The Not So Invisible Woman

by Suzanne Portnoy

  'Just have a nice time together,' he counselled. 'Stay at home. Cook for him. Watch the telly. Take it from me. Anything else is not a good idea.'

  It depressed me a little that, even before hearing Aidan's advice, I'd been following it. I'd kept quiet about the Erotic Awards, gone on my own, and that's how I'd ended up blowing Rump Shaker. And wanting to see the stripper again.

  Till that happened, there was wholesome, vanilla Kafele. I sent him a text message. 'How's your day going?'

  My phone vibrated when he replied. 'I not eating.'

  God, I thought, things must really be bad if he can't afford food.

  I debated inviting him round for a meal, but it was a weeknight, my kids were home, and they had never met Kafele. After Karume left our lives, I'd stuck to my pledge not to introduce boyfriends to my boys. I didn't want them growing attached again to someone who might not stick around for long.

  'Why aren't you eating?' I texted back.

  'I am Muslim,' he replied.

  It was a relief knowing he wasn't skint.

  'I'm a non-practising Jew,' I shot back. 'Maybe together we can sort out world peace.'

  I hadn't figured Kafele for the religious type at all. I'd never seen him pray. He'd never mentioned any Islamic religious festivals. He didn't smoke or drink, but that hadn't struck me as particularly unusual. His staying sober all the time had seemed to reflect an impressive dedication to his music. He was non-stop horny and spent most of his time in bed whenever he was with me. He worshipped my body, so porking a Jewish woman old enough to be his mother didn't exactly seem . . . observant.

  Never having dated a Muslim guy, I went on Google for some Ramadan 101, which led to Koran 101.

  I worked out that, as a divorcee, I was considered impure. That didn't bother me, as I assumed it meant he could do pretty much whatever he wanted with my filthy body, short of fucking me up the ass. I was fine to screw, but not to marry. So I figured I was a pretty safe bet for a young horny Muslim guy.

  Except for the Ramadan bit. It turned out that the start of Ramadam meant that, firstly, he was not allowed to eat from sunrise to sunset, and, secondly, 'lascivious thoughts' were forbidden. That might prove problematic, so I rang him up.

  'Is it true that for the next thirty days you're not allowed to have naughty thoughts?'

  'Naughty thoughts?' he asked. I loved hearing his charming French-African accent.

  'You know,' I said, wondering how to put it in simple English, 'thinking about sex. That sort of stuff.'

  'Oh, it is OK,' he said. 'Just not in the day.'

  Did that mean he could fuck me from sunset to sunrise, just not in the morning?

  'Yes. That is right.'

  'Oh, that's cool then.' Sort of. I was thinking how much I really liked morning sex.

  'Sometimes, I have those thinkings after the breakfast.'

  I smiled at Kafele's cheeky confession. But there was something about our conversation that got to me. As I hung up, I realised I wanted action, not thinkings. The scrambled syntax was cute, but it reminded me of what I'd been missing over the past three months. And it wasn't just sexual spontaneity. It was the ability to really communicate. Being with someone who was simple and honest and sweet was just what I'd needed after Karume. But suddenly I realised that I had moved on, from both of them. I needed a man who could tell me a joke, a guy who didn't need me to play charades in bed. I needed kinky.

  I thought about Rump Shaker. In his business, being naughty came naturally. He was uninhibited, obviously, and fit and beautiful besides. Maybe not boyfriend material, but I wanted to taste something other than vanilla for a change. I wanted chocolate.

  I called up my girlfriend Hannah. She's a stunning Australian who looks like a 1940s French movie star and reminded some of my friends of Kate Moss. She used to book acts at Torture Garden and had a Rolodex full of strippers and pole dancers.

  Trying to sound innocent, I asked if she knew a stripper called Rump Shaker.

  Knowing me like she did, she saw through my act in about two seconds. 'Oh, you mean Carl?' she said. 'Horny are we, Suzanne?'

  'I don't know his name,' I said. 'He was called Rump Shaker at the Erotic Awards. He's got a diamond in his tooth.'

  'Yeah, that's Carl'

  'You don't happen to have his number, do you? I sucked him off at the Awards and I would kinda like to do it again.'

  She laughed. 'Nice guy, big cock. Been fucking around for years,' she said. 'Hold on, I'll get it for you.'

