Sex in the City--Dublin

by Maxim Jakubowski

  She released her bra, crossed her arms.

  My cock came to full length. I let my hands fall to my sides.

  She pulled down her panties and we crawled into bed together. I traced my middle finger along her collar bone. ‘I’m glad you asked me to stay.’

  She brushed my hair from my eyes with her left hand, then combed around my scalp. ‘You’re very handsome.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But nothing. I like being with you.’ I could not get a fix on the resignation in her face. She rubbed her silvery smooth nose to mine. The only sounds in the room were wet kisses, our hands became more familiar, stroking arms and ribs and stomachs.

  I turned her on her back and lingered at her breasts. I flicked that freckle from time to time then I continued down until I was at the border of her bright red pubic hair. ‘What’s it called, an Aussie kiss?’

  ‘Ohh.’ She nodded and spread her legs wide. I licked her vulva, flicked at her hard clit and slowly deepened my fingers in her.

  She gave a soft moan and shifted her hips.

  I hadn’t had so much as a grunt from her that first night in my apartment. I knew there was more than a passing chance I’d come within two minutes of entering her this time too, so I focused on my hands and mouth. It seemed hard to get her response to deepen. There was no pretending, I needed to prove myself. I wanted to prove myself.

  When I touched inside her hip, at the narrowing of her waist, and the bottom of her butt, she gasped ever so slightly. Her bellybutton was supremely ticklish, and I was surprised that she accepted my lingering attention to it, her bright laugh filling the room. She moaned louder and louder as my fingers and mouth got to know her folds. Her eyes finally went wide, then her stomach clenched and her hips shuddered. Perhaps the most ideal abstraction of all: a beautiful woman’s face in orgasm.

  I closed my eyes to regain control after nearly having a spontaneous orgasm of my own. I opened my eyes and her wide arms welcomed me. She took my cock and guided it in. Caireann’s warm hands, the comfort in her deeply dilated eyes, the way her thighs slid up and down along my legs kept me teetering on the precipice but I held it together. Another contortion crossed her face. I was now addicted to her face, rapt in pleasure. Never known for my self-control, I stopped pumping and rubbed her clit again.

  ‘Your turn.’ She had to push at my shoulder several times. ‘Please?’ I relented and lay back in her bed. She curled her fingers around the base of my rod and guided it into her mouth. The way her tongue swirled, rough then smooth then rough made it hard to keep my eyes open though I wanted to watch her. She rubbed my cock with her cheek and chin, her entire face. She took me as deep as she could go in her mouth again. She delicately, but firmly, squeezed my balls.

  I shot so hard that, had her mouth not caught it, it would have splattered her headboard. She moaned loudly as she drank me, a fresh rapture on her face. I pulled her to my chest and her copious hair surrounded me like a weeping willow. She tasted of stale Guinness and fresh semen, strangely delectable. I studied the terrain of her back with both hands. Her left hand combed my hair. ‘Thank you, Sven.’

  ‘Uh … you’re welcome.’

  Caireann’s long hair twisted around her face like rusted barbed wire. She lay curled on the far side of the bed and tossed restlessly. I crept from the room, gently descended the stairs and found some eggs and a hunk of nice cheddar cheese in her fridge.

  I poured my meagre cooking skills into preparing an omelette as a modest ‘thank you’ in return.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Caireann stood at the threshold of the kitchen in a long robe. She clutched it between her breasts. I couldn’t get a fix on her expression. I looked at the pan before me. Was I making it wrong? ‘I – I’m sorry, hope you don’t mind … I just wanted to … to try to … you know … make you breakfast.’

  Her lips opened to that dimpled smile. ‘I’ve never had a lad cook for me!’

  ‘I hope I’ll do OK.’

  ‘You’ll do great. Sorry if I seemed upset.’

  ‘I should have asked.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  I started some toast. ‘Anyway, thank you, Caireann.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You know, telling me about the dream.’

  ‘You’re a bright lad, and would have come around to it. It’s like those reflections in the River Liffey. All you had to do is look up to see the real image clearly. I just lifted your chin.’ Her eyes were so sad. Her lips smiled.

