If you should ever decide to splurge just once in your life, I strongly recommend taking one of those all-inclusive club vacations that cater to singles only on some exotic island. Naturally such an adventure should be experienced at a time when you are single, well disposed toward meeting new people and definitely ready to tango, because”"as I discovered when I decided to fly solo”"there is some serious tango going on in some of those places. Many people say that the journey, and the frame of mind in which it is taken, are ultimately more important than the destination. This was certainly true in my case, since the final destination was really random, thanks to a bit of serendipity and a lot of cold rain.
Let me back up a little here. It was a cold and blustery November day in New York City, with the kind of raw chill that makes your knuckles turn red and peel regardless of your gloves, and a bitter wind that sweeps right through your body as though you’re not even wearing a coat. Running to catch my bus home after work, while attempting to avoid being trampled by the midtown Manhattan rush-hour crowd, or sinking knee-deep into one of the muddy and sloshy puddles, I balanced my fake designer bag containing mascara, lip gloss, and a pair of expensive black shoes to be worn only in the office in one hand, and my umbrella with one menacingly broken spoke in the other. Wild wind gusts kept pulling at the umbrella, and I was wondering whether I would do better to just close the damn thing and get completely soaked, rather than being whisked away, as I was oh so not in a Mary Poppins mood.
It is at such a time as this that the sudden sight of a window display featuring pictures of white sandy beaches and gorgeous blue skies, with the words “Escape to Paradise” hovering above them, is most likely to capture your eye. It certainly captured mine.
And so, wet and miserable, I made my way into a small travel agency”"the one with the window”"which seemed a veritable oasis from the rude torments raging outside. It was obviously a place that made wonderful things happen, where all you needed was a credit card and the desire to get on a plane and fly somewhere far away, where anything was possible.
These thoughts were made even more compelling by the fact that the idyllic image of the gorgeous azure water and clear blue skies was counterbalanced in my mind by another one that threatened to become a harsh reality in just a few days: the soberingly cold image of the long Thanksgiving weekend that was coming up, which I was supposed to spend at my mother’s impeccably tidy house in New Jersey, surrounded by indecent amounts of turkey, cranberry sauce and the annoyingly noisy offspring of my “perfect” sister who is, as I was certain to be reminded more than once, married to a successful doctor and living in a big white house with a picket fence in the suburbs . That I could do without.
“Do you have any specials?” I found myself blurting out to the lady in the blue uniform behind the counter. “Something exciting for Thanksgiving, maybe?” She looked just about ready to leave herself, but the desperate look in my eyes must have aroused some sympathy. Perhaps she realized that, more than a request for a trip, this was a cry for help.
“Well,” she said dubiously, “considering that Thanksgiving is the biggest traveling day in America, it really doesn’t look so good. However,” she added, seeing my crestfallen face, “if you are willing to consider a wild-card option with one of our club vacation packages, then perhaps . . .”
At that point I was willing to consider anything. Wild-card option? I liked the name already, and I wasn’t even a card player. But maybe it was time for me to play a hand.
In response to my inquiry, the travel agent explained the wild-care option, which basically meant that I would have to leave whenever there was a space available, and pay for the ticket in advance without knowing my final destination. It would be a holiday resort, she explained, but it could be anywhere”"Mexico, a Caribbean island, or someplace a bit more obscure. I would have to travel alone, and be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. “It could even be as soon as tonight,” she added. “Would that be a problem for you?”
A problem for me? My problem was that I couldn’t leave right that minute! True, I did have a job selling insurance, with no real vacation time coming up. But on the other hand, I felt as though I would have a nervous breakdown if I didn’t take a break from my boring office. I was already getting eczema on the back of my neck, which was surely a sign that this was not the job for me. However, since I did have to eat and pay rent and so on, I would have to come up with a plan to take a few days off without actually losing my job.
Seeing my indecision”"as well as my rather bedraggled appearance”"the agent added, “Of course, if money is a consideration . . . keep in mind that by accepting the wild-card option you would be getting a fantastic, once-in-a-lifetime vacation for a rock-bottom price. Of course, as I say, you would have to travel single. But of course, most of the others taking the trip will be single also.”
I wanted to yell out, in my own defense, that trapped beneath all these layers of wet and frazzled insurance saleslady was the hot and swanky body of a game show hostess, just itching to lounge about on a beach in one of those brightly-colored Brazilian bikinis worn by the ladies in the window display. But instead, I impulsively allowed my dreams and desires free rein, and handed over my credit card, with a determination to leave that very night if necessary, and a silent plea to the agent: my life is in your hands, please do not send me to Afghanistan!
I was so high with the excitement of my impulsive buy that I was barely conscious of the rest of the walk to the bus stop, or the passing cars spraying me with gallons of water. Completely soaked, but with a broad smile on my face, I got on my usual bus, filled with tired commuters, which was supposed to drop me off in New Jersey an hour later. Because of the heavy rainstorm it turned out to be almost two hours before I finally walked into my apartment, peeled out of my soggy clothes and dropped into a much needed hot bath filled with musk-scented bubbles.
My body was finally beginning to relax when my mobile phone rang. It was the lady from the agency, and she came straight to the point: “Can you pack your bags and be ready to go tonight? A really amazing opportunity just came up in one of our most luxurious resorts. Have you heard of the Caribbean archipelago called Turks and Caicos?”
“Only vaguely,” I replied, but I assured her that if there was sun and sand there I was ready to go, and by midnight that night I was at JFK airport, standing smugly amidst to a group of gorgeous looking people waiting to board”"the kind of people who had permanent tans, Gucci luggage, and, no doubt, full-price tickets.