  'Perfect!' I said. 'I've been playing goody-two-shoes for months and really need, you know, to let rip.'

  'Good luck, babe,' she said. 'By the way, he usually likes to drag along his friend Paulie, too. Wild. Just don't say I didn't warn ya.'

  7. STAR FUCKS

  He's hot!' Kate said. 'I mean, reeeeeally hot. Hot-hot-hot!' We were standing in the kitchen in my office, talking about the lead singer of a band she and some co-workers went to see at Shepherds Bush Empire the night before. I hadn't gone to the show, because when it comes to rock concerts, my policy is to stay away if not going VIP and guaranteed an upholstered chair. It was OK in my twenties, hanging out in clubs that reeked of last week's alcohol and a million cigarettes, standing up all night, drinking warm beer. But I am in my forties now, and it is all about comfort. I'd rather get spanked for two hours than have to stand up for one, crooking my neck for the occasional glimpse of a few skinny guys on a stage a mile away. At least in the spank-me position I'd have a comfortable lap to lie over.

  'What's so hot about him?' I asked. I'd seen the guy's picture all over town, in advance of the band's European tour. He looked standard rock 'n' roll attractive to me: obligatory three-day-old stubble, short-cropped dyed-black hair, a half-dozen hideous tattoos. His face was cute, but almost too round – annoyingly youthful, it hadn't begun to sag even a bit. No muscle tone, no body fat, mostly just bones dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a T-shirt. Yawn.

  'He just is,' Kate said. 'He has real sex appeal. Even I fancy him.'

  That was saying something. Kate is about 23, all tits, no ass, slim, with long light-brown hair and a classically pretty face. She took her hippie-chic dress cues from Sienna Miller, was well spoken and nice, and had been with the same guy for years, happily. So the thought of her even desiring another guy was revealing.

  'Oh, you sound like one of those girls who looks at every guy in Heat magazine and says, "Ooh, he's cute, he's cute,"' I teased.

  She laughed.

  'Anyway, whatever. I don't see it,' I said. 'But I'll let you know what I think.' I looked at her meaningfully. 'I'll be spending all afternoon with him.'

  The rock star's photo shoot with Hello magazine was arranged for 2.30. I'd booked the venue – the recently fabulousified Mayfair Hotel. I planned to arrive early, have a quick meet-and-greet with the photographer and his lighting guy, check out the locations to make sure they were suitable, and then await the rock star. As a type, they are problematic. They tend to arrive late, if at all, require lots of hand holding, alcohol and cigarettes, plus a shadow – someone to trail them, to make sure they don't trash the room.

  But first I planned on a little R & R at Rio's, with my newly acquired, and now favourite, fuck buddy, Carl, a.k.a. Rump Shaker. Hannah had come through with the number, and it hadn't taken Carl long to come in me.

  'Got a couple hrs to kill before appt later this afternoon,' I texted him. 'Any chance of a quickie?'

  'Rio's. 12,' he texted back.

  I told my staff I was off to the Mayfair.

  Carl was waiting in reception as I walked in through the door. We had a quick shower and a steam, then walked upstairs to a private room. I closed the door so I could have Carl and his ten inches all to myself. I'd briefly contemplated a threesome after seeing a familiar face in one of the Jacuzzis. Michael was a guy I fucked from time to time. He was a Friday regular and had one of the fattest cocks I had ever seen. But that wasn't the only thing that put him on my radar. He loved lick
ing pussy and, knowing Carl did not, I figured having the two of them in the same room might make for a perfect sandwich. Carl wouldn't have minded. Like Michael, he was a seasoned player.

  But I changed my mind. I had to watch the clock, and had only about 45 minutes, hardly enough time to satisfy my need for some solo-time with Carl. I hadn't seen him for a couple of weeks and wanted to taste and suck on his beautiful cock. Michael's cock was world class, but Carl had the most handsome penis I'd ever seen. Michael's was a Coke can, but Carl's was like a sculpture, a piece of art. Just thinking about him, and it, brought me close to orgasm. 'Before I leave, I want to spunk in your mouth,' he said once, and those words stuck in my mind. Replaying them again and again, like an old 45, put me in a spin. It was as much the way he said it as the words themselves. He was comfortable with his own sexuality. He made wanting to come in my mouth sound as natural as ordering a pint of lager. I liked his lack of pretence and admired his confidence in his manhood. He was cool.