  ‘God, I love how you put it.’ She watched me in silence. I had to ask. ‘What happened with that artist ‘friend’ of yours?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Do I look strapped for time?’

  She laughed. ‘He said I was the perfect model, inspired him. Painted me over and over and over. I have no idea how many times. I posed clothed, nude, he did my face, my body, my hands, my feet, my breasts, my fucking left ear, but we never touched, you know, not in ‘that’ way. One night, he was painting a portrait of my face at my flat, I was fully dressed. He suddenly got naked, and stood before me. It seemed like he … was just giving himself to me. He was beautiful. It all just … happened.’ She paused. ‘It was great, but I never saw or heard from him again. He didn’t even split up with me. The only thing he left was that painting, the one he did of me that night. I don’t even know if it’s finished …’

  ‘Wow. I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Well … I’m … we’re both Americans …’ It was among the stupidest things I’d ever said.

  She laughed brightly. ‘I knew he wouldn’t be staying in Dublin just as well as I know I’ll never leave. Guess these things are never easy, no matter how they come out.’ She looked at me. Fresh anger welled in her eyes.

  ‘I remind you of him.’

  She nodded. ‘He was a strapping, handsome young man. Even blond.’ She wiped beneath her eyes. ‘You do look a lot like him. That was why I stopped at the mall at first.’ She forced a smile. ‘Lord, you turned me on. Maybe I figured I’d go to bed with you before you could break me heart.’

  ‘I was a lousy lay.’

  Caireann had just taken a drink of water and she spat it on the table. ‘But he never, not even once, made me laugh.’ She dried her mess. ‘Thank you, lad, for listening. First time I told anyone about Russell. In a way, I feel like … you helped bring it to closure.’

  ‘It’s the least I could do.’

  She complimented my cooking, I complimented her house. I took one last look at the painting in the little nook then went to the door.

  ‘You need directions back to your flat?’

  ‘I’m good.’ We kissed gently. ‘Good-bye, Caireann.’

  She smiled. ‘Good-bye, Sven.’

  I felt like there should be more, but didn’t know what. There was a big gap in me that I didn’t know how to fill. I extended my right hand. She grinned and extended her left.

  We shook left-handed.

  It may have been that the images of the stars from the prior night painted themselves on the clouds in my mind, but I knew exactly where to go to get back to the River Liffey despite the consumptive grey that had taken over in the morning, and the twists and turns walking the prior night.

  The next time I tried to paint, I found I had been completely wrong: knowing the truth had not been to its betterment. I painted plenty, but didn’t like anything I did. My architecture seemed uninspired, so I went to abstracts. They were listless.

  I set my brushes down and returned to some of the places I’d painted when I first arrived. The Georgian townhouses separated by the bright colours of the doors, united by airy, lace curtains. I could sense my inspiration. A row of old shops, and again I could sense my passion, but I couldn’t really feel it.

  I started to walk to Caireann’s place a dozen times. I never even reached the river.

  The glass ceiling suspended above the St Steven’s Green shopping centre held me fast. Every detail committed in susp
ending this clear ceiling like the sky itself reminded me of the quote, ‘the devil is in the details’. Paintings of architecture are about details. Not that I paint every one, far from it, but the key points must be present or implied. A keystone on an archway, the rivet on a junction of load-bearing beams. Omit a key detail, and your structure is left with floating elements; it loses credibility; won’t hold the weight of helium.

  By contrast, in the abstract, the detail can, and must, stand out, even demands to not be anchored. It invites the viewer to be the anchor. Disjointed eyes in a stylized upside-down face pretending to be the sun.

  A dark freckle on a clear skin lip.

  The grey sky above suddenly cracked with golden sunlight and as quickly was enveloped in grey again. So brief a moment I could only trap it in my mind and try to interpret it later. I felt that illusive spark, smothered before it could burn.

  ‘That was pretty, wasn’t it?’

  The sound of her voice brought a warm rush up my spine. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘I can see why you like it.’ She looked around the mall. ‘I waited for you to come by, started out a half dozen times for your place.’

