Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker

by Portnoy, Suzanne

  Still, James was insistent. ‘Did I tell you how much I love cunnilingus? I’m very good at it, or so I’ve been told. Perhaps we could meet up and I could eat your pussy all night.’

  ‘Hmmm. Tempting,’ I said. He was so persistent, eventually I relented for just one date. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘I give in. Let me know when you’re free.’

  I next heard from him when he rang from Belfast in the middle of a riot. I heard petrol bombs going off in the background. But I liked his voice, when I could hear it, and liked what I thought he was saying. His voice was low, but gentle and melodic. He had picked up a strange accent during his two decades travelling around the world. With exploding bombs serving as background ambience, I had to fill in the blanks as James attempted to communicate. ‘I want to fuck you . . . hard . . . bursting out . . . my pants.’

  ‘I want to fuck you hard’? Or ‘I want to suck you. I’m hard’? I couldn’t be sure, but, either way, I thought, This is cool – like having sex with the news. ‘Where exactly are you right now?’ I asked.

  ‘Behind a row of trucks, watching the action. I may have to move in a minute, so, if we get cut off, you’ll know why,’ he explained. ‘What are you wearing?’

  I described my sheer blue nightie and peach satin robe. ‘You?’

  ‘Very funny. Combats, a jacket and a fucking heavy camera. God, I’d love to be sucking your pussy instead of stuck in this hellhole.’

  I pictured him aiming his camera at a group of rioters with one arm, his other arm down his trousers, stroking his cock.

  ‘If this shit finishes up tonight, I’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe we can meet up?’

  As it turned out, the next day James flew to Edinburgh to cover the Gordon Brown baby story. The UK Chancellor’s baby had been born seven weeks premature and died of complications.

  I nicknamed James Action Man, even before getting any action from him.

  In the space of two weeks, he rang me about six times, always from a different place on the map. I took a sudden interest in watching the television news, knowing he was usually behind the cameras on the lead stories. In between my making him come over the phone and his discussing what kind of erotic photos he wanted to take of me, I told him about my impressive collection of sex toys, something I’d acquired during my time with Frank.

  ‘I’d love to watch you stick a vibrator up your cunt,’ he said. ‘While I take pictures, of course.’

  That could be hot, I thought.

  ‘Or maybe I could film you bent over your kitchen table, in a pair of fuck-me shoes – and nothing else.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I said. ‘If we ever meet.’

  I warned him that if the dirty phone calls went on much longer, I’d start charging by the minute. I felt like I was providing a service.

  ‘You’re my only phone-sex girl,’ he said, half-confirming my fears I was providing a service, half-turning me on with compliments. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll meet – soon,’ he emphasised.

  I heard a volcano rumble in the background, then the sat phone went dead. He was in Goma. I liked thinking we might be having the most expensive phone sex ever. News crews use satellite phones when they can’t get a mobile signal. At the time, a Goma-to-London call cost $10 a minute. Our virtual sex sessions often lasted thirty minutes.

  Still, all this phone sex and no real sex was starting to feel like a bad habit. Even if it was exciting getting the news delivered straight from the man on the scene, I didn’t want a fucking phone-sex boyfriend. I wanted a real one, and real fucking.

  Finally, two weeks after we first made contact, there was an opening in Action Man’s calendar. He called to say he was free the next day, a Tuesday. I told him I couldn’t do midweek dates, that Friday and Saturday were my girls’ nights out. James was due to fly to Amsterdam on Wednesday, to gather footage for the forthcoming Lockerbie trial. ‘I’m really sorry, but it’s the only date that I’ve got,’ he said. ‘If it’s not tomorrow, then it’s probably going to be another week till I’m free again, maybe longer.’

  ‘I don’t really do this sort of thing,’ I protested.

  ‘Are you sure you can’t do tomorrow?’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll make it worth your while. I promise.’

  He was making me horny, damn him. And my pussy had only had the most perfunctory oral attention since Frank. ‘OK,’ I relented. ‘You’ve got me. This is a one-time-only midweek special offer.’ Then I confirmed Josef, my au pair, was free to take over my domestic duties.

  By this time my knickers were wet at the thought of what Action Man and I might do together.

