The One - No one said it would be easy

by Goldsmith, J. F.

  Unfortunately I wasn’t able to reciprocate, which would have been a trifle too risky out here in the wild. That’s a definitive advantage for the female of the species: they can come in secret. If you use some dexterity, this is practically undetectable. I once did it on an airplane, under my blanket, because I was so tense. My top half looked like I was asleep while I expertly pushed all the right buttons down below, and before you knew it, all the tension was chased away by a neat little orgasm that went entirely undetected. No twitching, no groaning, just a little, quiet, secretive dose of satisfaction-to-go. Maybe the little grin on my face afterwards could have looked as though I must be having very sweet dreams indeed. That really was what you might call effective progressive muscle relaxation!

  Number Fifteen and I spent the entire day making out and rolling around. I was dead keen on screwing with him, but no way would I consider a quickie on the filthy public toilet or in the car or in the bushes. Randy or not, there has to be some decorum, dignity and style when it comes to screwing! I would have liked to have taken him home but there was the small matter of the fact that I wasn’t the only one living there, which put paid to this wicked idea. I still had enough thinking capacity, despite my brain cells having been nuked, to not want to risk being discoveredin flagranti in my own happy home. I was certain there would be another nice opportunity for us to go wild in a proper bed. I really wanted to know now. Anyone who can kiss like that must be an absolute crackerjack in bed, that much was for sure. I appeared to have managed to suppress all recollection of Number Thirteen. Since I had to get home in time for the by now required de-randification so that I would be able to welcome my boyfriend home with an air of innocence and an “and how was your day, darling?” I had Number Fifteen drive me home. Naturally, I was extremely panicked about stopping all making-out-type activities and getting out of his car at a safe distance from my front door. Back home I jumped into the shower, scrubbing and washing the foul deeds of the day off me. I managed to not give anything away, even though my thoughts kept going back to Number Fifteen and my stomach kept fluttering with sex flashbacks.

  The potential embarrassment of meeting at work was spared us, since I was posted to another job at short notice and Number Fifteen had been sent to work on other company projects and therefore wasn’t in my office anymore anyway. We stayed in touch with emails and text messages. Nothing remained from our hot summer afternoon. He started whining again about his unspeakable on/off relationship, and what did I think he should do, and stuff like that. However, I hadn’t quite given up on my plan of hopping into bed with him. How dare he make me so randy and then just leave me unscrewed! One evening when I was alone, I bombarded him with text messages of ever-increasing salaciousness and it worked quite well! I texted to let him know that I was about to shave everything so that I was smooth all over, and he texted to let me know that he very much felt like licking me out for three hours flat. That kind of smutty stuff. Since I was by myself, I wrote that I wanted to see him immediately and that I wanted to come to his place. He took a long time to reply. Way too much time. Hello! The hottest broad of the century is yelling “come on, you, I want to shag you now” – so what is there to think about?! There’s only one possible response: jubilate, yell YIPPEE and get your boner ready to party, damn it! And what does he do, the wood gnome? The hobgoblin who never ever in his life had a woman as hot as me and who will never ever get anywhere near a chick as tasty as me – what does he do? He hesitates. He squirms. He whines. The text he sent me was full of pseudo-moralistic crap. That wouldn’t be possible, he couldn’t do that to his girlie (they were currently in the off-stage of their on/off relationship), he would feel terrible, blablabla. I stared at the text message.

  Who the hell did this sparsely-pelted yeti think he was? First smutty licking fantasies, and now a Britney Spears I’m-so-abstinent number, leaving me standing there, stupidly, like a sex-obsessed, unscrupulous and randy fuckmonster? Well, he wasn’t all wrong. I would have gone the whole hog, given half a chance. But I felt his reaction was so outrageously outrageous, I just couldn’t get over it. I didn’t reply.

  I have always been blessed with the idiotic and utterly stupid inclination to make an total ass of myself in such a situation. I should have just walked away, left the twerp to his own devices and treated him with the contempt he deserved. But what do I do, pea-brained dumb-chick that I am? I just couldn’t leave it alone. Some days later, I texted him again. Nooo! Yelled the part of my brain where my common sense resides, but my fingers were already dancing across the keys and the worst of them all, the thumb, pushed “send”. This resulted in another bout of text messaging between me and Number Fifteen and in the end I got him to agree to a date right after work the same day.

