The Not So Invisible Woman

by Suzanne Portnoy

  'Oh sorry, sweetheart,' he said. 'I'm crap at communicating. I really am. But, actually, I'm surprised you care.'

  'What do you mean, surprised I care?' I didn't want to say I'd thought we were dating, but the truth was, I had rather thought we were.

  'Well, I've read your book. I didn't think you did the attached thing. I'm flattered.'

  I didn't understand why he'd be flattered. I just thought he'd be happy that I cared. I realised that he defined me by my book and by my web blog, which he told me he read daily, and not by who I was. I was an author, or a character, but not a woman.

  'Anyway,' said Paul, diverting. He told me that he'd left his phone at the bottom of his bag, on silent, and then forgotten about it. For a man who supposedly was looking for a better job, he didn't seem so anxious to check his messages. No email, phone switched off, I wondered if he expected prospective clients to get in touch with him by carrier pigeon. I was relieved that he was OK, but his laissez-faire attitude jarred with my own sensibilities. I've always believed that, if you're in a relationship with someone, a daily call is the least one should expect. Fuck buddies are different. I only hear from them, or they from me, when either of us wants sex. It caused pause that I heard from my fuck buddies more often than I heard from Paul.

  'So, what are you up to Friday. You wanna get together? I'm meeting up with some friends at the pub.'

  Pat's evidence of his unsuitability was beginning to stack up. Paul didn't like the phone, he didn't own a computer and, I soon found out, he didn't seem to want sex as much as he liked a drink.

  Every time we got together and had sex, there were three of us in bed: Paul, me, and a bottle. We'd meet at the pub, stay until closing, and then wobble back to his flat for some after-hours action. I loved the way he kissed me, I loved his tenderness and the chemistry between us, but after the third time we 'made love' – to use his words – I wondered how much of the love was alcohol-induced and how much was real passion.

  Then there was the issue of the orgasm. I rarely come when I'm drunk. But being with Paul meant being drunk. Thinking back on what Pat had said, I began to think that perhaps she was right.

  'Do you realise we only fuck when we're pissed?' I said one morning. It was well after noon, after yet another night on the tiles, and yet another orgasm-free evening.

  'No, we don't,' he said.

  'Yes, we do,' I said. 'Think about it. We always meet at the pub. Always. And then we go back to yours. Drunk.'

  Paul remained silent.

  I've never needed to get drunk in order to get laid. Many of my friends do; they use alcohol or drugs as foreplay, and find my relative sobriety a hard thing to contemplate. To me, having a couple of drinks is great for releasing inhibitions and getting the party started, but, unlike many women, I've never found it necessary to drink away sex guilt. I don't have guilt; I know what I want, and alcohol is not going to make me want something any more than I already do. I can suck off a room full of men I've never met, in a sex club full of people I've never seen, and do it sober. I like cock a hell of a lot more than I like alcohol. I like the way a man's tongue feels on my clit, the endorphin high when a cock enters me or when I take one in my mouth. Alcohol dulls the sensations. It is the amateurs who need the boost; the men in my phone book, and the women and men I know from the swinging scene, are teetotallers. Sex is their high.

  Paul didn't return my calls on schedule. He drank too much. And, to round it off, there was the penis problem. Despite his coming, loudly, the first night we were together, the encounters that followed were marred by the foreskin issue. Paul would enter me and then, without warning, usually about five minutes into it and always in the mish, suddenly pull out and scream in agony.

  'Sorry, sweetheart,' he'd say, when he could finally speak. 'It really hurts.'

  'That's OK,' I'd say, in my concerned Florence Nightingale voice. I knew that was the end of the evening's entertainment.

  Paul would roll off of me and we'd have a cuddle.

  I'd never found myself so frustrated as when Paul and I were in bed together. We'd be fucking but, instead of relaxing into the sensations, I'd be worrying that he wasn't getting any pleasure out of it. And I'd find myself waiting for the moment when he'd scream.

  At some point, just a few minutes into a fuck but long before my orgasm would kick in, I'd be thinking about the skin around the head of his cock and how it might tear from too much friction. I couldn't relax and he didn't really want to come.