  I arranged to meet James at Soho House, and arrived at eight-thirty the next night wearing a short Marc Jacobs denim skirt and blazer, a clingy purple top and matching purple holdups. No knickers. My seamless skin-tone bra was so sheer my nipples poked through my top.

  He was already there, sitting in the Blue Room, an intimate space off from the main bar. I recognised him from his photo. He was wearing all black – black jeans, black button-down shirt, black blazer. Everyone wears black these days, but on James the black-on-black worked. He was my idea of a spy.

  He was over six-feet tall and slim, with slightly receding dark-brown hair, a dark goatee and moustache, and a tan that, had I not known was the result of a job that kept him outdoors all day, I’d have suspected was artificial. He had gentle blue eyes that offset his rugged appearance, and was sexy and masculine and confident enough to order an orange juice from the waitress, as if it were the normal thing to do in a room full of boozers.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to have a drink?’ I asked.

  He told me he didn’t drink. He’d had a few beers when he was a teenager and knew right away it was something he just didn’t like. I thought that was refreshing.

  For a change, I ordered an orange juice as well, although what I’d really wanted was a Bloody Mary.

  James talked about himself a lot, and I thought. When’s he going to ask me something? I had just spent two weeks listening to him tell me what he was doing around the globe, and it suddenly occurred to me that he’d never asked about my own work. I wondered if his penis was as big as his ego. The monologue started pissing me off. I was putting more effort into resisting the urge to check my watch than he was putting into me. When he ordered his second orange juice, I took the opportunity to toss a few words into the conversation.

  ‘You look better in the flesh than in that bizarre picture you have on Nerve,’ I said. His photo showed him on a mountaintop, standing sideways and dressed in an antique jacket and no trousers. You could see his nice bum in profile. He was holding a sceptre, like he was king of the mountain.

  ‘So do you,’ he said. ‘A lot better.’

  I didn’t know if he really believed that, but I liked thinking it might be true. Of course, I’d posted a flattering pic on Nerve, one I felt captured me looking the best I’d ever done in my life. Like his photo, mine was an outside shot. I was wearing an off-the-shoulder peach top and my hair was thrown into a loose braid that fell over one shoulder. I was looking directly into the camera, deliberately inviting. My then husband had taken the photo.

  Hmmm, I thought. Maybe something might happen tonight after all.

  Then he said, ‘Look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t stay out late tonight.’ He told me he had a seven a.m. flight and had to be up at four. ‘When I get back to London, let’s get together.’

  When will that be? I wondered. This was supposed to be our big date and now he was cutting it short at nine p.m. That’s that, I thought – until we stepped out the door onto Greek Street and he grabbed me and pulled my mouth close to his. I gently sucked on his tongue. He put his hands under my coat and up my skirt, and, as he said, ‘I really want to lick your pussy,’ his fingers began exploring it. Instinctively I pulled him closer, wrapping one leg around him.

  Shit! I thought. This is too close to home. Too many of my clients were members of Soho House or worked in the area. Still, I didn’t stop him. It fe
lt good to have fingers inside me and risqué to have foreplay on Greek Street. And he knew the terrain.

  I could feel his hard-on under his jeans. It turned me on. ‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ he said. He took his fingers out of my pussy and grabbed my hand as we crossed Shaftesbury Avenue and walked to the China Town Car Park. We stopped at the entrance.

  ‘Are you going to leave me here or do you want to see me to my car?’ I asked.

  My VW Golf cabrio was parked on the first level, ensuring that nearly every car exiting the garage had to pass it. After Søren, I was a little more familiar with the limitations of having sex in my car. Even so, we got in and resumed kissing. I loosened his belt, undid his trousers and tried to mount his rock-hard cock. As always, it wasn’t easy climbing over the gearshift.

  I guided his cock into my pussy but, just as he was about to enter me, he came. ‘Fuck! Sorry!’ he said. ‘I haven’t had sex for a while. That’s what happens.’

  There goes the prospect of a car fuck, I thought.

  Fortunately, James thought otherwise. ‘Do these seats recline?’

  I showed him how to manoeuvre the handles.

  He pushed his seat back until it was horizontal. ‘Climb on my face.’