  I laughed. ‘Me too.’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  The words turned in my head, and I knew if I opened my mouth they’d spew like a broken fire hose, so I composed myself, found comfort in her eyes. ‘I’m not sure. Afraid you’d turn me away, that I reminded you too much of your artist friend.’

  ‘Afraid that once you’d found why you had a fixation about redheads … I would lose some appeal.’

  ‘No … I mean … maybe. I don’t know.’

  She winked. ‘I worried I was an abstract in the River Liffey, more fetching in the reflection than when you lifted your eyes to the real me. I learned long ago that mysteries lost can lead to lonely days.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘No … I mean … maybe. I don’t know.’ She said it in a very good American accent.

  I laughed. ‘You should know by now that I like both the real and the abstract. Your artist ‘friend’, what was his name? Russell?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Russell was a fucking idiot. So was my mother.’

  She reached between my elbows and my waist, curled her arms around my back and gripped my shoulder like an eagle perching. Her heart beat so hard and fast, I worried she might explode. I’m pretty sure mine did too, so I squeezed her waist and kissed precisely at that freckle on her lower lip. She relaxed and let me.

  I eased into her mouth, and searched for the middle ground between the real and the abstract.

  She opened.

  About the Story

  Dublin, though it isa city, and capital city at that, has much of the feel of a small town, and being as I’m a small-town boy by breeding, this only serves to endear her. She was the perfect setting for my protagonist, Sven, to begin to unravel the mysteries of his own quirks and artistic passions. I relate in many ways to Sven and his searching through the mysteries of his mind, though I’m a little further down that road than him. I’ve had my red-haired lady (with a blessed measure of Irish blood) to be my muse in creative adventures.

  The beauty in Dublin begins with her people, and the character of Caireann is a bit of the city herself, sexy, wise, spirited and enigmatic. Like all who visit a place for the first time, Sven sees Dublin through different eyes than native Caireann, though she clearly loves her city. Still, his peculiar artistic vision of the city reveals to her a new perspective, as much as her more seasoned eyes begin to reveal to him the deeper things he didn’t even know he was searching for when he came to Ireland.

  The river Liffey both divides and unites Dublin, and her reflections are an artist’s dream. The often sparsely rationed Dublin sunsets can be revelations unto themselves, difficult to capture, and more difficult to quantify. It is the combination of these images that ultimately anchored my story, Abstract Liffey. A sense of breaking away from something old, a sense of uniting with something new. The perceptible shift one takes when one has gone from the living room to the bedroom. Beyond the polished vases and lamps that one shows to the guests to the earthier, but no less beautiful, inner sanctum.

  I suppose it has become clear that I think Dublin is a lady. She is indeed an enigma, both abstract and tangible.

  I am fortunate to remain bewitched by her charms, and I am honoured to have Abstract Liffey included in Sex in the City: Dublin.

  Peeping Tammi

  by Kelly Greene

  CALL ME PEEPING TAMMI.

  What’s that you ask?

  The answer is simple: I get off on every opportunity to watch couples, or any other combination of people, or any single person doing anything sexual. My obsession started while walking the dog one sunny afternoon in Phoenix Park, just north-west of Dublin.

  I had let the dog loose as it was over a mile from the road. Whenever my pooch, Darby, starts to act strange, like there is someone about, she always comes close to me. If a stranger comes in sight or within her hearing, she walks in front of me, and so closely she trips me up. That day, Darby came right back to me and plastered herself to my legs. I looked around and saw nothing. But as I walked on, I heard what sounded like a woman’s voice making those unmistakable sounds of sexual pleasure.

  Following the sound into the undergrowth, I spotted a man’s backside pumping up and down, making some lucky lass happy. I hushed the dog to prevent her from barking and I watched this man plough his business into her business like he was a farming machine tearing up the ground. Good grief but was he horsing it in. I was mesmerized by the spectacle and felt my box immediately go wet. I was also a little jealous. And I wished it was me in her place.

