by AnonYMous
But I had far more important matters on my mind. Namely, a third date with the beautiful Valeryiya. After a giggly visit to the Reich Museum (me popping out from behind the exhibits like a child surprising his mother) she opened her lovely mouth and changed everything. In the café downstairs she described her many trips to Florence while sympathising with me for never having been. She said I couldn’t call myself a real writer until I visited Florence at least once. She went on to say that she would have gone there even more often if the choice had been hers to make but that was what life was like when you’re…
This was where I experienced what Hitchcock liked to call a reverse-smile. When he couldn’t trust an actor’s skills he relied instead on certain tricks like beginning a shot with an existing smile and then asking for it to be removed. This gave him the option of playing the sequence in reverse. It was also a subtle insult to the actors who were understandably upset by this practice and no doubt performed the perfect reverse-smile when they were introduced to the idea. He would have loved the effect on my face when I heard the word married. I felt sick and tricked because I realised I had been effortlessly manipulated into wanting her more than I actually did.
The options were Single, Separated or Divorced. She had selected Single. She suddenly seemed second-hand. Used even. Of course you’re married my expression tried to say. Isn’t everyone? I tried to effect nonchalance. It would buy me some time to think. Maybe this kind of behaviour was standard online. And maybe, just maybe, my instinctual knee-jerk response of you fucking lying cunt didn’t apply. At least not yet. Then it occurred to me that if she had lied to me it meant I didn’t need to be so respectful any more. I’d spent hours daydreaming about us making love but now I just wanted to fuck her. And soon, before I found out something else I didn’t want to hear. I suggested we drop by my place for desert and when she agreed I thought even less of her.
There was a pause in my doorway as if there was a chance she might not go in but I took this to be just another lie, her playing he part of timid girl so I could feel more powerful. So be it. I pushed the door open and before she crossed the threshold I had peeled her coat and blouse away in one. Her nipples seemed strangely sunken like those of an older woman but otherwise she was a like a fucking movie star
“You’re like a fucking movie star” I said
Her long slim girlish legs shivered apart under my touch and I licked her out and she gave me a sloppy slippery blow-job. She’d been very sneaky about not telling me she was married. In fact she was still married. We were committing adultery. Or at least she was.I wanted to ask if she had really been a figure skater or was that lie too? I couldn’t be sure what was true and what wasn’t. Confusing matters even more the sex was beautiful and loving and dirty all at the same time. She was married. So what? As she teased the tip of my cock with the tip of her tongue I didn’t care if she turned out to be a man. She had a great energy and was cheerful and full of life and laughter and her pussy was the most beautiful I had ever seen in real life. It was so perfectly symmetrical I dubbed it pussuq.
She stretched her foot down to stroke my dick as I lapped at her. Was this a trick she used on her husband? Of course it was. I could have stayed down there all day. There was never any need to explain anything to Valeriya she intuitively understood. At one point I sat with my pants around my knees, half crouched to absorb the shocks as she smashed her pussuq down onto my cock like she was trying to kill something. as she began to exhaust herself on my midriff I gathered her to me and waddled ankle-panted across the floor to lay her down there so I could more easily feast on her. But I wasn’t allowed. Springing back up on her bare feet she bid me kneel and immediately began pummelling me mercilessly with spat-on hands like some sexual laborer.
“Come on, give it to me.” It was as if I was withholding her property. Until then it had seemed too rude to unload the contents of my loins at a girl l but from the look on this girl’s face it began to look like it might be insulting not to. Three white arcs loosed themselves into the void between us. The first two disappeared out of view but the last clung like a smile to her heaving breasts. I bayed like a dog at an imaginary moon and we hugged for so long after coming I felt like we’d been stirred together like milk in tea. No sugar. And because she was unavailable it was ok to fall in love with her.
“Come on, be honest, wouldn’t you be a slut if you were a girl?”
The question didn’t seem fair because everyone knew girls just didn’t think like that. But here was a girl, a beautiful girl asking me a question that demanded the reorganisation of everything I’d ever thought about women. I was suddenly seized with a desire not so much to have her but to be her. I was jealous of her freedom. Her power. A great looking girl could fuck anyone she wanted. Surely such power was intoxicating. She was like a guy in a girl’s body. Girls weren’t supposed to think like this. Maybe all girls thought like this and Valeriya was just willing to admit it. She accused me of analysing everything and pronounced it anal-ising. I couldn’t tell if this was because English was second language and therefore a coincidence or whether she had effortlessly out-punned me.
“If you were a girl wouldn’t you be a slut?” she repeated the question as if it was a natural progression from what she had just said and in the full knowledge that I was defeated I conceded reluctantly, that yes, I would.
“Well there you go.”
She said this like it explained everything but all it did was confuse me even more. She saw herself as a slut? She knew how to adapt to whatever conditions presented her. It was classic behaviour of abused children. We learn how to keep the peace at the expense of our own needs. We merge into any given situation. When two chameleons successfully take on each other’s hues there is nothing there. Supplying her with a list of film contacts was laughably easy for me but I resisted until the last moment in the vain hope that she might say she didn’t want them. That she loved me. That I was what she wanted. I knew that as soon as I sent that email it would conclude our business. Her response said it all.