  Easier said than done. Because the car was compact, even with the seat reclined I had to play the contortionist to position myself over his smiling face. It wasn’t a graceful manoeuvre but I managed to do it, with my elbows resting on the back shelf of the car and my head pushed against the rear window. I put my face down as a token of modesty – it was only ten p.m., not so late that we’d not be noticed – but the rest of me was on display.

  ‘You’re so wet,’ he said.

  Until that night I’d found it difficult to orgasm in public. Either I couldn’t relax enough or there wasn’t enough time to get me there. That night was different. Action Man got the idea of what I liked very quickly, so for once I wasn’t distracted and barely noticed the footsteps and chatter of people retrieving cars near by. James sucked on my clit, and I felt myself dripping over his face. I rocked slowly back and forth, adjusting my position so my clit made direct contact with his tongue. Ten minutes later I screamed as I came. I looked up to see if anyone heard or witnessed the action. There was no one there.

  I put my clothes back on, kissed James goodbye, then drove to the exit and dropped him off. The next day he went to Amsterdam and I went to work. I didn’t know when I’d see him again, especially as I’d just learnt that seeing James would be a lot more complicated than he’d earlier indicated. When I asked him the exact nature of his relationship with his wife, he came clean. ‘I have to be discreet.’

  ‘So, you sleep together.’

  ‘Not all the time.’

  ‘Most of the time. Just not when you’re on the road, maybe?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  I remained starry eyed at the thought of going out with someone with such an exotic job. And he really gave great oral. I was not in the market for a boyfriend then, but I am always in the market for getting what I want, when I want it. I can either wait around for Action Man to return, I thought, or I can go online or back to the personals and put myself out there again. If James and I got together again, great. Meanwhile, I went back to the personals.

  Unavailable men, whether workaholic or married, are a waste of time. I end up frustrated or pissed off or wondering how many times I’ll be stood up. I went back to the list of phone numbers I’d compiled after placing the Independent ad and called one of the contenders.

  My next date was with Harry, a photographer who lived in Bristol. I spoke to him a few times on the phone and thought he sounded funny and sweet. In his response to my ad he’d said, ‘I look like a cross between Bob Hoskins and a Kray brother. I’m looking for an uncomplicated woman who isn’t completely psychotic like the last woman I dated. I like Americans girls, too. Call me.’ He was coming to London the next Friday night, so we arranged to meet at Soho House. He promised to buy me martinis and make me laugh. ‘You won’t be disappointed,’ he said on the phone. ‘I really am a nice guy. And, just so you know, I’m not your typical wanky London photographer-type either.’

  We arranged to meet at nine p.m. and he was late. Not a good sign. I wore my fishnets, high black stilettos, a navy-blue silk taffeta skirt and a sleeveless grey sweater. I draped a burgundy shrug over the top, something I had bought off eBay six months earlier for $11.99 and shipped to Frank, who then posted it to me. It was my favourite piece of clothing, because it was cool and original but didn’t make me look like I was trying too hard.

  Harry walked into the Circle Bar and immediately I recognised him from his description. He looked like something out of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels – kind of cute in that stocky East End-thug-type way, but with a friendly round face. He was about 5’9" and completely bald, with massive shoulders and an equally massive stomach. I don’t do fat, my type being tall and emaciated; blond is a plus, too, and bald a definite minus. He may have been the nicest guy in the world, but I was not interested in a big bald man. But I decided to be polite. It was Friday night; he had come up from Bristol and I had nothing else to do. Plus, I figured the chance of running into someone frisky at the House while I was there was pretty high. I made small talk to fill the time.

  Sitting next to me on the sofa, Harry told me he had a son, just out of school, and had come to London to chaperone his son to various interviews required in his applications to the fashion colleges. His son was a talented designer, Harry said, adding, ‘Not gay, just in case you were wondering.’

  I assured him I wasn’t.

  ‘Most people do,’ he said. ‘I know it’s unusual for a boy to be interested in fashion and not be gay.’ He told me he had visited St Martin’s that day and had been very impressed. ‘I’m hoping he goes there. It’s a good school.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed, ‘and full of pretty girls, too.’