  Carl lay down on the mat, and I took his soft cock in my mouth. I felt it get hard within minutes. It had a velvety smoothness, as pleasant, in its way, as the fuzzy texture of the nodding dog I had on my car dashboard.

  He lay on his back with one hand behind his head and, even though I had my eyes closed while I worked his cock, I knew he was watching me. I was crouching over him. He reached down to massage my clit gently, just the way he knew I liked it.

  'Can I sit on top of you?' I asked. I'd been itching to grind on his cock since texting him that morning, since realising, for the first time, that grinding was about the one thing we hadn't done that was still on my to-do list. We'd done anal, sixty-nine, threesomes; we'd fucked in my hot tub and in my car and in front of a crowd, he'd spanked and flogged me; I'd nibbled on his balls. It wasn't the most extensive list, but then we'd only seen each other three or four times since meeting at the Erotic Awards.

  I could tell from the way he smirked that the answer was yes.

  I reached over to my kitbag, pulled out a condom, ripped it open with my teeth and put it over the tip of his cock. As ever, it strained to fit going down, he was that thick. I tried to gently slide the condom farther down, towards his balls. Seeing me struggle, Carl reached down and did it himself.

  I mounted his cock and bore down on him, straining to take him inside despite being dripping wet. We rested, I bore down some more, we rested again, then I felt my pussy relax and he was in. Grinding down on him, I felt a surge of pleasure as my clit rubbed against his pelvic bone. Carl reached behind me and gently inserted a finger in my ass.

  We kissed. His mouth was big, his lips soft. If you were gay, I thought, you'd be a hit on the circuit; hell, with that mouth, you could handle a cock as big as your own. He wasn't, though; guys weren't his thing. But he was the perfect stripper, willing to perform for anyone, male or female, and the perfect fuck buddy, ever ready to perform for me.

  Carl's tongue circled my teeth and I felt his body arch in rhythm with mine. God, he felt so good. I grabbed his nipples and gently squeezed, feeling him get harder. Ten minutes later, I climaxed, screaming as I came.

  I laughed. 'That's what I sound like when I have a really big orgasm,' I said. 'Now you know.'

  I was feeling light-headed. I moved off Carl's body and removed the condom from his cock, then took him in my mouth again.

  'Wow, that's ... lovely,' he said as I took him as far into my mouth as I could. There were still another three inches to go, but I could not reach the base of his cock. I continued deep-throating him and then, as his balls retracted and his breath quickened, I began jerking him off. His come dripped over my hand and down the side of his cock. I lapped it up.

  At 2.45, fashionably but not rudely late, the rock star walked through the hotel door with an entourage of two: his agent, a big name in the music industry, and his manager, a brassy, seen-it-all American broad about my age. My hair was still damp from a quick post-play shower at Rio's. I hoped nobody would pick up on the after-sex glow I was convinced exuded from every pore; I felt fluorescent.

  I got off my chair and walked across the lobby to shake VZ's hand. 'Hi, I'm Suzanne,' I said.

  'Hey, gorgeous,' said VZ, draping his arm around me. His greeting was so clichéd, it was like something out of a pick-up-artist handbook.

  Kate had warned me about his flirtatiousness. She'd gone backstage after the previous night's show and had seen him in action. 'He is an outrageous flirt,' she said. 'He was coming on to all the girls – all the girls.' She thought it was funny.

  I chose to ignore his greeting and got on with business. 'Right,' I said, turning away and gesturing towards the Amba Bar. 'The photographer's set up, waiting for you. It's gorgeous,' I said, looking at VZ. 'We've got a fantastic suite upstairs, too, for the other pictures. Follow me.'

  VZ was exceptionally friendly during the introductions, making sure he got the photographer's, the photographer's assistant's, and the make-up artist's names, asking where they were from. A bit of an actor, a bit of a cad, but at least he had some manners.

  After the hellos I proposed relocating to the suite, to meet the stylist and work out the clothes for each shot.

  'Sounds good,' said the rocker. 'Lead the way, gorgeous.'

  Gorgeous this, I thought. I walked towards the lifts, putting three feet between us so he could admire the back view.

  The agent and manager were on their mobiles and gestured for us to go ahead. VZ and I got in the lift together. I pressed '7'.