  The date was a complete disaster. Such a cliché of embarrassment that I’m ashamed of it to this day. We agreed to meet on the outskirts of town on a parking place in the forest. We were supposed to be going for a walk. Of course we were! I got there first, I actually doubted the wimp would have the guts to show up here, where the nasty men-eater was lying in wait for him. But I’d misjudged him, he did show up. We could forget about the walk, it was pouring with rain. I got into his car and there we sat, in silence. A bizarre situation. Then we kissed, entirely without any sparks and without enabling any kind of attraction to grow hot and hotter between us. It was nothing like it had been on the lake. I could also feel clearly how tense Number Fifteen was, he really didn’t want to be here. What a sissy, what a miserable wimp, I thought. He could have just said no, goddamn it! But still I didn’t give up and carried on unwaveringly. Since we were already here. I should have known, of course, that nothing good could come of it.

  But now to the high point of our conspiratorial meeting: his mobile rang. I couldn’t believe it! Rule number one for illicit meetings with randy super-chicks: switch your mobile off, or at least switch it to silent. Good God, this guy – ten years older than me! – really didn’t have a clue! When the mobile rang, he flinched. Instead of ignoring it in cool and superior James-Dean-fashion, he flew into a panic and jerked about on his seat, gave me one of those shoulder-shrugging “sorry I have to” glances and did the stupidest thing possible: he dug out his mobile and stared at the display. I stared at the display too, since it was in full view. What I saw made me roll my eyes. What he saw gave him a sweat attack. His dearly beloved on-and-off – currently off – girlfriend smiled at him from the little screen, accompanied by a suitable ring tone: a tinny version of "Only you" blared from the mobile. How tacky can you get?!

  Downloadable ring tones must be the most superfluous and embarrassing thing on the planet and companies like jamba & co. should be relocated to Jupiter. And this guy had his on-and-off girlfriend saved on his mobile with photo AND fitting lovey-dovey mushy ring tone. How uncool is that?! I immediately grasped the precariousness of the situation but I let him sweat and stammer. I wasn’t going to switch to sympathetic now. I was hacked off as hell. Hacked off by the guy and hacked off by me who should have known better and still carried on. Number Fifteen stared at me with a glare that said more than a thousand words. He would have loved to say: “Get away from me, bitch, piss off, I’ll drown you in holy water and smother you with anointed cloths.” But he didn’t have the balls. Instead he kept murmuring “I can’t, I can’t.” I caught my breath, threw the car door open, got out and smashed it shut again. In my own car I let rip like a fishwife and screamed with rage, rage at this shithead of a guy and rage at me for being such an idiot.

  I hardly ever thought of Number Fifteen afterwards. Luckily it never came out. On reflection, I am glad nothing happened. This twazzock didn’t deserve to screw me.

  Number Sixteen: Hopelessly addicted

  Oh God. Number Sixteen. A real heartbreaker. Every woman has a number like Number Sixteen in herrepertoire d’amour. Number Sixteen belongs to the type of guy who puts you under their spell – you succumb, you surrender completely. The type of guy who turns you into someon
e you’re not. You mutate into a kind of love wreck. You don’t recognize yourself. You are incarcerated in your padded cell of the heart, you fight and you kick and you scream but you can’t get out. You know he’s no good for you. You know nothing good will come of it. You know you’re headed for heartbreak. You know it will hurt. And even though you know all this quite clearly, you throw yourself, into the abyss of the heart that opens before you. Fully consciously. Heart and body and soul.

  It was only a matter of time before the demise of the rickety house of cards that was my relationship with Number Ten. I didn’t have the guts or the decency to raze it to the ground myself. Instead, I stood and watched it crash. Number Sixteen was both trigger and cause at the same time. I met him in my new job. He was so damn handsome. Tall, lots of dark tousled hair, blue eyes, a firm masculine body, not fat – no not at all! – but nicely compact and sturdy, like a proper he-man who, if he was that way inclined, could pick you up with one hand and throw you against the wall. He looked like a mixture of Buzz Lightyear and the snooty prince from Shrek with the long flowing hair.