  ‘Well, that’s another bonus, of course,’ he said, laughing. Harry moved closer to me, until his head was practically on my shoulder.

  It was about an hour after we’d met and my interest in keeping up the conversation began to wane. Then I spotted Patrick, a sexy Irish poet in his late twenties, walk into the bar. I’d seen him at Soho House at least half a dozen times since joining the club two years earlier. Once he had tagged along with my girlfriends and me when we went dancing at Momo’s, a Moroccan restaurant and club off Regent Street. I wasn’t sure if he saw me but, as always, he was pretty hard to miss – about 6’4", with shoulder-length dark hair and a slim body perpetually encased in a single-breasted brown wool suit. He had dark-brown eyes that matched his suits, and a charming disarming smile. I’d had the hots for him ever since the night he recited one of his poems to me – called, appropriately enough, ‘The Philanderer’ – in the club’s Drawing Room. Patrick was one of the few men on my mental list of guys I really wanted to fuck. He was a good ten years younger than me, but I’d seen pictures of him in Tatler with Lady this or Dame that, looking like an old-fashioned lady’s walker, so I assumed he liked older women.

  I didn’t want him to escort me. I wanted him to fuck me.

  Now, by some miracle, here he was, alone and obviously looking for someone to buy him a drink. He was always working the impoverished-poet act. I’d never seen him buy a drink for anyone, including himself. I was up for the opportunity to indulge his tradition.

  So I made my excuses to Harry, telling him that I had to wake up early the next day for an appointment with my personal trainer, and walked him out the door. I kissed him on Shaftesbury Avenue, then walked around the block and back into the House.

  Patrick was standing at the Circle Bar when I returned. I walked up to him. ‘Haven’t seen you here for a while, Patrick. You don’t fancy coming dancing with me, do you?’ I told him I was thinking of heading over to Momo’s.

  ‘Thanks, but not tonight,’ he said. ‘I think I’m just going to stick around here.’

&nbs
p; Plan B. ‘Want to get a table in the Drawing Room then?’

  ‘Sure.’

  This was my first time alone with Patrick. I was excited at the possibility he might come home with me. ‘So, what’s new, handsome?’ I asked.

  Like so many artists in their twenties, he was happy to talk about his latest project. ‘I’m working on my music. Trying to get some songs together.’

  ‘Songs?’ I said. ‘I thought you were a poet.’

  ‘I am a poet,’ he protested, ‘but I’m working on putting my poems to music.’ He told me he’d met some record company people at Soho House and they’d promised they’d listen to anything he put on tape. It sounded suspiciously vague. In the two years I’d been going to Soho House, I’d met many record, film and television executives, most of whom bragged about what they did for a living and told me they could use a PR agency. They’d ask me to follow up, and I would, sometimes even writing up a promotions plan. I never got a job from any of them. It was all talk, I learnt, the bullshit that follows too much drink and coke. Patrick, darling, I thought, you have a lot to learn.

  I asked him his age. He told me he was twenty-nine.

  I thought twenty-nine seemed too old to be entering the music industry with the aim of being a rock star. Most have had botox and a stint in rehab by that age. But, as I looked across the table at Patrick, I thought twenty-nine was perfect for me. His Irish accent was fetching. He seemed refreshingly innocent and sweet – no brittle edges. He wasn’t hugely interesting to talk to, though, so I leant across the table and kissed him. He did not refuse me. He was a lovely kisser, with a gentle probing tongue that made me feel quite heady. I tossed my hair sexily and let it tumble winningly on to the table.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ I heard someone say.

  I paid no attention. Then I smelt something burning.

  ‘Ma’am, I think your hair is on fire.’

  I looked up and saw a waitress hovering over our table, looking quite alarmed. As did Patrick, who pulled well away. ‘Suzanne, your hair is on fire!’

  My hair had fallen not on to the table, but into the candle on the table. The odour was foul and soon permeated the room. I put my hand to my head and felt the burnt ends. I did not want to spoil the kissing, so made a joke of it. ‘It’ll grow back.’ In truth, I was embarrassed and wondered just how much hair had been burnt off and whether my expensive new hairdo was ruined. Was it now an asymmetrical Bananarama do like I’d worn in my university days?