“I don’t know how to thank you. Well I do, but let’s pretend.”
Especially the last two words.
ANICA
Anica was a long-necked Slovakian systems analyst for a pharmaceutical company based in the Hague. In the time I knew her she visibly brightened only twice. Once when she swallowed an entire glass of whiskey in one gulp, and once when she talked about her combat-training as a child; “I am proficient with a Kalashnikof”
I had hopes for some heavy petting and a handful of arse in preparation for a full-on-fuck which I wanted to suggest would be the following Saturday. When she turned up that first night there was a very tall good-looking guy close behind her so I assumed they were a couple and I was already eyeing her up when she broke away from him and stood there in front of me. I didn’t stand up in case I only came up to her shoulder. She was tall, but surmountable. I told myself that her expression indicated satisfaction with what she saw too. This was always a tricky moment. Great care had to be taken not to let your true feelings of nervousness or disappointment creep into your face. We had no knowledge of each other’s facial eccentricities. Two complete strangers willingly engaged in an artificially arranged attempt at falling in love. If we allowed dissatisfaction into our faces we immediately made ourselves uglier thereby setting off a reaction in the other person’s face that limited the chances of either of us looking our best which in turn only increased the possibility of repulsion. Hence our crazy smiles.
Her linen trousers were virtually transparent and her tits were pert and she seemed to be at right angles to herself. All in all, very Slavic. She drank two glasses of wine at dinner and a Jameson’s at the bar afterwards. She asked me what whiskey I would recommend as an alcoholic so I ordered the Jameson’s for her. More than once she started to reach for it and stopped herself. It was the sort of jesture that uninterrupted would have resulted in her gulping the entire glass down thereby requiring another to be or
dered. I recognised this muffled yearning only too well. The injustice of having a whiskey in front of you, when it should be inside you. Anything Dutch bored her. We had that much in common. By then I was looking at her the same way she was looking at her glass. She hated Holland but couldn’t leave. She said her friends considered her a pain in the ass after she’d had a few drinks.
“In that case she can count me among your friends” I said.
She smiled and tilted her head as if I had just paid her a compliment.
“You should take your hand away from you mouth when you talk, it makes you look dishonest.” she said
I could see how she could be a real bitch. But I wouldn’t let her. She certainly liked her booze. Three glasses of wine that first night.
“Do you have many friends that drink?”
I put my hand in front of my mouth.
“Yes” I said
She laughed reluctantly.
The next night we met she wasn’t drinking because she was afraid of making me uncomfortable which had the effect of making her uncomfortable instead. In fact she became frighteningly depressing. Had she necked a couple of whiskeys I would have been the one exhaling in relief. The result was that she didn’t look so good to me and in her cowboy boots she appeared even taller. We cowered in some god-awful seaside restaurant that looked like it might have been on the shores of the Styx as angry white-knuckled waves tried repeatedly to grip the mainland and drag it under.
I tried manfully to keep things light
“So how was your day?”
“I’m not in a cheerful mood”
“Oh I’m sorry to hear that. Bad day at work?”
“I just heard that my friend has cancer.”
I was sorry to hear that too because now I was going to have to listen to this shit all night. Cancer; the alcoholic’s friend. Nobody could laugh when cancer was in the room. It must have been killing her. She was looking for an excuse to drink and she even had a good one but I was sitting there in front of her the sober alcoholic.
At the end of the evening I tried to kiss her more from duty than desire but she almost snapped her neck pulling away. It would have been more depressing if I hadn’t even tried. Was there such a thing as a nice pretty girl who wasn’t divorced, married or crazy? Was that possible? Anica, on closer inspection was a communist-built structure teetering on the brink of collapse. I still wanted to at least see her naked.;
“Wow”
“Wow? What does this mean? Wow?”
“The passion.” I said
“I’m deciding if I should go or stay.“
“And you’re short.” she added. It was with a smile but she said it.
“It doesn’t matter when you’re lying down”
”You’re not lying down all the time”
I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself but I’d come all the way to the Hague and I felt I was owed something. Something I could still get if I was patient.
“You could be a sweet guy but you hide behind the jokes.”she said at last.
Then she told me she was still married but I hardly even heard her. When Valeriya told me the same thing I nearly broke in half. She lived with her husband of seven years in
a very respectable neighbourhood in Haarlem. I was suddenly thinking about Valeriya I couldn’t unerstand how she’d become so deeply embedded in my being. Like an arrow that hurt less if it was allowed to remain in place. Anica was almost waving now as she tried to get my attention. She invited me back to a depressingly large mostly white apartment. Didn’t she say she had a husband somewhere? Was this where she took her online dates? Would the husband walk in any second? The moment we got inside she turned around and kissed me. I had no idea she would be so feminine and gentle under all that Slavic frost. We shed our clothes like they’d just turned poisonous. With her hair down around those slender shoulders she was a different person. Sweet even. She whispered to me as I fucked her.