  When he groaned and was about to reach his climax, I tore myself away from the sexiest sight I had ever encountered and walked away quickly with Darby close at my heels. My blood ran madly and I told myself to relax and just get home. I went quickly to my flat in Stoneybatter and off came my clothes. And my fingers became that man’s fingers.

  I had the strongest, strangest solo orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

  The image of those two in the woods haunted my mind for weeks. Every time I thought about them I got all juicy. I started to walk the dog more often and every day I would scour the woods hoping to see a repeat performance.

  But it was several months before I found one; I spotted a car parked in the trees and noticed it was rocking in a telltale fashion, giving away the activity of the occupants. I moved in close, peeped through the window and saw a young couple. A molly was riding her man and her face was in full view. She had her eyes shut, so didn’t see me as I crept closer, almost touching the car as it rocked gently on its suspension in time with her vigorous thrusts.

  When she finally opened her eyes she smiled at me. She welcomed my presence.

  When she eased off him, his flute sprung up and was pure horse meat. She knelt on the passenger seat and bent her head down, turning her face sideways to give me a clear view of her mouth as it devoured his brute virility. Her breasts swung low. As she watched me, she indicated that I should show myself and pull my skirt up.

  I couldn’t do it. As excited I was, it was just too much for me to expose myself in public.

  But I stayed and must have watched those two for half an hour before another set of wheels pulled into the car park. I rushed home again to relieve myself. I lay on my bed, my clothes thrown about the floor from my eagerness to disrobe, and I pleased myself by recalling the images I had just witnessed. I let my fingers roam and enjoyed the sensation of the overflow that had seeped out of my pussy. Then I opened myself, stretched myself wide, and felt the cooling effect of the summer breeze wafting through the window.

  I deliberately avoided touching my clit. That would have to wait. I wanted this arousal to last. I inserted just one finger deep into my saturated sex and made little circular motions round and round inside. My mind pictured that pretty young woman fucking her man, her b
reasts bouncing with each thrust. I imagined how she must have felt, deep into her feke, knowing that I was watching her every move, delighting in her theatre of sin.

  How I wished it was me, not her.

  I needed to be filled, to be loved just as hard as she had been. I would have loved to wrap my lips around his big red pipe, kissing and sucking him to climax. I would have taken every drop of his manliness; swallowed it all and then shown him the residue on my tongue before kissing him hard on his mouth, letting him taste himself, giving him a little of what he had given me.

  This was getting good.

  The first touch of my clit was expected. It is my finger, after all, but the impact of contact felt like an electric shock. I slipped a finger back inside the slippery depths of my sex. My cunt gripped my digit; throbbed and pulsated around it.

  My bosoms needed attention, so I grip both my nips hard, making myself gasp with the pain and excitement of the sensations coursing through my body. Why do I love to make my eyes water by snagging my nips so hard?

  I could wait no longer. One hand stroked across my flat belly and found my clit waiting patiently for its release. I rolled my finger round it until I could no longer hold back. Then changed my action to a vigorous rubbing motion, my orgasm only seconds away. My mind tripped back to that lovely rosspot bouncing on her pikey. As the climax hit me I imagined his tool buried deep inside me, my box gripping and squeezing him like it was trying to do to my fingers.

  Autumn turned to winter and still no luck. I walked day after day in those woods trying to find another couple making love outside. It had become an obsession with me. I needed to watch.

  And then on one exceptionally cold winter evening, I went back to the car park with Darby and found several cars parked up, as if waiting and full of bog warriors wanting to show off their sexual prowess. One of the cars had the interior light on, so I made a slight detour to walk closer to it.

  A man and a girl sat in the front seats, snogging. I slowed right down as I neared the window, angling closer, making sure that if there was anything to see I wouldn’t miss it. Alongside the car I stopped moving; this couple obviously wanted to show off. My feet, in fact, refused to move me away and my eyes fixed on the young man’s hands as they pushed the front of the girl’s T-shirt higher, until her white bust was showing clearly. She wore no bra. There was nothing except his hand to hide her wonderful young titties from me. He rolled her nipples around in the same way I love to handle my own. Moisture seeped into my knickers and I desperately wanted to touch myself.