  Number Sixteen was utterly charismatic. He was very conscious of his effect on the ladies. He exuded boyish innocence coupled with some kind of perverted forbidden sex appeal. You could practically smell that the only thing on his mind at any one time was fucking. Number Sixteen was a stallion. Honestly – no shit! Sounds like pornography. And it is. The guy was porn personified. Number Sixteen looked at every woman, truly every single one, and it always felt a bit scary because you imagined that, while he was having some innocuous conversation with the woman, he was imagining shoving her against the edge of the table and screwing her hard from behind. Number Sixteen was preceded by a seedy reputation: he’ll do it with anyone! He’ll screw anything with a heartbeat! All these oh-God-isn’t-this-guy-terrible platitudes, recited with a wide-eyed goodie-goodie girlie demeanor. The hottest rumors were that he’d let some guy suck his cock (which I would definitely want to do if I were gay) and that he’d screwed some big fat opera singer in the ass. Whaaat? Reaaally? Awesome!

  Naturally, I was on record as considering Number Sixteen the pits. This put me in agreement with all of my female colleagues who were also on record as considering him a total shit. But off the record, all of us drooled and panted at the sheer thought of him. We were all dying to be his next victim. Then again, I for one hadn’t really planned on joining the ranks of his numerous sex kittens. But as it happened, that’s just what did happen. I had to spend time working with him on a particular project. As Number Sixteen seemed to find this just as boring as I did, we started being silly like primary school kids, and then we started to flirt. Then Number Sixteen suddenly said, straight out: “Do you think your boyfriend would mind if I’d borrow you for a bit?” I wanted to be outraged – how impertinent, who does he think he is, he’s even worse than his reputation, and I should have got up and waltzed out of there immediately like an insulted diva. But I wasn’t outraged or insulted. Instead I just had to smile, I couldn’t help it, the corners of my mouth extended to wide-mouth frog dimensions all by themselves. If he really is such a daredevil then that’s exactly what I’m in the mood for right now, I thought, with my already contaminated brain full of dirty imaginings. Just this one sentence uttered by him electrified a part of me, the low part below the waist, that hadn’t been electrified for quite some time. So I replied, just as cockily: “How about we don’t ask him. He’s away for a few days anyway. So, what are you doing tonight?”

  And just like that, Number Sixteen and I had a date. That same evening. I guess we both had “fuck me” stenciled on our foreheads. We met up in a dim little empty bar. He was very attentive, paid me lots of compliments and was quite the gentleman. But at the same time, there was this randiness, this filthy dirty low-down beastliness about him. There should be an official ban on this mixture of gentleman and filthy beast, because it poses a real danger to poor little girlies, resulting in the same effect as KO drops secretly added to your drink. Bonggg, whoosh, crash-bang, there goes innocence, heart and brain. He smelled so good. My longing for him increased with every moment I lolled about with him in a cozy corner at that bar. Sounds kind of bombastic but that’s exactly how it was. I had such a craving for this guy, I could hardly contain myself.

  Number Sixteen didn’t dither about too much either, after all we weren’t here for the hell of it! He wasn’t just a man who didn’t mince his words, he didn’t mince his deeds either. He wanted to kiss me, he said. Was that OK? Oh yes please! At long last, please please please kiss me, absolutely, don’t wait – crazy thoughts chasing each other through my indecent brain. I didn’t even try to say anything, why hesitate at the entrance to paradise? I just moved my face towards him and then we kissed. I still melt even now when I remember that kiss. It was kiss-paradise, the heaven-on-earth version of kisses. Number Sixteen’s kisses tasted so good. Number Sixteen is the best kisser on the planet, by a long shot. If there was a casting show for kisses (“Kissing Idol”?) I would secretly enroll him. And he would be the undisputed winner. By a mile. His scent was fantastic. His skin was so wonderful to the touch, smooth and firm. His lips and his tongue were perfectly formed and they felt wonderful, soft and firm and a little fleshy, and they moved just the way I liked it: slow but determined. Then, while kissing, he grabbed my hair with his hands, yes, just like in the movies, hurrah! The kiss drove me even more wild. Warning thoughts wagging a moralistic finger had no chance. I was beyond salvation now. I was lost. Hopelessly.