As far as the small detail of my job, I had decided the best tack to take was to come down with an infectious disease. So before I left I had called my boss at home, complaining about a sudden high fever and a general itchiness, which I strongly suspected indicated a bad case of chicken pox, which I had failed to contract as a child. Knowing the strong fear he had of anything mildly contagious a sneeze was sure to send him running for cover I knew this would do the trick and give me the excuse I needed for taking the extra days off before Thanksgiving. If necessary, I could obtain a doctor’s note on my return. I always knew that having a doctor for a brother-in-law would come in handy sooner or later.
On the plane I sipped a glass of cold chardonnay while reading The Da Vinci Code. I was already on vacation. And though it felt mildly weird to be travelling solo, it also felt very liberating to not have to constantly worry about what somebody else was thinking or wanting to do. I finally fell into a pleasant doze, to be awakened by the pilot’s announcement that we were landing.
After going through customs at the small Caribbean airport, we boarded small open-air jeeps that drove us to our hotel. Since it was so late at night we were driving in almost complete darkness, which added to the adventurous feeling, and it wouldn’t be until morning that I would be able to see exactly where I had arrived. But the hot air that warmed my skin and the happiness that suffused my soul were very good signs that I was both geographically and mentally hundreds of miles away from the grayness of New York.
On the terrace of the hotel, as we waited to check in, we were served a welcoming drink, and as I looked around I had the exciting feeling that even though I didn’t know these people yet, we shared the same objective: adventure and passion. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had had sex, which obviously meant that it had been way too long. I always seemed to be too busy or too tired from a job I could barely tolerate to let loose my wild side.
This was a situation that had to be dealt with. I was 28 years old, hale and hearty, with, I knew, a damn good body. My breasts, while not huge, were still high and firm, my hair was long and blonde, my ass was smooth and solid, and my legs were as shapely as anybody’s. In my college days I had been very popular, and very horny. While not exactly promiscuous, I had been, let us say, fairly generous with my favors. But now I had some catching up to do.
The room I was assigned to was very cozy, with a large bed, white linen sheets and fresh flowers in a vase on the dresser. No television, telephone or radio to disturb the Zen-like peace and quiet. It was the kind of simple, understated luxury I knew I could never have afforded had I not taken advantage of this last-minute option. I was now positive that I was paying only a small fraction of what the person right next door to me was paying. And the great thing was that everything was included. I planned to enjoy every minute.
The next morning, before even getting out of bed, I was amazed to see a gorgeous view of the blue ocean right outside my window. The hotel was on the beachfront, and it all looked enchanting. I quickly put on my dark sunglasses, draped a sarong over my hot red bikini and headed out to explore the fantastic place that is Turks and Caicos.
The 40 islands that make up Turks and Caicos are located about 30 miles south of the Bahamas. The cayos islands resemble small stamps of powder-white sand, with stunning turquoise waters caressing the shores in a natural massaging motion, almost like a giant open-air Jacuzzi. Fortunately they have not yet fallen victim to mass tourism, nor are they as notorious as some of the other Caribbean islands, because the commercial airlines have been landing there only for the last two decades. In fact, you can still find many deserted beaches, where the only footprints in the sand are your own.
The first European to discover the islands was the Spanish explorer Ponce de Le n, in 1512. Over the centuries the islands passed from Spanish to French to British control, experiencing many changes in government. They are now a British Overseas Territory, though largely self-governing.
The island on which our hotel was located also contained discreetly hidden luxury villas, a golf course and even a casino, in addition to several natural parks which are well worth exploring, and sleepy little towns with brightly colored 19th-century houses.
From a historical point of view it is interesting to note that many scholars are now of the opinion that Christopher Columbus landed here in 1492, rather than in the Bahamas, as is generally believed.
There was something exhilarating about being on the beach all day long with my new traveling companions, then dressing up to have dinner with them as well. After dinner I took a short nap in order to be ready for a night of dancing and partying. There was something vaguely freshman-year-of-college about it all that made the days seem to last forever, and made me feel ten years younger. Sometimes I stayed out so late that I got to see the sun rise over the beautiful white sandy bay.
The main perk of this all-inclusive club package”"aside from all the handsome guys sauntering about”"had to be the large amounts of delicious food available constantly. Even wine and beer were included in the price, and if one chose to do so one could just keep eating from morning to night. The exotic fare was superb, especially the seafood specialties such as conch, which was served up by the friendly cooks in almost every way possible: fried, in salads, in soups tasty conch chowder and steamed. Lobsters cooked in Creole sauces was another specialty, and almost every fish could be char-grilled right in front of you, practically straight from the ocean.
Some of the people were really into snorkeling on nearby Turkoise Island the deep blue color of the water clearly responsible for the name , but I was definitely more interested in getting it on on dry land rather than under the sea. I couldn’t really hold my breath for that long, and though the idea of meeting up with the local dolphin population held some appeal, even more appealing was the thought of the pure, unadulterated sex that surely must be available in this blue paradise. It was this that kept me up at night, kicking my heels at the outdoor discotheque, sipping pi a coladas or planter’s punches and trying to look aloof and yet not too unavailable under my dark prescription sunglasses.
Obviously a club like this was definitely big on sports, and while ideally the biggest effort I planned to make was lifting and lowering my drinking arm, by the third day I broke down and decided to attempt a low-impact sport, like sailing. Okay, I’ll admit that the prospect of going one on one with one of the hot-looking sailing instructors was part of the allure. There is a reason why good-looking people make the best teachers, after all.
