by PJ Adams
I leaned back on my heels, then, and watched his cock flop down into the nest of his balls, its length shiny and wet with my saliva.
It was only then that my awareness spread. I’d been so wrapped up in what I was doing, in his responses, in responding to his responses, that only now did I become aware of the heat in my abdomen, the tightness, the need. I put a hand down to my belly, slid it further down across my jeans to where the seam pulled tight against my clit, and he watched as I pressed and rolled my hand against myself, urgent and fast.
I was there in no time at all, my belly contracting, my pussy tightening, as climax took me, so suddenly and abruptly that I was left gasping, my breath ragged, my face flushed.
He was looking at me, a strange expression on his face. Finally, he said, “You’re beautiful. You’re really fucking beautiful, you know that?”
No one had ever said that to me before, and I’d never thought it of myself, but that was the moment when I started to take a good step back and reassess things. That was when I realized I’d passed my ugly duckling phase and now things were different, so very different.
And Harry, my journalism lecturer? He was generous. That essay wasn’t my finest piece of work, by any means. It was rushed and slapdash, but still he gave me a B-.
It wasn’t long at all before I’d worked out how to get straight As.
§
“So how are things going with your latest?”
Your latest.
“You make me sound like some kind of sexual predator,” I said, but I knew that was just Maggie’s direct way: a bit of a dig, a bit of a joke, no barriers.
“My dear,” she said. “I really do hope that you are. Have I taught you nothing?”
We laughed and I sipped at my coffee, a large Americano with a generous swirl of cream that was now marbling and blending through the dark liquid.
“So...” she prompted. “How’s it going?”
“Better, I think.” Last time we’d discussed my relationship with Porter I’d been having a bad time, hating all the cloak and dagger, all the being the other woman. That had been exciting at first, but after a month it had started to drag. Yes, only a month. What can I say? I’m impatient, I don’t like to stand still. A month was long enough for it to go from the thrill of stolen moments, a couple of hours in a hotel room, sexting late into the night, to resenting the need to hide and cover our tracks.
And there was always the fear that he was happy with things as they were: the married man with me on tap. He’d been there before, after all: I had known from the start that he was a womanizer. This wasn’t a new game for Porter Swaine.
“He’s left his wife.”
Maggie’s expression barely flickered, but I knew that her brain must be racing now to process this new nugget. I do like to drop the occasional bombshell.
“So he’s married?” she said now. “So that’s why you’ve been playing your cards so close to your perfectly formed chest.”
“Why thank you.”
“And he’s left his wife for you? Does that mean it’s serious, then? I thought you said it was just a bit of fun.”
“Serious? No, not serious. They weren’t happy. He didn’t leave her for me; he left her for himself. But it does mean we don’t have to hide any more.”
“How exciting,” said Maggie. “You are coming next week, aren’t you?”
Maggie’s book launch. Of course I’d be there: I’d been liaising with Maggie’s agent about the arrangements, after all.
“Why don’t you bring him? A public date.”
I didn’t think it through. Maybe I was so taken up with the idea of our coming out in public. Of actually being a couple, for God’s sake. Novelty value, or what?
I didn’t think of the consequences or complications of Maggie’s invitation. I just thought of me, and I know that’s bad, but there you are.
§
There had been other men since my journalism lecturer, of course. I’d felt so worldly and grown-up, seducing him. A lecturer, an authority figure, a married man for God’s sake. I’d felt even better when it proved to be more than a one-off blow-for-grades kind of thing. He’d taught me a lot, and not just in the classroom (although we did it there, too).
I didn’t realize how clumsy and unimaginative Harry was until later.
Until Julian, perhaps. A professor on my third year literature course, he was about forty, but strong and fit from years of marathon-running. Married, but going through a divorce, which I counted as a step up towards the moral high ground for me. Like Harry, he wasn’t interested in a relationship; he wasn’t really interested in me, other than my body, and for me that was still such a novelty – to be seen as attractive, a conquest, to be seen as hot. I still wasn’t convinced that I was out of the ugly duckling phase.
Or Patrick, a colleague and friend of my father’s, a man who had watched me grow up, and at some point – well before I had taken that leap – had seen me change from gawky teenager to, well, to me. I still remember vividly seeing him naked for the first time, watching his stubby little cock getting engorged, pushing out from its nest of black pubic hair, getting longer and fatter and then starting to push away from his body. The way they grow like that, the way they seemed to have a mind of their own... I still find that endlessly fascinating, no two cocks ever alike. And my but Patrick’s grew – from that reticent little stub to something that was so fat I almost had to dislocate my jaw to take it in, so long that I didn’t have even half of it in my mouth when it hit the back of my throat, and I even started to panic a little, it was so big.
Is there a pattern here? Perhaps. There’s my fondness for giving head, of course. And the men... Older men. Authority figures. Men who had other commitments and so only tended to see me as a sex object – such a thrill, even to think that men saw me that way, let alone to act on it! Men who felt the need to spoil me and look after me because, yes, I can be a mercenary cow. I like my creature comforts, and I like a man who wants to indulge me. I never claimed to be a nice person, did I?