  Of course we knew that we wouldn’t just keep to kissing. We had ordered the full menu, we weren’t likely to drop knife and fork after the appetizer. After all, we’d only just started! We were a long way from satisfied and replete. There was no need to speak, it was clear what would come next. We paid for our drinks and meandered home to his place, holding hands, stopping every so often to lean against some house for some heavy petting and making out. The moment we were inside his house we went at it. There we stood, in the middle of his tiny one-room apartment, petting like crazy while slowly removing all articles of clothing from each other. My gaze wandered around the dimly lit little room – randy or not, womanish curiosity wanted to go on a voyage of discovery. Whoa! There were one or two things to discover!

  The wall was covered with huge cardboard women, comic-strip fashion with big breasts and much too much make-up on their faces. Then a giant pixilated image of the giant top of a penis being worked over by a giant mouth with a giant tongue. In the shelf I discovered a remarkable sculpture made from bronze or copper or some such metal. The sculpture was a life-like copy of the wide-open female genital region, depicting the part between hip and cut-off thigh, ample thighs spread wide apart, and full view of the promised land in all its glory, complete with folds, labia, clitoris. Come to think of it, I even saw a hand resting sideways on one of the labia. The guy owns a pussy-sculpture! How bizarre is that?! And a freshly blown penis on the wall. Decoration mirrors intention, I thought. And even though I was horny as anything, I found his private little porn gallery a trifle disconcerting. Brief panic attack: I saw myself tied to the bed and Number Sixteen looming over me with a diabolical grin on his face and a sharpened knife in his hand.

  Luckily, there was no sharpening of knives – Number Sixteen did nothing to turn my horror vision into reality – only his cock kind of sharpened itself on me. Incredibly, the sex fiend was actually really gentle and affectionate, albeit at the same time decisive and demanding. He had a very beautiful body and a perfect build, not too thin, not too fat. I liked his cock very much too, no big nasty surprises there, but unfortunately he’d been circumcised. Shit that looked like hard work. Circumcised cocks are a veritable ordeal. I took heart and his cock in my hands, it was hard and thick and full. I grabbed it hard and closed both my hands around it. I had such an urge to squeeze hard because I knew, this gentleman can take it, he was hardy (so to speak) and not too sensitive and holding his thick cock tightly in my hands just felt so hot a
nd powerful. Number Sixteen did very well with his exploration of my body. He found his way excellently around my promised land, his touches were deliberate and gentle and designed to drive me into a lustful frenzy.

  And it worked – I squirmed and twisted beneath him, groaned and pushed against his hand with all my might, a hand that slowly and elaborately moved on and in me. Unbelievably hot. And then Number Sixteen proclaimed his fondness for the female backside by turning me onto my belly and starting to meddle with me from behind. Slowly and softly he slid along the – I don’t want to say crack because that sounds awful, but what else to call it? Groove? Furrow? Anyway, he slowly slid his hand and finger along the path between the two butt cheeks (doesn’t sound much better). In any event, it felt great. He really got into it and it seemed to excite him, because his breathing got faster too. I was moving up and down, pressing my face into the pillows and whimpering softly because it felt so good.

  However, he then proceeded to attempt to dig his face in-between my butt cheeks, and that I found irritating. I’m completely torn on this subject. I know how extremely sensitive one’s backside is, but more than a little touching and stroking – no chance! No putting anything in, no licking anything. I have enough problems when someone wants to lick my front end, so certainly the back end was a total no-go area. With all due respect for his courage and uninhibited abandon – and he wasn’t a brute about it or anything, no, he remained the perfect gentleman and treated my backside with nothing but respect – but the idea of someone sticking their nose and tongue up my butt is simply unbearable to me. I would be beyond embarrassed. In a way I’d like to try it, and I’m sure I’m missing out on all sorts of sexual ecstasies, but I simply can’t. End of story. I pulled Number Sixteen up from his backside-licking-position, He then whispered into my ear: “May I sleep with you?” Which was kind of superfluous and a bit silly; it was entirely clear where we were headed, seeing as we were rolling around his heaps of cushions stark naked and most highly aroused. All the same, it just made me melt some more: how sweet was that?!