However, before I could even make it to the boat, I was intercepted by a rugged-looking blond guy named Terry. I had noticed him in the hotel lobby several times. He asked if he could give me some lessons in sailing since he saw that I was going to sign up for some. He was a dream, so I figured, what the hell. He helped me aboard his sailboat and from the start, when he got right up behind me and pressed against my tight bikini-clad ass so he could make sure I had put on my life jacket correctly, I could tell that he was all man. I thought that this should be a sport by itself”"the “I’m tightly pressed up against your ass” sport. I mean, if synchronized swimming could be in the Olympics, why not this as well?
Anyway, just feeling his huge cock up against my tan buns was already making me horny as hell. And flattered too this guy, I knew, could have had any woman he wanted. With his amazing shoulders, strong muscles and chiseled looks, he never had to work in an insurance sales office, that was for sure.
I didn’t want to throw myself at him like the typical desperate single women who came on these trips looking for sex. But who was I kidding”"that was exactly who I was, so I might as well not beat around the bush. Now if he wanted to poke around my bush, that was another matter. Still, I thought I’d better wait for a clear sign and when, after we were safely out on the blue water, he said something about wanting to lick the salt spray off my tits, I figured I could pretty much assume that was a sign. The hot sun, the spray of the ocean on my face, and this stud looking me over like I was his last meal had me weak in the knees, and ready for whatever came next. I was hoping that would be me!
We were far enough away from shore so that nobody could see what we were up to. Terry, apparently well-schooled in sailing, tied the sailboat to a buoy conveniently floating nearby, whispering with a faint smile that he was now teaching me how to tie knots.
I proved to be a quick learner, and when he had secured the boat, he allowed me to practice by tying his arms behind his back and around the mast of the sailboat. He seemed impressed, as evidenced by the growing bulge in his tight black Speedos. Never one to let a good hard-on go to waste, I pushed him slowly downwards into a sitting position, so that I had him at a better angle.
I started with his nipples, which rapidly grew taut and erect as I lapped away at them with my salty tongue. I alternated between his nipples as he moaned, and his dick looked about ready to burst out of the latex suit. He told me he wished his hands were free, so that they could grab hold of my luscious tits, but I wasn’t ready to undo the ropes just yet. But I did pull the top of my bikini off so that my breasts jiggled freely in the salty breeze, and offered them one by one to his eagerly open mouth. At first he seemed ready to eat them whole, like large apples, but gradually he began sucking long and hard on each nipple, until the damn things seemed to throb with a life of their own.
Nipple sucking is another sport I’m ready for anytime. In fact, I sometimes believe that if a perfect stranger were to say to me on a subway, “Excuse me, ma’am, I couldn’t help but notice your marvellous tits. Would you mind terribly if I sucked your nipples?” I would naturally find myself answering, “Why of course, what a lovely idea!”
I soon heard myself moaning as his wonderful mouth drove me wild with excitement, and I knew it was time to free the beast”"not his hands, but that wild manhood throbbing through his trunks. I was now practically on hands and knees, so that after I almost tore his trunks off I was able to dedicate myself to pleasuring him, and pleasuring myself in the process. I mean, conch chowder is all good and well, but there is nothing in this world like cock chowder!
I heard a groan of pleasure come from his mouth as I took his lovely thick cock into mine. Soon my mouth was riding up and down on him, following the rhythmic motion of the ocean as it rocked the boat back and forth. Deeper and deeper I managed to take him, until I could tell from the way he was arching his body backwards that he was about to come right into my mouth. Rather than letting up, I started sucking harder than ever, until my mouth was filled with his foamy, salty come.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that after I undid the ropes around his wrists he was still horny enough to reach for my naked breasts. Having taken a good feel of them, he then steered me once again onto my hands and knees, this time facing away from him, staring at the waves crashing against the distant shore. This beautiful spectacle was soon enhanced by the feeling of his cock entering me from behind. With his hands still firmly grasping my tits, he rapidly lifted and lowered my wet cunt up and down on his rod, slowly at first, but rapidly accelerating until he was ready to come again, and I came with him, my spasming lower lips holding onto him as tightly as they could as I shouted my joy over the water.
It was time to return to shore, but as my hunky toy playfully fingered my moist pussy with one hand while he steered us in with the other, I promised him weakly that the first thing I would do upon landing would be to sign up for another “lesson.”
Tucked away in the delightful Thames Valley, about two hours east of London, lies Abingdon, a sleepy English town which at first glance definitely doesn’t present many opportunities for sex and debauchery. But that is just a first impression”"or at least so it proved to be for me when I spent a college semester there at the age of 19. Along with my good friend Lucy, I was to spend a semester abroad living in a small rural village and attending tutorials in English literature at nearby Oxford University.
On an unusually warm September day we arrived at Heathrow Airport and subsequently boarded a bus at Victoria Station. As we took the two-hour ride through picturesque villages with stone houses built in the 16th century and thatched cottages with glass bottles of milk perched on the doorstep, I felt as though I was experiencing some sort of time warp. I had dreamed of Wuthering Heights and Heathcliff, but this felt more like Alice in Wonderland. Most of our friends who were spending semesters away from home were doing so in chic, cosmopolitan places like Paris or Rome, and here I was taking a nose dive right into medieval England.
We were met at the bus stop by Kate, the woman whose house we would be renting. She was very friendly, with a musical accent typical of southeast England. She led us on foot down the main road, pointing out the post office, the local inns and various shops, and over a very green hill which led to her house. It didn’t disappoint us it had the thatched roof, the milk bottles and even a nearby moat as an added attraction.