§
I remember another conversation with Maggie, early in our friendship. “It really is all about you, isn’t it?” she’d said, in that way of hers that was both joke and cutting observation at the same time. “Do you think you could ever fall for a man who didn’t have money to throw in your path? Do you think you could ever fall for a man full stop?”
“Falling is such a clumsy thing to do,” I’d said. Then, more seriously, I’d added, “I don’t know. I take my chances, and so far they just happen to be men who like to spoil me. Who knows what will be next?”
“Are they chances? Or choices?”
§
At university I majored in Journalism, a subject that allowed me to study all kinds of other things, too, including anthropology, psychology and sociology. People-ology, just about sums it up. And just like any other amateur psychologist, I know it’s usually the parents’ fault.
A young woman emerging from a sheltered, awkward childhood, pursuing a series of shallow relationships with older authority figures? It’s all my father’s fault, of course. He must be the bastard responsible for me turning out this way.
If only he hadn’t been such a kind, indulgent man. Liberal, caring, supportive, fun. All these things. And what’s more, he’d been married to my mother for more than twenty years when I left home for university, and the two of them are still blissfully happy together.
Okay. So that argument doesn’t exactly hold up.
If I was damaged, it was by kindness.
If I was rebelling, then it was against love and comfort and stability.
I don’t try to read anything into who I am.
I don’t like to commit. I like sex and fun and expensive things. I like to shock.
I like being me.
§
No, really I do.
§
Porter Swaine was an older man, although not as old as, say, Patrick of the stupendously growing append
age.
In his early thirties, close-cropped dark hair and square-jawed, chiseled features. In his Armani suit and his Audi R8 Spyder sports car, director of his own PR agency, he was the ultimate boy with his toys, flash and confident and a guy who knew how to have fun.
I knew of him through a friend. Karen Myles was a gym buddy of mine. Was because now our relationship is more one of awkward politeness, all smiles and nods with a subtext of Fuck you, bitch. On her part, at least.
I’d been to a party, and Karen and Porter had been there. I hadn’t even noticed him, which isn’t really a good start, is it?
A few days later, as the two of us stretched out in the steam room after a workout, Karen had said, slightly awkwardly, “Remember Jade’s party? The guy I was with?”
I thought back, but couldn’t picture her with anyone. “Hmm?” I said, noncommittally.
“Name’s Porter. I think this could be it.”
I peered through the steam at Karen. She was on her side facing me, and my eyes were drawn to the oriental tattoo just below her belly button.
“‘It’? You’re actually in luurrv?”
She made an ambivalent sound. “Not exactly,” she said. “But I could be falling...”
“Falling’s such a clumsy thing to do,” I said. A stock line of mine, and one that summed up my view. Falling is something that’s out of control. It was so not a me thing.
“Why this time?” I asked. “Why him?”
“He’s fun, and he’s hot,” she said. “He spoils me.”
She tailed off there. “So what’s the catch?”
“The small matter of a wife. He doesn’t love her. He says it’s over.”
“They never mean it,” I said. The voice of experience.
“He does. He told me he’s ready to commit...”
§
Porter Swaine commit?
There’s a difference between Porter Swaine being ready to commit, and Porter Swaine telling a hot young woman who’s about to go down on him that he’s ready to commit. I get that difference; most people would, but then I guess Karen wasn’t most people. All she heard was what she wanted to hear, and then she was hardly in a position to ask follow-up questions. It’s rude to talk with your mouth full, after all.
§
Porter Swaine turned out to be so committed to my gym buddy Karen that he phoned me the next day and asked me out.
“Seriously?” I said.
“Seriously. So, what about it? I know this lovely little–”
“Seriously... You’re already in a relationship with a friend of mine. Just how many relationships can one man handle? No, don’t answer that: I’m not finished yet. Not only are you in a relationship with one of my friends, but you’re also having to keep that relationship secret because – how to say this without using the word ‘married’? – no, I can’t: you’re married. So yes: seriously?”
“But if–”
“And what’s more. Yes, I know I might have sounded like I’d finished, but there’s more, okay? What’s more... how did you get my number?”
There was silence at the other end of the line. “It’s okay,” I said. “Your turn.”
“Thank you. Yes, seriously.”
“That’s it?”
The bastard was smirking. I couldn’t see him, of course, but I just knew that he was.
“So where did you get my number?”
“It was on Karen’s phone.”
“She let you look me up?”
“I didn’t ask. So: how about it? I know–”
“Why?” I knew why, or I could guess, but there’s a vain part of me that just loves to hear these things out loud.
“You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re fun, and you like to take risks, if what I’ve heard is right.”
“And you’re a lying, cheating bastard who thinks nothing of snooping on his girlfriend’s phone.”
I put the phone down before he could say anything more. Then I looked around the small open plan office I shared with the rest of the publicity team at Ellison and Coles. They were all staring at me. “What?”
