We wandered through empty rooms and soon saw why they and the front bar were so quiet. All the action was going on in the Grope Room, a tiny 5x8 space with a barred window reminiscent of a prison cell on the right side and, on either side of that, a half-dozen glory holes, four-inch circles cut into the wall just below waist height.
‘So this is where everyone’s been hiding,’ said Greg.
There must have been eight men squashed inside that small room, all with hard cocks protruding from their trousers, while Lisa, the club’s hostess, whom I recognised from the website, was doing her best to accommodate them all in one way or another.
‘Go on,’ I said to Greg. I unzipped his trousers and pushed him into the bars that separated him and the boys from Lisa on the other side. His thickening cock, half erect and already the largest in the group, caught her attention and she stopped what she was doing with everyone else to focus on Greg. I was standing behind him, watching as Lisa began jerking him off. I felt a hand lift up my dress and explore between my legs. After a few minutes of touching me, I heard a voice say, ‘Can I fuck you?’
‘Only if you have a rubber,’ I said, without turning around.
‘Of course,’ said the voice. Soon I felt a prodding. I reached my hand back to make sure he had put on the condom and, satisfied, let him slip inside me. I never turned to see what he looked like, and instead focused my attention on Greg, who was now fucking Lisa through the bars.
She came a few minutes later and Greg pulled out. ‘Nice to meet you, Lisa,’ he said, laughing.
‘Likewise,’ she answered, smiling.
I pulled away from the man behind me and said, ‘That’s enough for now.’ Then I said to Lisa, ‘Can I have a go in there?’
‘Sure, darling, be my guest.’ She unlocked the door to her side of the Grope Room and I walked in, taking her place. She kissed me on the lips and said, ‘Have fun.’
I removed my dress while appraising the row of cocks in front of me, and pulled a bottle of lube out of my handbag. I poured a little juice into my palm and took turns playing with three cocks. I could feel the adrenalin surge through my body as I sucked one guy and jerked off the other two. It felt as if all the sexual energy in the room was being transferred to me. It gave me a sense of power and control.
I was sucking a man off when I heard him say, ‘I want to fuck you.’ I didn’t say anything. I pulled a condom out of my bag, slipped it on his cock, turned around, then felt him push his cock into my ass.
‘Slow down!’ I said. ‘I have to get ready.’ I’d assumed he was going to enter the traditional way. I was wrong. I let my muscles relax and soon felt them give way to his cock. He began pushing inside until he was fully in. I returned to jerking off his neighbours, this time with my back to them. It was so horny, for all of us. The guy fucking me did not take long to come, and when he pulled out another took his place. I stayed in that room for an hour.
This is every middle-aged woman’s fantasy, I thought. A middle-aged woman and a grope box: what a combination.
I didn’t have to look at them and I didn’t have to speak to them if I didn’t want to. After forty-three years, I’d grown tired of small talk. It doesn’t get better than this.
I put on my dress and walked out of the room. Greg was in a gang bang in another part of the club. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Come on. We’re going.’
We spent many such nights on the scene. Women would come up to us in sex clubs after watching us together and say, ‘You guys are so horny. How long have you been together?’
We’d tell them we weren’t together, that we only met for sex.
‘That’s so cool,’ they’d say.
After a while, I began to wonder if it really was.
Greg and I had a lot of spectacular sexcapades, but after six months I worried I might never have a real relationship again. It wasn’t that I wanted one. It was that I began to fear I’d never be capable of having one again. My sex life with Frank had always been about portraying myself as a woman who didn’t give a shit about him, who just enjoyed sex for its own sake and used him as a human dildo, who didn’t care about anyone else. I hated that role at the time. Now, I found, it had become my life. And, fun as it was, part of me suspected it wasn’t healthy.
11. MY TANTRIC TEMPTATION
It was one a.m. at Soho House. I was sitting with friends, perched on the edge of a large brown sofa in the top-floor Kitchen Bar. Howard, a TV producer with a foot fetish, had been stroking my purple Buddhahood stiletto ankle boots for the past hour. ‘I wish they made these in my size,’ he said. ‘I had a pair of shoes just like this back in the 80s, and I’ve been looking for something similar ever since.’