After stowing away our bags in the cozy double bedroom that Lucy and I would be sharing for the next three and a half months, we decided to do some exploring. We headed for the historically important Vale of White Horse. This gorgeous valley gets its name from the huge chalk horse carved into the hillside above Uffington. It has the reputation of being Britain’s oldest hillside carving, and has sparked many legends. Some say it was cut into the hill by the Saxon leader Hengist whose name signifies stallion in German , while others claim it is a monument to Alfred the Great, who was most likely born nearby. It is dated around 3000 B.C., and close to it are the Celtic earth ramparts of the Iron Age hill fort, Uffington Castle. Further afield, along the ancient trading route, there is an even older monument, this one from Stone Age times, a burial ground known as Wayland’s Smithy. These lands are all encrusted with legends, and we were beginning to feel as though we were lost in the setting of a Victorian novel, or maybe a Mel Gibson movie”"in which case, where was Mel?
Exploring the city center of Abingdon didn’t take too long, and after about 15 minutes we were having a pint of warm ale in a tavern known as “Ye Olde Fighting Cocks” the name sounded promising, at least , one of the oldest surviving pubs in England. We decided that we could understand why some Americans liken the initial taste of English beer to piss, while the English in turn disparage our ice-cold beer, complaining that it’s too cold to really taste. Along with our pint, Lucy and I shared our first ploughman sandwich, which was basically a huge platter containing a cheddar cheese sandwich, with chips and relish on the side. This was originally the staple food of the ploughman on his lunch break, which explains the name, and it makes a very hearty meal.
As we sipped our warm beer”"which did go down rather smoothly”"we asked each other whether we had done the right thing by coming here to this medieval no-man’s-land, especially considering what we had left behind”" namely, our good old faithful boyfriends. Even though we both felt that sex with them had become as boring and predictable as a commuter ride, it had still been better than nothing.
What could this English countryside we had come all this way to experience firsthand possibly offer? This wasn’t really what we had expected to find. I mean, sure, we were big Jane Austen fans, but could we really hope to find a John Darcy in Abingdon? Taking a quick look around the pub, it seemed that the only Austen-style characters available were 60-year-old grandfatherly types.
We talked about organizing an occasional excursion to London, where there might be more opportunity for adventure. We even thought of resorting to calling our boyfriends to come and visit us”"but no, that would definitely be a last resort. After all, one of our main reasons for getting away was to be on our own, to have a wild swing or two after the dullness of a mutually exclusive relationship.
Things definitely started to look our way, however, when we actually began to attend our classes at Oxford, the academic mecca of Great Britain, which was only 15 minutes away by bus.
We had our first tutorial at St. Edmund’s Hall, one of the most beautiful of Oxford’s 36 colleges. The subject was Shakespeare, and I had never thought that Shakespeare could be so titillating. The reason for this was mostly the tutor, James, who had a brilliant English sense of humor and Hugh Grant looks. His deep blue eyes and tousled black hair kept me mesmerized as he discussed some of the trickiest passages from Othello. As I looked out through the 17th-century stained glass windows, which faced a beautiful courtyard, I could already feel a tingle of excitement rush through my loins. There was life after Abingdon, after all!
I began looking forward eagerly to my tutorials with James. Sometimes he would invite a few of us back to his apartment for tea, and Lucy and I never failed to take part of these excursions. Over delicious scones with cream, we talked about the use of nudity in Shakespeare, and dreamed of the nudity of James. He always came to class wearing brownish corduroy pants and a tweed jacket over a blue shirt, the perfect academician’s uniform. When he was at home, however, he took off his jacket and revealed a wonderful physique under that blue shirt. I kept wishing for everybody to leave so that I could finally be alone with him and help him take off the rest of his clothes.
I finally decided to make the first move and show him that my interest went beyond Shakespeare. In class I always sat in the front seat and looked straight into his eyes. I wore very low-cut blouses that revealed almost everything when I bent down to scribble my notes”"especially when I “forgot” to wear a bra. I made sure I had lots of interesting thoughts to write down, so that James could get a very good look at my erect pink nipples dangling right in front of him. They were just dying to be fondled by his long fingers. I even brought him an apple and placed it on his desk with a coy smile, like the perfect little schoolgirl, whispering, “It’s very juicy”"I hope you like it.”
Finally my chance came. One day, James mentioned to the class that he had some extra tickets to a big rugby match between Oxford and its archenemy, Cambridge. If any of us were interested, he said, we should give him our phone numbers and he would call us with the details. Lucy and I exchanged glances and immediately jumped up to give him our numbers. There was no way we would be missing out on this. Things were definitely starting to look up.
Late that night, as I mulled over Hamlet’s famous soliloquy changing it in my mind to: “To fuck or not to fuck, that is the question . . .” and dreamed about wild sex in the Thames Valley, the phone rang. Lucy seemed to be in a deep sleep, and I quickly picked up the receiver. I thought it might be my mom, who still didn’t have a firm grasp on the time difference between England and America, but I was wrong. The deep, sexy voice on the phone sounded so different from his usual classroom tutorial tone that for a moment I was completely clueless as to who was calling me this late at night. However, I soon realized with delight that it was my hunky tutor when he started telling me that he had been thinking about me, and asking if I would be “terribly put off’ still the English gentleman, after all if he asked me to meet him in the library the next night for a “very private tutorial.” With visions of his hopefully huge British cock filling my mind, I unhesitatingly agreed.
The next evening I told Lucy that I had to do some research in the library, and ran off in what had to be the skimpiest frock I had. We met in the section of the library where only post-graduate students were allowed to check out books, and on this Saturday night, in that dark, secluded part of the ancient building, with its lovely though extremely dusty 17th-century bookcases and stained glass, we were quite alone. This old library was housed in St. John’s College, and had been founded in 1437 by Cistercian scholars.