  Two months after our first date, I realised the situation was grim. Yet, in an attempt to salvage the relationship, I invited Paul to join me and my kids in India for the Christmas holidays. London wasn't working for us, but I hoped a spell on the beach would be the Band-Aid our relationship needed.

  'How much is that going to cost?' he said.

  'About seventeen hundred pounds,' I said. 'But it's a five-star hotel, and it's on the south coast. It's gorgeous.'

  'God,' he said. He waited a full thirty seconds before continuing. 'I couldn't spend that much on a holiday. I've never spent that much on a holiday. That's just not me. Sorry, sweetheart.'

  So much for the geographical cure. 'OK, understood,' I said. 'I'll send you a postcard.'

  All signs pointed to the exit, and to my portfolio of men collecting dust in the background of my mind. I had to admit what I already knew: I needed a man who could enjoy sex, a man who could make me come. I could be a one-man woman for the right guy. Unfortunately, Paul wasn't that guy.

  I'd jumped off the merry-go-round of men but, instead of finding respite, I got the itch that made me want to jump back on again.

  I hadn't had a monogamous relationship since Karume. I had tried to fit into my Mr Contender box a man who didn't belong there. Waiting for the phone to ring, having sex in the missionary position, getting drunk as a precursor to having sex, then dreading the shriek that brought it all to an end – none of that was for me. If the sex had been mind-blowing or kinky, or even merely satisfying, I might have given it a chance. The truth was, I'd found Paul attractive and sexy and cool, but once the loved-up phase had worn off, I had to admit we were just too different.

  After all, on top of the other issues, Paul was not the type to understand my having other lovers.

  'I've never dated more than one girl at a time,' he once told me, after admitting he couldn't comprehend my having a portfolio of guys. He knew, having read my book, that I wasn't big on monogamy.

  I explained that I could be monogamous, and had been during periods in my life, but this was probably not destined to be one of them. After a while I realized it wasn't what I wanted. I could not see myself in a conventional relationship, not now, not yet.

  I don't think Paul could even comprehend that concept. It was too far removed from his own experience. He found it exciting to be with someone whose life had been so different from his own, but unlike some of my regular playmates, he didn't want to be a part of that journey, and wasn't quite able to understand it. I came to the conclusion he enjoyed reading about himself in my blog more than being with me. I suspected it made him feel like a minor celeb in my very small world.

  I missed my kinky playpals: Carl, who loved it when I sucked him off in a steam room in front of an audience; Sam, who blindfolded me and fucked me in the ass; and Greg, who always talked dirty at just the right moment. They made me laugh. They made me come. I didn't have to think about whether they would ring or like my kids or come on holiday with me. I'd compromised who I was during my ten-year marriage and with the live-ins who followed, and I'd gotten burned in the process. Now, older and wiser, I wasn't about to settle any more. I'd been having a fine time before Paul came along.

  More importantly, I preferred being single. There was no brain damage attached to it. With Paul, it was all about expectation. Will he call me back? Was he going to be around over my kids-free weekend? Was I ever going to have orgasm?

  Pat was right, of course. Sensible Pat. Paul wasn't the one for me.
>
  I stopped calling him for our biweekly dates. And, as usual, he did not call. But now and then I found myself thirsty and in the mood for a booze-up. I may have lost a lover, but at least I gained a reliable drinking buddy.

  15. PAIN SLUT

  Do you like older men?'

  I was sitting in the Angel Inn, a gastro pub in Highgate, having a post-work drink at the request of someone who'd read and liked my book. I was used to male readers asking to meet me, and equally used to declining their invitations. Most of the guys seemed interested, not in me, but in auditioning for a role in my next book.

  Tonight's drinking partner was a double novelty – a fan who wasn't interested in a star fuck and a fan who wasn't a man.

  I'd been checking out a handsome executive leaning against the bar, one of many young suits on view that I half-hoped would catch my eye. So Emma's use of the word 'older' clashed with the visuals.

  Emma and I met through a mutual friend, Emily. The two women were journalists and, like most journalists I knew, they were savvy, witty and opinionated, as able to talk about sex and culture as about the court diary and current events. They met at a media bash and after a few glasses of wine discovered they'd both read my book. When Emily mentioned she knew me, Emma asked her to put us in touch.