“I love it, yessss oh baby, ohhhhh nice, yes, nail me.”
Nail me?
The she got on top and let her hair fall over me like darkness and I laughed out loud when she orgasmed because the sounds she made were so feminine and innocent and so gratifying to the ears of someone as jaded as me, I assumed she was faking. But then I saw the tell-tale red patches on her neck and chest as if her body was blushing. And as her taut stomach shivered against mine with my cock still hard inside there I began to feel something other than just lust for her. It was gratitude. The sort of gratitude you feel when someone who has done you a great kindness. There was a selflessness about her in that moment that was endearing. I had never made a girl come like that before. And the fact that I hadn’t come yet merely confirmed my status as stud. I’d give her a rest before going again. And so lying there beneath her limp perspiring body with her knees either side of me and her hair spilled across my face, I began to talk about Valeriya. How she had lied to me. How I was better off without her. How she saw herself as a slut. I couldn’t stop. I even mentioned the lure of the pussuq. Anica made soothing sounds of encouragement. She was hearing my confession, making me truly hers. Minutes passed before I realised she was snoring. She had fucked me and fallen asleep.
REBECCA
Rebecca’s profile picture showed her straining against the confines of a skin-tight mini-dress in mid-Tango. The faceless silhouetted male with whom she danced was obviously for presentation purposes only. Look at my scorching hot body. This was how she wanted to be seen on a dating site. In her other picture, a close-up, she looked like the aging mother of the girl on the dance-floor.
Following her father’s nervous breakdown Rebecca was sent to live with her uncle (his brother) and aunt in Germany. He would be her first sexual experience when he made her come with his fingers. She was fifteen.
“So he abused you?’
“Yes I suppose so, but he didn’t go all the way”
I was reminded of how I had defended Father Eddy, because in defending him I could convince myself I had actually wanted my balls fondled by a priest. It was sad to think of all that sexuality locked up inside the conservative life of an English teacher in Amsterdam. She looked like she was holding her breath permanently. But after one kiss Agatha Christie became Julie Christie and yes she had the accent to match. You need six hundred years of British oppression stored away in your DNA to appreciate the satisfaction of thrusting your undeserving Irish cock into a mouth that has just finished saying; “Darling, I’ve been frightfully busy today.”
Fucking her took on political status.
“This is for The Famine…this is for Bloody Sunday….now turn over…this is for Maggie Thatcher…and this? This is for Princess Dian-aaaaaaggggh.”
.On rain-soaked Mondays, which in the Netherlands, were indistinguishable from every other day, she cheered herself up by appearing in front of her class wearing a light grey one-piece boiler suit that showed off her lithe body to full effect. When she turned to write on the chalkboard the class fell silent. For most teachers it was the other way round. It was an honor, she said, to be part of their sexual awakening. She intentionally made spelling mistakes knowing full well that she would first need to bend and reach for the eraser before shaking herself vigorously as she scrubbed it away. She delighted in the idea of these boys pummelling themselves at home under the blankets with the image of her superb ass coaxing them out of puberty.
And she loved to suck me off. It was the first thing she’d do. I began to suspect that her uncle had taught her well. The moment before she reached orgasm she would look at me like she’d just been grossly insulted. As if in the middle of fucking her I’d said;“Rebecca, you are a sad-faced English bitch who I’m only fucking as a favor.” She looked for that moment like she was being overtaken not by ecstasy but a shuddering exhalation of abhorrence. As if all the platitudes and denials burned away and there beyond the mist for just for a moment before being engulfed again was the truth.
A Mick was fucking her
&
nbsp; OLGA
“You live a charmed life”
Seeing myself through the jealous eyes of my house-guest felt unexpectedly good. Josh was only half way through his first day and he’d already visited the red light district and two of its prostitutes before we even got back to my place.
Josh was a sexual tourist and I was his base.
I’d gotten to know him just enough in St LaCroix to invite him to visit me in New York but he never took me up on it because I suppose New York didn’t offer the same sexual possibilities as Amsterdam. And more recently he had fallen in love with a Russian girl and so a few days layover in Amsterdam seemed to him to be a good idea before continuing on to Moscow. It transpired after only a little questioning that the girl in Moscow whom he talked about marrying was in fact a self-confessed… I didn’t dare say the word in front of him because he was convinced she was in love with him too.
.Josh was what I imagined every hooker dreamt of. A constant source of employment. He talked a lot about asking her to come and live with him in St LaCroix. In the meantime had selected a rather buxom girl who wouldn’t have been my first choice but it was his money not mine. While I waited outside for him I noticed a girl in a window to the right who, when she thought no-one was looking took swigs from a tall glistening black bottle and surreptitiously stroked the white tail of a cat hidden behind her little bed. The tail straightened between her slender fingers like some headless python or yes I suppose, a penis. I had already spent more time than was healthy waiting on the little brown bricked bridge as Josh fucked the girl-next-door. Defiling such a wholesome phrase would have appealed to him. I began to see how this worked. These scarlet windows were no different from the covers of fashion magazines in the more respectable bookstores across town from which similar girls simpered. One informed the other.
