t fucked a stranger in years,’ he says. ‘I don’t suppose I could have your number?’

  ‘So not me,’ I say, and return to the changing area.

  I check my mobile phone. There’s a text from the web date, saying he’s knackered after playing golf all day long and won’t be able to play tonight. SORRRRRRY. XXX

  I drive home and am in bed before midnight.

  2. THE GIRL LEAST LIKELY TO

  Among my girlfriends I was always labelled ‘the girl least likely to’. Girl least likely to get married, because I enjoyed sleeping around too much. Girl least likely to have children, because I never expressed much interest in kids or seemed particularly maternal. Girl least likely to do anything by the rule books, because I took pride in being unconventional.

  While other friends saved themselves for marriage, I scratched notches into my bedpost. One day at the university I studied at in the States, my friend Martha challenged me to name all the guys I’d fucked since losing my virginity. Going back those five busy years, I was able to write down sixty names. There were more, but I couldn’t put names to the faces.

  I didn’t have a great track record with relationships. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted a boyfriend all those years, but the men I met back then never seemed to stick around for long. I did like sex, though, so, when one relationship ended, I’d fuck around for a while or take up with another short-term guy to ensure I’d get laid regularly. This was pre-internet. Just like today, the number of men was unlimited, but the ways to meet them were not. So I did what a lot of girls in their twenties did then: I went to bars, clubs and parties.