The place was certainly conducive to a clandestine encounter, but I was disappointed when James, instead of taking me into his arms immediately, asked me to find a certain book to help us in our “research.” He knew what he was doing, however. As it happened, the book he wanted was on a very high shelf, and required a step stool to reach it. Even standing on the stool, I had to stretch up on my tippy toes as I reached up to get it. James, English gentleman or no, did not move to help me, and I soon realized why”"he was looking up my dress, and clearly enjoying the sight. Then his hands reached out to grasp my ankles, moving slowly up along my legs to my thighs and then under my dress, until they were gently rubbing my ass cheeks. His index finger slipped under my thong and commenced a gyrating motion, until I felt as though I was about to come, right there in the Elizabethan section.
When he removed his hand he reached for mine and helped me down, and then, sitting on the stool himself, he pulled me onto his lap and lowered me right onto his hard cock, which he had quickly slipped out of his pants. Straddling him as I faced the worn, dusty shelves of books, I eagerly rode his cock up and down. From far away we could hear the bells chiming from some church tower. The loud rings kept time with our fucking at first, but the wetter I got, the quicker I seemed to slip up and down, until he had to put his arms around me and hold me down so I wouldn’t slip right off. I was that wet with excitement!
As I rode his rod, James decided to give me a history lesson. That’s another reason why it is always a good idea to fuck your tutor”"you can always learn something new that you might not get in class. The chimes, he told me, were coming from the Christ Church, founded in 1525 by Cardinal Wolsey as an ecclesiastical college for the training of cardinals. The upper part of the tower”"which was located in a courtyard called Tom Quad”"was built by Sir Christopher Wren, who began his impressive architectural career in 1663 at the young age of 31. He had a prominent role in rebuilding London after the Great Fire of 1666, and is most famous for his masterpiece, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the building of which was funded by a tax on coal.
The bell inside the tower, called Great Tom, was hung in 1648, when the college had 101 students, which is why it is rung 101 times each night at 9:05, to mark the curfew for students, although the curfew has not been enforced since 1963 . The reason it is rung at five minutes after the hour, James explained, is because night falls five minutes later at Oxford than at Greenwich. And all this had something to do with English precision and the importance of preserving tradition.
I had to wonder how many other willing schoolgirls James had brought here to engage in a little fucking and a little history among the library shelves. But what the hell”"it’s a good idea to open your mind, and if you get to open your legs at the same time, all the better. Three cheers for higher education!
I really didn’t think my English stud would last as long as he did, but as the 101st chime sounded in the distance he was still hard as a rock. I then decided to see if I could teach him a few lessons of my own by finishing him off with my mouth. I dismounted and pulled him into one of the semi-private study cubicles off to one side, so that he could sit on the table with his dick saluting the world, and I could get down on my knees and suck him leisurely to my heart’s content.
The great indescribable pleasure of a giving a royal blowjob to such a great, pink cock in such literary surroundings nearly blew my mind away. I could soon tell from the way his hands were tightening their grip on my hair that he was almost powerless to control the tidal wave of come that was about to erupt from his dick. I opened my mouth wider as I prepared to swallow the large amount of academic semen coming my way, but I almost choked anyway on the sheer quantity of educated sperm this bloke shot down my eager throat.
Completely spent, we made our way back to the library entrance and walked out into the balmy Oxford night. James offered to drive me back to Abingdon, which was really fantastic, as I wasn’t ready to call it a night. Besides, I felt a little guilty about Lucy, and planned to let her in on some of the fun. After all, she deserved some of the perks of the academic life as well. I was just hoping that James was game.
During the 20-minute ride back I casually mentioned to James that Lucy would really like to get to know him better. From the way he took one hand off the wheel and slid it under my dress, his middle finger moving deep into my cunt, I kind of figured he was excited at the prospect of a threesome. That finger kept me warm all the way home. After pulling into my driveway and switching off the engine, he turned toward me. He still had his middle finger deep inside me, while the other digits gently stroked the quivering lips of my pussy. With his other hand he opened up my loosely buttoned shirt and eased my breast out of my bra. “Mmmm, it’s just like a succulent melon,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth to it and licked the nipple as though it was a dripping ice cream cone on a hot day.
Now I was the one who was having trouble controlling myself, and was very close to orgasm. But I told myself not to be selfish, and to share the newfound pleasures of the academic life with my friend. I told James that we should finish this up inside and, with the Beatles’ “With a Little Help from My Friends” running through my mind, I led him into the cottage.
Lucy was watching a documentary on bees, which may have been fascinating, but not as fascinating as what was about to happen to her. Her look of surprise at seeing James turned to one of immense pleasure as I took her aside and told her our plans for the night.
After a couple of gin and tonics I asked James if he would like to see our bedroom. We brought our drinks up with us, all of us smiling at the delightful turn of events which had brought us together in this bedroom, tucked away under a thatched roof in sweet old medieval Abingdon.
Lucy and I had been roommates our freshman year, and had often had guys spend the night, sometimes singly, sometimes together. So we had obviously seen each other naked before, and had even enjoyed voyeuristic sex on occasion. But we had held out on having a threesome, perhaps saving it for a rainy day. Well, that rainy day was here, and there was no stopping us now.
These thoughts were running through my head as I watched James take Lucy into his arms and rub his body up against hers, swaying to the music from the radio, which was playing a soft ballad by Chris Rhea. Watching the two of them bump and grind in the dimly lit room was making my pussy ache for a little more of that academic-style loving, but I decided to be generous and let the two of them get it on for awhile.
The gin and tonics had definitely had the desired effect on Lucy, whose clothes quickly came off until she was left bare-bottomed, with only a push-up bra which was pushing her deliciously voluptuous breasts not only up but out, and a pair of high-heeled shoes. She looked extremely erotic, and was acting the part, going down on her knees and pulling down James’s zipper with her teeth, giggling somewhat drunkenly as she did so. James had an incredible hard-on, which popped out of his pants to strain up towards the ceiling. He obviously couldn’t wait to ram it up inside her, but hot as Lucy was, she was going to make him work a little for his pleasure.