  'I LOVED your book,' she wrote. I loved her capitalisation. 'I found it unputdownable.' I found her vocabulary appealing. 'I would really love to meet you to compare notes and literary experiences.' I wanted to meet a fellow writer who not only liked my work but who didn't want to fuck me.

  Half an hour after meeting at the pub, Emma and I were talking like old friends. Quickly, we discovered we were both Jewish girls, both 'cockists' – as Emma liked to describe girls who liked big cocks – and both had our share of dating disasters. There's nothing like swapping cock tales over cocktails to bond two women. We'd begun the night talking a bit about my book, then slipped into a chinwag about our jobs, but after a couple more drinks, the girltalk quickly turned to boytalk.

  'Do I like older men?' I said. I thought of Max. 'Well, I went out with a youngish fifty-four once, and that was OK.'

  Emma smiled.

  'How about you?' I said pondering Emma's question. 'How old is "old"?'

  'Sixty,' she said, adding quickly, 'a very young sixty.'

  I had been expecting a generic riff on the wonders and horrors of going out with geriatrics, but it was clear Emma wasn't talking generics. She had a specific man in mind.

  'I suppose I could stretch to sixty.' I laughed. 'What's he like?'

  'Well,' she said, leaning forwards on her elbows and launching into sales mode. 'He's handsome, quite well known, very nice. He's a gynaecologist, so he knows a few things about women.'

  'Funny?' I said, intrigued and hopeful.

  'Um,' she said. 'I suppose he can be.'

  'In other words, he's not funny,' I said, hopes dashed. 'Not a laugh a minute, not quick witted.'

  'Well, no,' she admitted. 'He's not hysterically funny. But he's interesting. I think you'll like him.'

  'Have you fucked him?' I asked. 'Does he have a big cock?'

  'No,' she said.

  'Which one is it? No, you haven't fucked him, or no, he doesn't have a big cock?'

  'No and I don't know.' Emma laughed. 'We almost got there, but it didn't happen. We just had a bit of a snog.' Emma paused a second and arched her eyebrows. 'He says he has a big cock. But he's a bit too kinky for me.'

  'Kinky?' I said, suddenly interested. I hadn't heard that word in a while, not since before Paul anyway. 'How kinky?'

  'Well, that's for you to find out,' she said and laughed.

  'I don't like peeing on people. I can't do that.'

  'I'm sure if you tell him you won't pee on him, he'll be OK with that,' she said. Suddenly serious, she added, 'So, can I give him your email address?'

  'Go ahead,' I said. 'Why not?'

  'Great!' said Emma, genuinely excited. Her inner Yenta had surfaced and scored a hit. 'I think you're really going to hit it off. Will you let me know what happens?'

  'Of course!'

  The next day I found an email from Christopher in my inbox.

  'Dear Suzanne,' I read. 'My adored friend Emma says you wouldn't mind horribly if I invited you out for a drink/coffee/tea/dinner sometime soon. I hope this is not one of her practical jokes, because you sound so delightful. I am around for the next few days if you think our paths might cross.'

  I Googled Christopher's name and checked out the photos that popped up onscreen. Distinguished bald top, boulders for cheekbones, saucer eyes. I could do older, I decided.

  'Dear Christopher,' I wrote back. 'No, it's not a practical joke. I really am delightful. © And this is my kids-free weekend. What about Sunday lunch?'

  We arranged to meet at the Wells Tavern in Hampstead, one of the many recently refurbished gastropubs in the heart of Hampstead village. Christopher had booked a table in the posh upstairs dining room, I discovered on arrival, and I was delighted at what promised to be a rare treat. I was slightly taken aback when brought to the table, as the man who introduced himself to me looked at least a decade older than any of the photos I'd found on the web. He was about six-feet tall, medium built, with bright blue eyes. He was not unattractive, but I'd never been out with anyone in his sixties before and suddenly found myself thinking I might not be ready to, either.

  I sat down as Christopher ordered a bottle of burgundy from the waiter. Then he pulled out a dog-eared copy of my book.