  'Wow, I'm really loving the way your blue toenail varnish is peeping out of your bobby socks,' he said, looking down at my feet. 'And those shoes are so fucking hot.'

  I had on black-and-white striped bobby socks and a pair of black peep-toed heels with ankle straps. I was also wearing a denim pencil skirt, with a clingy black retro batwing top.

  'Thanks.'

  I thought VZ was being a little over-observant and I laughed. I found his flattery kind of sweet and charming, and pretty harmless. In photos, he was cute. Up close, he looked like a baby, so smooth-skinned, so young. Just looking at him reminded me I was old enough to be his mother. After Kafele, I was through with kindergarteners.

  'If I didn't have to do this photo shoot, I'd bend you over in the suite,' he continued.

  'Well, somebody already got there first today,' I said. 'Too late.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I just had sex before I came to see you with a big black stripper.'

  'Really?'

  'Yeah, I had an hour to kill,' I said. 'I thought I'd enjoy myself before having to hang out in a hotel with you for the rest of the day.'

  He looked astonished that for once someone was telling him to can the charm assault? That cutie-pie rocker wasn't having his way, as usual, with a lady? That his PR woman had shattered the bounds of professionalism by telling him she'd just got laid? That a middle-aged woman had already got more action than he'd seen that day? I wasn't sure which.

  We entered the Schiaparelli Suite and greeted the stylist. VZ's manager and agent arrived soon afterwards and made themselves comfortable on the fifteen-foot black-and-beige velvet sofa, smoking cigarettes and admiring the suite. It was half the size of my house. The perfect place for a dirty weekend, I thought, as I brought VZ into the bedroom and secretly admired the super-king-sized bed. Its headboard consisted of a huge patch of black velvet encased in a massive gold-leafed baroque frame, set against a wall covered in hot-pink velvet. The bed was smothered in huge square pillows. Very rock 'n' roll. Though I knew the place had undergone a major facelift, it wasn't quite what I'd expected, given that the Mayfair advertised its 'attractive government rates' for American servicemen. I had a hard time picturing George W. Bush in there, visiting the troops. But it was easy picturing Carl and me on that bed. If only the two of us had killed time here before the rocker showed up, instead of going to tried-and-true Rio's.

  'Isn't this fantastic?' I asked. I felt slightly ridiculous, voicing what was blindingly obvious.


  'Hey, Fran,' VZ shouted through the door to his manager. 'The next time I'm in London, I wanna stay here.'

  'I was worried this might happen,' came a low, female been-there-done-that voice from the other room. She was no fool. The suite was £2,500 a night and, although VZ was a star, he was no Mick Jagger or Bono.

  The stylist began to pull clothes out of the bedroom wardrobe and, as I chatted with her, VZ brushed past me, managing to run his hands along my ass. Suddenly his flirtatiousness didn't seem as meaningless as I'd assumed. Does he want me, I wondered, or does he just think he'll get more press by being nice?

  'That pencil skirt is so damn sexy,' he said, sotto voce.

  'Thanks.' I shrugged.

  He moved closer and whispered in my ear, 'Are you wearing any panties under that?'

  'Of course not. I never wear knickers.' I looked at him and smiled. Never done a rock star before, I thought.

  'Let me take a picture,' he said, and grabbed a disposable camera I'd not noticed before. He handed it to the stylist, a blousy brunette who'd landed this amazing job straight out of college, touring around the world and clothes shopping for the band. 'Jen, will you take a picture of us?'

  He moved back to the doorway and pointed to a long glass table in the reception room. 'Here.' He turned to me and said, 'Bend over the table.'

  'How did you know?' I said. 'My favourite position.'

  VZ got behind me and I pushed my ass into his crotch. I felt his hard-on underneath his trousers. I jiggled my behind and flashed a grin. Click.

  Whilst VZ and the crew did the shoot, I took a walk. I wanted to give him a little present, figuring a book with a sexy picture and the words 'erotic memoir' on the cover might whet his appetite. Now I wanted him. I picked up a copy at a nearby Hatchards and returned to the hotel just as the shot was wrapping up. VZ had been moussed, made up and dressed up. He'd exchanged his torn jeans for Prada, put on a black single-breasted Nehru suit over a black shirt, and looked every inch the wealthy well known rocker that he was. And sexy.