She sat down on the very edge of the bed, still wearing her bra and heels, and opened her legs wide. James had enough control left to take off all his clothes. It was the first time I had seen him completely naked, and what a sight it was! He moved toward her then and went to his knees between her legs. After all the speaking I had heard him do in his tutorials, I guess it should have been no surprise that he was a pro at this oral exercise as well. Gripping both her thighs tightly, he started licking Lucy’s pretty pussy as though his life depended on it. It was truly a beautiful vision, Lucy arching her back, spreading her legs even wider, trying to take his tongue deeper inside her as he licked teasingly this way and that.
When she started to scream out for something more, James pulled her off the bed and positioned her on all fours on the carpeted floor. Crouching behind her, he spread her knees wide apart with his hands, till her glistening, squirming pussy was gaping wide for him, virtually begging his bulging cock to fill it up. James teased her for a few moments longer, stroking her luscious rump and giving each cheek a playful whack or two, while reaching around to tweak her nipples with his other hand. Her moans were getting louder and louder as she dug her nails into the legs of the chair she was holding onto.
Finally James decided the time was ripe, and he drove his cock deep inside her wet cunt from behind, lowering his nude torso onto her sweaty back. Their bodies were soon heaving and rocking back and forth as he cupped his hands over her breasts, which had now fallen completely out of her bra. His fingers rubbed over her nipples, pinching and tweaking them as they became larger with each moan she uttered.
When she turned to look at me with her glazed eyes, I took it as an invitation to join them, and I didn’t need much persuasion. I stripped down in a flash and moved toward them. James looked as though he had his hands full for the moment, so I sat down in front of Lucy with my legs wide open. With a moan she lowered her head to my crotch.
With each thrust from behind, Lucy’s tongue plunged forward, licking furiously at my cunt. I was so wet and turned on already that I felt as if I was about to come any minute. But it was James who came first, and his spasming climax provoked an unstoppable pleasure-filled chain reaction of orgasms, which left us all in a naked, sweaty heap on the floor. The room quickly filled up with the sweet smell of come, which lingered for days afterward, and was definitely a boost on those rainy, homesick nights when Lucy and I would discuss the English weather, Elizabethan literature and our sexy, naked tutor. Not necessarily in that order.
Tucked away in the delightful Thames Valley, about two hours east of London, lies Abingdon, a sleepy English town which at first glance definitely doesn’t present many opportunities for sex and debauchery. But that is just a first impression”"or at least so it proved to be for me when I spent a college semester there at the age of 19. Along with my good friend Lucy, I was to spend a semester abroad living in a small rural village and attending tutorials in English literature at nearby Oxford University.
On an unusually warm September day we arrived at Heathrow Airport and subsequently boarded a bus at Victoria Station. As we took the two-hour ride through picturesque villages with stone houses built in the 16th century and thatched cottages with glass bottles of milk perched on the doorstep, I felt as though I was experiencing some sort of time warp. I had dreamed of Wuthering Heights and Heathcliff, but this felt more like Alice in Wonderland. Most of our friends who were spending semesters away from home were doing so in chic, cosmopolitan places like Paris or Rome, and here I was taking a nose dive right into medieval England.
We were met at the bus stop by Kate, the woman whose house we would be renting. She was very friendly, with a musical accent typical of southeast England. She led us on foot down the main road, pointing out the post office, the local inns and various shops, and over a very green hill which led to her house. It didn’t disappoint us it had the thatched roof, the milk bottles and even a nearby moat as an added attraction.
After stowing away our bags in the cozy double bedroom that Lucy and I would be sharing for the next three and a half months, we decided to do some exploring. We headed for the historically important Vale of White Horse. This gorgeous valley gets its name from the huge chalk horse carved into the hillside above Uffington. It has the reputation of being Britain’s oldest hillside carving, and has sparked many legends. Some say it was cut into the hill by the Saxon leader Hengist whose name signifies stallion in German , while others claim it is a monument to Alfred the Great, who was most likely born nearby. It is dated around 3000 B.C., and close to it are the Celtic earth ramparts of the Iron Age hill fort, Uffington Castle. Further afield, along the ancient trading route, there is an even older monument, this one from Stone Age times, a burial ground known as Wayland’s Smithy. These lands are all encrusted with legends, and we were beginning to feel as though we were lost in the setting of a Victorian novel, or maybe a Mel Gibson movie”"in which case, where was Mel?
Exploring the city center of Abingdon didn’t take too long, and after about 15 minutes we were having a pint of warm ale in a tavern known as “Ye Olde Fighting Cocks” the name sounded promising, at least , one of the oldest surviving pubs in England. We decided that we could understand why some Americans liken the initial taste of English beer to piss, while the English in turn disparage our ice-cold beer, complaining that it’s too cold to really taste. Along with our pint, Lucy and I shared our first ploughman sandwich, which was basically a huge platter containing a cheddar cheese sandwich, with chips and relish on the side. This was originally the staple food of the ploughman on his lunch break, which explains the name, and it makes a very hearty meal.
As we sipped our warm beer”"which did go down rather smoothly”"we asked each other whether we had done the right thing by coming here to this medieval no-man’s-land, especially considering what we had left behind”" namely, our good old faithful boyfriends. Even though we both felt that sex with them had become as boring and predictable as a commuter ride, it had still been better than nothing.