You’re a complete fruitcake, I said to myself. I said to him, ‘Sorry, darling. You’re out of luck. These are the last pair and I’m not selling.’
Then Oliver walked in. He was an older man, about 55, whom I’d fancied for ages. I’d lusted after him for so many years I’d almost forgotten about him. He was just part of the background, always there in my head, tucked away under ‘Would Love Some Of That’. It wasn’t an obsessive attraction.
We had met only a handful of times. We were introduced at a friend’s fiftieth birthday party at the Cobden Club in Kensal Rise. The party was held in a huge open room, all dark-wood panelling with one very long dark-wood bar at one end and sofas and little tables and chairs at the other. He was talking with someone I recognised – Yasmin, the wife of my friend Aidan. I was having an affair with Frank at the time and was in a state of high excitement, having just returned from a weekend fuckfest in New York. I walked up to Yasmin, whom I hadn’t seen in six months, for a catch-up, and she introduced me to a filmmaker named Oliver. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said in a deep resonant voice, smooth like a perfectly aged red wine. It was the kind of voice I could listen to for hours.
He wasn’t my usual type, being just a couple of inches, rather than a full head, taller than me and at least ten years older. He had short slightly spiked grey hair and a grey beard and moustache he trimmed close to the face. He had delicate features and kind blue eyes under gold wire-rimmed specs. I thought he was incredibly handsome and refined and sexy. Afterwards, we would run into each other, usually at the House, and I discovered he was friends with many of my friends. ‘How’s it going, Suzanne?’ he’d ask when I’d see him. ‘Fine, thanks,’ I’d answer. And that was about it unless we found ourselves together in a group. Then I could hover, listen to him tell stories about the latest film he was directing and look into his lovely eyes. When I didn’t see him, I didn’t think about him; but, when I did see him, I was reminded of how attractive I found him. It wasn’t just the way he looked, although that was a large part of it. It was his maturity and confidence, the air he exuded of someone who didn’t have anything to prove. He was grounded – the antithesis of Daniel, who couldn’t walk into a room without making sure everyone noticed him.
I pulled my shoe out of Howard’s hand, stood up and walked straight up to Oliver. It could have been that Oliver made me feel especially relaxed that night. It could have been the four Bloody Marys I’d drunk while waiting for an investment banker to show up – who I later learnt had missed his flight from Geneva. Or it could have been that I was especially horny and now disappointed that my banker man wasn’t going to come through. But, when I saw him, I thought, This is my chance. If you want this guy, Suzanne, it’s now or never.
‘Hello, Suzanne,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Can I come home with you and give you a fabulous blowjob?’ I’d moved on from my almost-virginal-sounding chat-up line – ‘I really must kiss you now’ – and was enjoying great success with this even-more-direct approach. I leant towards Oliver and kissed him. He grabbed my ass, pulled me towards him and put his tongue in my mouth.
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll catch up with you later.’ We each hung out in our separate o
rbits for an hour or so, but as I circulated through the L-shaped room I kept an eye on him to make sure my reservation still held. The club filled up with six-foot model types, who began clustering around the handsome man with the wire-rimmed glasses. I’d been waiting at the House since ten, for the date that was not to be. But, because Oliver had just arrived at one, I knew that, despite my proposition, he wanted to hang out for a while. If I wanted to go home with him, I had to stick it out till closing time, still a couple of hours away. I didn’t mind waiting.
I went back to the foot fetishist. I put my foot on the arm of the chair and said, ‘Here you go.’ Howard continued to rub my feet as other people I knew came by and chatted. Finally, at closing, I removed my foot from Howard again and said goodbye. I found Oliver downstairs at the Circle Bar, leaning against the bar talking to some guy.
‘Ready to go?’
He looked surprised to see me. ‘Oh, were you serious about that blowjob?’ he said quietly to me.
‘Of course I was serious,’ I said. ‘C’mon, my car’s outside.’
We walked across the street to the China Town Car Park and, when we reached my car, I said, ‘So, where are we going?’