  'I see you came prepared, sir.'

  'Yes, and it was an interesting read,' said Christopher. 'I've made a few notes.' As he opened the book I noticed pages where he'd highlighted sentences. I'd expected a casual lunch, but suddenly it was beginning to feel like work.

  Is this guy going to interview me? I wondered. Something in my expression must have tipped him off, because as soon as he'd picked up the book, he'd put it back down.

  'We can talk about this later,' he said. 'Let's order, shall we?'

  I ordered the Sunday special – roast beef and Yorkshire pudding – then settled into the leather chair. I was wearing a clingy chocolate-brown dress and matching heels. The dress was low cut, but I noticed, halfway through the roast, whilst glancing down at my plate, that it revealed a little more cleavage than I'd wanted Christopher – or the rest of the diners – to see. And see he did.

  'You have lovely breasts,' said Christopher, leaning over the table to whisper close to my face. His voice was intoxicating, a classic BBC radio voice – smooth and deep and confident and lush. I hadn't even noticed its allure until the comment on my breasts. Suddenly Christopher went from an old man to a sexual man. He became as different to the eye as to the ear.

  'Thank you,' I said and smiled, staring into his pale-blue eyes whilst thinking that perhaps sixty wasn't so old after all.

  His was a voice I could have listened to for hours, and that afternoon, I did. Four hours after my arrival, suddenly aware ours were the only voices, we looked around and saw there was no one else in the dining room.

  'Shall we go back to mine for a coffee?' Christopher asked.

  'Lead the way,' I said, standing up, smiling, and taking his arm.

  Christopher lived in a cosy two-bedroom flat at the back of a large mansion block that looked out onto Hampstead Heath. It was furnished just as one would expect of a man Christopher's age – a mixture of antiques and flowery upholstery, with vintage horticulture prints on the wall and worn Orientals on the floor. I walked towards the love seat in the front room.

  'Why don't you take your shoes off,' he said as I eased into the two-seater.

  I removed my lace-ups. Christopher sat at my feet and began massaging them.

  'That feels lovely,' I said, leaning back into the sofa. I opened my legs to reveal my pussy to him. As usual, I'd foregone the underwear when dressing for our meeting. 'My feet were killing me. You're bringing everything back to life.'

  'Every woman needs a man in her life
who can rub her feet,' he said.

  'I couldn't agree more. A man at my feet. I like that.'

  One of Christopher's hands travelled up my leg, massaging my muscles as he did so. When he reached my pussy, I looked down just in time to see his bald head disappear up my dress.

  I sat back and let him continue. I spread my legs further apart and felt his tongue rest against my clit. I knew from Emma that Christopher was an experienced lover. Her parting words were about Christopher. In his prime, she said, he had been a real player and had slept with hundreds of women. I soon learned she was probably right. After our initial email exchange, Christopher had sent me photos – almost as old as his furniture, I now thought, guiltily, bitchily – that dated from when he was in his twenties. In his prime, Christopher had been magnificent – long dark curly hair, a lean, toned body, model-handsome. Judging by the way he used his tongue on my clit, I knew he'd put in some time on the stud farm, too.

  'Oh, Christopher, that feels so good,' I said. 'You've obviously done this before.' I laughed in between moans.

  'Just a few times. Why don't we go into the bedroom?' he said. 'It's more comfortable there. And we can take off our clothes.'

  I got off the love seat and followed Christopher to the bedroom. It was dominated by a massive king-size bed with an antique brass bedstead. The sheets and pillows were forest green, very masculine. A built-in wardrobe ran down one side of the room and a narrow chest of drawers stood beside the bed.

  I pulled off my clothes and Christopher pulled off his, revealing a tight hairless body and a medium-sized, medium-width, hard cock. Not a monster, not what I had expected, based on Emma's PR, but not tragic either.

  I climbed on the bed, lay on my back and spread my legs. Christopher joined me and returned to position between my legs. He lapped at my clit and around my pussy, teasing me until I was dripping.

  'Please,' I begged after fifteen minutes, after I'd felt my pussy expand and demand that it be filled by something or someone. 'Please put your fingers inside me.'