What could this English countryside we had come all this way to experience firsthand possibly offer? This wasn’t really what we had expected to find. I mean, sure, we were big Jane Austen fans, but could we really hope to find a John Darcy in Abingdon? Taking a quick look around the pub, it seemed that the only Austen-style characters available were 60-year-old grandfatherly types.
We talked about organizing an occasional excursion to London, where there might be more opportunity for adventure. We even thought of resorting to calling our boyfriends to come and visit us”"but no, that would definitely be a last resort. After all, one of our main reasons for getting away was to be on our own, to have a wild swing or two after the dullness of a mutually exclusive relationship.
Things definitely started to look our way, however, when we actually began to attend our classes at Oxford, the academic mecca of Great Britain, which was only 15 minutes away by bus.
We had our first tutorial at St. Edmund’s Hall, one of the most beautiful of Oxford’s 36 colleges. The subject was Shakespeare, and I had never thought that Shakespeare could be so titillating. The reason for this was mostly the tutor, James, who had a brilliant English sense of humor and Hugh Grant looks. His deep blue eyes and tousled black hair kept me mesmerized as he discussed some of the trickiest passages from Othello. As I looked out through the 17th-century stained glass windows, which faced a beautiful courtyard, I could already feel a tingle of excitement rush through my loins. There was life after Abingdon, after all!
I began looking forward eagerly to my tutorials with James. Sometimes he would invite a few of us back to his apartment for tea, and Lucy and I never failed to take part of these excursions. Over delicious scones with cream, we talked about the use of nudity in Shakespeare, and dreamed of the nudity of James. He always came to class wearing brownish corduroy pants and a tweed jacket over a blue shirt, the perfect academician’s uniform. When he was at home, however, he took off his jacket and revealed a wonderful physique under that blue shirt. I kept wishing for everybody to leave so that I could finally be alone with him and help him take off the rest of his clothes.
I finally decided to make the first move and show him that my interest went beyond Shakespeare. In class I always sat in the front seat and looked straight into his eyes. I wore very low-cut blouses that revealed almost everything when I bent down to scribble my notes”"especially when I “forgot” to wear a bra. I made sure I had lots of interesting thoughts to write down, so that James could get a very good look at my erect pink nipples dangling right in front of him. They were just dying to be fondled by his long fingers. I even brought him an apple and placed it on his desk with a coy smile, like the perfect little schoolgirl, whispering, “It’s very juicy”"I hope you like it.”
Finally my chance came. One day, James mentioned to the class that he had some extra tickets to a big rugby match between Oxford and its archenemy, Cambridge. If any of us were interested, he said, we should give him our phone numbers and he would call us with the details. Lucy and I exchanged glances and immediately jumped up to give him our numbers. There was no way we would be missing out on this. Things were definitely starting to look up.
Late that night, as I mulled over Hamlet’s famous soliloquy changing it in my mind to: “To fuck or not to fuck, that is the question . . .” and dreamed about wild sex in the Thames Valley, the phone rang. Lucy seemed to be in a deep sleep, and I quickly picked up the receiver. I thought it might be my mom, who still didn’t have a firm grasp on the time difference between England and America, but I was wrong. The deep, sexy voice on the phone sounded so different from his usual classroom tutorial tone that for a moment I was completely clueless as to who was calling me this late at night. However, I soon realized with delight that it was my hunky tutor when he started telling me that he had been thinking about me, and asking if I would be “terribly put off’ still the English gentleman, after all if he asked me to meet him in the library the next night for a “very private tutorial.” With visions of his hopefully huge British cock filling my mind, I unhesitatingly agreed.
The next evening I told Lucy that I had to do some research in the library, and ran off in what had to be the skimpiest frock I had. We met in the section of the library where only post-graduate students were allowed to check out books, and on this Saturday night, in that dark, secluded part of the ancient building, with its lovely though extremely dusty 17th-century bookcases and stained glass, we were quite alone. This old library was housed in St. John’s College, and had been founded in 1437 by Cistercian scholars.
The place was certainly conducive to a clandestine encounter, but I was disappointed when James, instead of taking me into his arms immediately, asked me to find a certain book to help us in our “research.” He knew what he was doing, however. As it happened, the book he wanted was on a very high shelf, and required a step stool to reach it. Even standing on the stool, I had to stretch up on my tippy toes as I reached up to get it. James, English gentleman or no, did not move to help me, and I soon realized why”"he was looking up my dress, and clearly enjoying the sight. Then his hands reached out to grasp my ankles, moving slowly up along my legs to my thighs and then under my dress, until they were gently rubbing my ass cheeks. His index finger slipped under my thong and commenced a gyrating motion, until I felt as though I was about to come, right there in the Elizabethan section.
When he removed his hand he reached for mine and helped me down, and then, sitting on the stool himself, he pulled me onto his lap and lowered me right onto his hard cock, which he had quickly slipped out of his pants. Straddling him as I faced the worn, dusty shelves of books, I eagerly rode his cock up and down. From far away we could hear the bells chiming from some church tower. The loud rings kept time with our fucking at first, but the wetter I got, the quicker I seemed to slip up and down, until he had to put his arms around me and hold me down so I wouldn’t slip right off. I was that wet with excitement!
As I rode his rod, James decided to give me a history lesson. That’s another reason why it is always a good idea to fuck your tutor”"you can always learn something new that you might not get in class. The chimes, he told me, were coming from the Christ Church, founded in 1525 by Cardinal Wolsey as an ecclesiastical college for the training of cardinals. The upper part of the tower”"which was located in a courtyard called Tom Quad”"was built by Sir Christopher Wren, who began his impressive architectural career in 1663 at the young age of 31. He had a prominent role in rebuilding London after the Great Fire of 1666, and is most famous for his masterpiece, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the building of which was funded by a tax on coal.