‘Shepherd’s Bush.’
Even as I drove through London, I wasn’t certain I’d serve as anything more than a taxi service. We had never spoken much. Tonight’s brief conversation was the longest we’d ever had. I still didn’t think he quite believed I was serious, even though he was in the car with me. But when we got to his flat, a purpose-built 1960s housing estate off the Goldhawk Road, not quite what I had expected a film director to be living in, he said, ‘Are you really coming in?’
‘What,’ I said, ‘did you really think I was joking? You want your blowjob, don’t you?’
He laughed. ‘Well, you had better come in then.’
I parked my car in his garage after he moved some things around to make room for it.
We climbed three flights of outside stairs to reach his flat. He opened the door and, as soon as it shut behind us, we kissed. His hand went between my thighs and ripped off the fishnets I was wearing. They were ruined, but the gesture was hot. He grabbed a camera that was sitting on the kitchen worktop. I bent over, facing a full-length mirror in his lounge, and hoisted up my skirt to give him a memento of the evening.
‘You’re very naughty,’ he said.
‘I know,’ I said, laughing. Then I hoisted myself up on the kitchen sink and he went down on me. I didn’t want to spoil the moment but, after a few minutes, I said, ‘Um, hold that thought. I really have to use the toilet. Where is it?’
‘I’ll show you.’ He opened a door for me and stood in the bathroom entrance, watching. OK, I thought, if you want to watch me take a pee, watch me pee. Just as I was about to pull some toilet paper off the roll, Oliver reached between my legs, wiped the urine on to his hands and smelt the scent. I wasn’t expecting that. Then we moved to the bedroom and fucked and kissed. He fell asleep with his arms wrapped around me. The next morning we sat in bed drinking tea, listening to Radio 4 and playing with each other. Later, lying in his bath together, he said, ‘Would you mind shaving my balls?’
We were so comfortable together it didn’t seem such an unusual request. I felt like we were old friends, or a couple that had been together for ages. I thought it incredibly trusting of him, too, and felt almost honoured.
‘Has anyone ever done this for you before?’ I asked.
‘No, you are the first. You will be careful, won’t you?’
I lathered his balls with shaving cream and he passed me a razor. Carefully pulling the skin taut, I shaved his balls, a section at a time, while Oliver stroked his cock. It was a turn-on for both of us. When I finished, we carried on lying in the bath together and masturbated till we both came.
‘Are you hungry?’ he said.
‘Starving.’
Oliver made me a big English breakfast. Other than Daniel and Søren, few men had ever cooked for me before.
‘Have you ever seen any of my films?’ he said. ‘Do you even know what I do?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I knew you worked in films or TV or something, but I’ve never seen your stuff, no.’
‘Do you have some time? I’ll put something on.’
I told him I’d have loved to, but had to get back home. I had housework to do.
He looked slightly disappointed, like he’d thought we were going to settle in for the weekend, like an old married couple. And I would have, too, but for my domestic duties. Hanging out with Oliver felt comfortable and natural, but, I feared, I’d set the tone of our relationship with that bold offer of sex.
‘You’re a free spirit, Suzanne,’ he said, as he opened his front door. ‘The man who catches you would have to be much more . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. I wondered what he had planned to say. Much more what than he was? Wilder? More confident? Better in bed?
I suspected someone like Oliver would never consider having a relationship with someone like me. He saw me as a sexual adventuress – someone with whom he could live out his fantasies, not as a stay-at-home girlfriend who’d cook him dinners. Even though we’d had the most glorious twenty-four hours together, he hadn’t made me come. And I suspected that didn’t bother him. I was the free spirit, the fantasy girl, and, when you’re someone’s fantasy, the focus is not really on you. Pleasing me, I suspected, wasn’t part of his plan.
I had wanted Oliver for so long and, now that I’d been in his bed, I felt a little sad. Over the years, I’d fantasised about this handsome man with the gold-rimmed glasses – as a partner, not just a fuck. Those twenty-four hours knocked me back to reality. Despite my disappointment, I felt relief. I’d moved him forward in my mind. If it’s the fantasy girl you want, I thought as I drove myself home, then that’s what I’ll give you. It’s enough for now. It felt like a step forward, somehow. At least we were no longer acquaintances.