§
Did I say that I seduced Porter Swaine? Yes, that’s how I described it.
There are lots of ways to seduce a man.
There’s the direct approach I took with Harry: eye contact, a bit of a pout, and then undoing his flies and slipping a hand inside. It can be such a thrill to be so brazen, and what man is going to say no to that approach? In my experience, the way to a man’s heart is not exclusively through his stomach.
I can be subtle, too. Eye contact, then look away; then after a second or two look back, knowing that if he’s interested he’ll still be looking and if he’s not then a more direct approach might be called for. Again, in my experience, a man is rarely not interested; if anything, he may not yet be aware of his interest, which is very different, and easily remedied.
More direct eye contact, listening, asking open questions that require more than monosyllabic answers; laughing at the right places.
Innuendo is great for moving things on. That double-take moment when he’s thinking Did she really mean that, or...?
Knowing the right time to leave the party, so that he’s faced with the judgment call: to accompany you, or not?
Knowing when it’s better to feign disinterest than to pay him attention.
Knowing when to seem worldly and downright dirty, and when to appear naïve and open to being led astray.
Knowing when to sidle up to him, and whisper in his ear, your lips brushing against the soft lobe, “Can we just go somewhere?”
So, Porter Swaine. I seduced him by simply saying no. I like fun, I like sex, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be just another conquest. And he was with Karen, my gym buddy. Not to mention his wife.
So I said no, and he called again, and I let him talk before I said no once more. It took a week before I caved in. It took a week before he made that call, the one where he said, “I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t know what’s possessed me. I’m not like this. You keep saying no and I understand that but somehow I can’t translate it into ‘fuck off and leave the girl alone, Porter’. I’m a shallow, cheating womanizer – you’ve told me that often enough – I really should know when to cut my losses, shouldn’t I? But no... Just: no...”
Was it deliberate on my part, leading him to this place, guiding him to a precipice from which he could only fall? Ask me at the time, and I would have given a categorical no. I was simply fending him off. I wasn’t interested. Ask me now and I’m not so sure. Was I quite so categorical, or did I always leave the door ajar? Was it just another courtship dance? A way of playing Porter Swaine: make the chase harder and I might not be just another notch on the bedpost. Was at least a small part of me drawn to his smooth-talking worldly ways? Drawn to the adventure, to the sheer badness of it all?
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you. Tonight?”
And then I paused and looked around the office. Everyone was staring again, and I held the phone to my breast and mouthed What?
§
I didn’t realize then quite how badly he’d got it. Those words: beautiful words, the words of a master; a seducer’s words, for he still believed he was the one leading the seduction.
I didn’t think they were for real.
§
We met at a little art gallery, a few streets south of the river. It was part of an old industrial estate, the warehouses converted into office space, chic little coffee shops, fashionable boutiques. I’d thought I was in the wrong place until I rounded a corner and saw him standing there. Blue suit, tie loosened, hands in jacket pockets so that it pulled down tight across his broad shoulders. Had he chosen that particular position because he was lit by a streetlamp like a spotlight? Almost certainly yes, but God he looked good!
Right up to that point, I’d been debating with myself what I was doing, getting drawn into the affairs of this man. But seeing him there... Maybe it was superficial of me,
but that stark image swayed me.
“You came,” he said, pushing himself away from the wall where he’d been leaning.
“You thought I wouldn’t?”
“You’re pretty good at hard to get.”
“You make it sound like a game.”
“It’s not?”
He smiled and stretched a long arm around behind me, guiding me towards the dark glass doors of a nearby building.
It was the private viewing of a new exhibition by an Italian photographer whose work I knew from a coffee-table book we’d published recently. Vast, monochrome prints, starkly lit, all grainy and harsh. A model with a perfect black bob, her head picked out by a spotlight against a dark backdrop; the triangular shoulders and torso of a man, his head hidden in the shade, his muscles picked out in high-contrast light and shadow; an orchid in a clear glass vase, again picked out by a single spotlight. The pictures were moody and sensual and incredibly erotic – a grunge Robert Mapplethorpe.
“Breathtaking,” Porter said, as we stood before a profile shot of a platinum blond with a studded collar and pert, pierced nipples.
“She looks cold,” I said.
He looked sideways at me, smiling. “Photography not your thing?”
I shrugged. “Instagram’s good enough for me.”
We took glasses of sparkling wine from a passing waiter and moved on to an immaculately detailed picture of an orchid, its petals lusciously curled around its erect, phallic stamen.
“This doesn’t do anything for you?”
“I get hay fever.”
§
“You eat food, right? No allergies? No strange requirements? You're not one of these freaks who'll only have water and a stick of celery, are you?”
“I’ll eat most things,” I said, and he did a double-take at the innuendo. There was no point denying I was going to have this man; not from that first sight of him outside the gallery.
We ate in a little bistro just round the corner from the gallery, part of the same refurbished industrial estate. Suddenly away from the fairly crowded space of the gallery, he seemed different. There were lots of things I’d anticipated from him but nervous wasn’t one of them.