It was hard not to offend when I told my single girlfriends how easy it was to achieve the UK standard – as reported by the Sun newspaper – of three times a week, without having a boyfriend. My girlfriends probably were not coming anywhere near that benchmark themselves, and thus were doubly sore. It didn’t seem right, therefore, to tell them that too much sex with too many people can take a toll.
After a year of group sex, anonymous encounters and regular fuck buddies, the memories of everyone I had been with began to merge together. I could barely distinguish a session with one man from another. My mind had disconnected from the action, and I realised I was one small step away from becoming a professional. That is, it wasn’t about doing it for money; it was that sometimes, in my head, I wasn’t with the person I was with. While I was being fucked by Greg or Oliver or Tim or Anthony or Dave or whoever, I was living out a different porn fantasy in my head, usually one that did not involve the person I was actually with.
According to my friend Hannah, who has seen a lot of action herself, this is a common problem. We were sitting in a bar in Portobello, having a drink after work, when she said, ‘I’ve tried S&M, asphyxiation, lesbianism, bisexuality, swinging, even being hung by my skin just for the endorphin rush.’
That got my attention.
Sipping her glass of wine, she said, ‘You know, now I need to play out an entire costume drama in my head, complete with a full-scale army in uniform, wounded hero and distraught heroine, before I can get even close to coming. You can’t imagine how boring it is or how long it takes.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I concurred. I told her about a guy I’d met off the web who couldn’t make me come. He told me to knock the porn fantasies out of my mind when having sex with people and to try replacing them with straightforward dirty talk with the guy I was with, actually looking that person in the eye. ‘He said, "You don’t need all that shit to come, just a hard cock and some dirty talk."’
‘Yeah, I’ve tried that,’ Hannah said. ‘I’ve also tried Neurolinguistic Programming and Primal Therapy. Nothing work
s. I wish I could just find a vibrator that could pull my hair and spank me. Then I wouldn’t need men at all.’
She was only twenty-five and she’d already done it all. I felt sorry for her. ‘When I was your age,’ I said, ‘all I had to do was think, Hey, I’m getting fucked! and I’d come. Now I need to lay out a gang bang in my head just to get me there. It’s a real bore.’
This really hit home the time Big Cock London Greg and I met up one Friday afternoon at Rio’s. We were having sex in one of the red rooms and I was on top. He wasn’t staying hard. ‘So, what’s up with you today?’ I said. ‘You don’t seem your usual perky self.’
‘Oh, I’m a little tired,’ he said. ‘I was in Essex this morning visiting this woman I know, the one whose husband works downstairs while I fuck her up the ass in her bedroom.’
‘Oh, yes. That one. So what you’re telling me is that I’m number two today and it’s only one o’clock.’
‘Yeah.’
I felt deflated. I knew he serviced other women, but it had never occurred to me I was not his number one – not as in first in his heart, but not part of the production line either. ‘Maybe we should just call it quits for today,’ I said. ‘Suddenly, I’m not in the mood.’
We went downstairs and showered; I knew I wouldn’t be ringing him for a while. I don’t mind him having other women, I thought as I showered. I just don’t want to be the second woman of the day. Sure, we were fuck buddies, but I wanted to feel at least a little special. I didn’t want to be Friday’s girl number two. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be the girl that takes a cock in her mouth and one up her ass at the same time. I wanted real intimacy, I realised, something that lasted longer than a lunch-hour break.
Shortly afterwards I ran into my girlfriend Tania in a pub in Soho. ‘How’s your harem?’ she said. ‘Still enjoying the swinging?’
‘Not really. I’m bored by all of them,’ I said, and explained how it had become so predictable. ‘Always the same desperate middle-aged guy wanting to wank all over me. Or the married ones. They’re fine for a couple of dates until you have to talk to them, and then you become their counsellor and have to hear about the problems at home. It’s a drag.’
Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker Page 16