The bell inside the tower, called Great Tom, was hung in 1648, when the college had 101 students, which is why it is rung 101 times each night at 9:05, to mark the curfew for students, although the curfew has not been enforced since 1963 . The reason it is rung at five minutes after the hour, James explained, is because night falls five minutes later at Oxford than at Greenwich. And all this had something to do with English precision and the importance of preserving tradition.
I had to wonder how many other willing schoolgirls James had brought here to engage in a little fucking and a little history among the library shelves. But what the hell”"it’s a good idea to open your mind, and if you get to open your legs at the same time, all the better. Three cheers for higher education!
I really didn’t think my English stud would last as long as he did, but as the 101st chime sounded in the distance he was still hard as a rock. I then decided to see if I could teach him a few lessons of my own by finishing him off with my mouth. I dismounted and pulled him into one of the semi-private study cubicles off to one side, so that he could sit on the table with his dick saluting the world, and I could get down on my knees and suck him leisurely to my heart’s content.
The great indescribable pleasure of a giving a royal blowjob to such a great, pink cock in such literary surroundings nearly blew my mind away. I could soon tell from the way his hands were tightening their grip on my hair that he was almost powerless to control the tidal wave of come that was about to erupt from his dick. I opened my mouth wider as I prepared to swallow the large amount of academic semen coming my way, but I almost choked anyway on the sheer quantity of educated sperm this bloke shot down my eager throat.
Completely spent, we made our way back to the library entrance and walked out into the balmy Oxford night. James offered to drive me back to Abingdon, which was really fantastic, as I wasn’t ready to call it a night. Besides, I felt a little guilty about Lucy, and planned to let her in on some of the fun. After all, she deserved some of the perks of the academic life as well. I was just hoping that James was game.
During the 20-minute ride back I casually mentioned to James that Lucy would really like to get to know him better. From the way he took one hand off the wheel and slid it under my dress, his middle finger moving deep into my cunt, I kind of figured he was excited at the prospect of a threesome. That finger kept me warm all the way home. After pulling into my driveway and switching off the engine, he turned toward me. He still had his middle finger deep inside me, while the other digits gently stroked the quivering lips of my pussy. With his other hand he opened up my loosely buttoned shirt and eased my breast out of my bra. “Mmmm, it’s just like a succulent melon,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth to it and licked the nipple as though it was a dripping ice cream cone on a hot day.
Now I was the one who was having trouble controlling myself, and was very close to orgasm. But I told myself not to be selfish, and to share the newfound pleasures of the academic life with my friend. I told James that we should finish this up inside and, with the Beatles’ “With a Little Help from My Friends” running through my mind, I led him into the cottage.
Lucy was watching a documentary on bees, which may have been fascinating, but not as fascinating as what was about to happen to her. Her look of surprise at seeing James turned to one of immense pleasure as I took her aside and told her our plans for the night.
After a couple of gin and tonics I asked James if he would like to see our bedroom. We brought our drinks up with us, all of us smiling at the delightful turn of events which had brought us together in this bedroom, tucked away under a thatched roof in sweet old medieval Abingdon.
Lucy and I had been roommates our freshman year, and had often had guys spend the night, sometimes singly, sometimes together. So we had obviously seen each other naked before, and had even enjoyed voyeuristic sex on occasion. But we had held out on having a threesome, perhaps saving it for a rainy day. Well, that rainy day was here, and there was no stopping us now.
These thoughts were running through my head as I watched James take Lucy into his arms and rub his body up against hers, swaying to the music from the radio, which was playing a soft ballad by Chris Rhea. Watching the two of them bump and grind in the dimly lit room was making my pussy ache for a little more of that academic-style loving, but I decided to be generous and let the two of them get it on for awhile.
The gin and tonics had definitely had the desired effect on Lucy, whose clothes quickly came off until she was left bare-bottomed, with only a push-up bra which was pushing her deliciously voluptuous breasts not only up but out, and a pair of high-heeled shoes. She looked extremely erotic, and was acting the part, going down on her knees and pulling down James’s zipper with her teeth, giggling somewhat drunkenly as she did so. James had an incredible hard-on, which popped out of his pants to strain up towards the ceiling. He obviously couldn’t wait to ram it up inside her, but hot as Lucy was, she was going to make him work a little for his pleasure.
She sat down on the very edge of the bed, still wearing her bra and heels, and opened her legs wide. James had enough control left to take off all his clothes. It was the first time I had seen him completely naked, and what a sight it was! He moved toward her then and went to his knees between her legs. After all the speaking I had heard him do in his tutorials, I guess it should have been no surprise that he was a pro at this oral exercise as well. Gripping both her thighs tightly, he started licking Lucy’s pretty pussy as though his life depended on it. It was truly a beautiful vision, Lucy arching her back, spreading her legs even wider, trying to take his tongue deeper inside her as he licked teasingly this way and that.
When she started to scream out for something more, James pulled her off the bed and positioned her on all fours on the carpeted floor. Crouching behind her, he spread her knees wide apart with his hands, till her glistening, squirming pussy was gaping wide for him, virtually begging his bulging cock to fill it up. James teased her for a few moments longer, stroking her luscious rump and giving each cheek a playful whack or two, while reaching around to tweak her nipples with his other hand. Her moans were getting louder and louder as she dug her nails into the legs of the chair she was holding onto.
Finally James decided the time was ripe, and he drove his cock deep inside her wet cunt from behind, lowering his nude torso onto her sweaty back. Their bodies were soon heaving and rocking back and forth as he cupped his hands over her breasts, which had now fallen completely out of her bra. His fingers rubbed over her nipples, pinching and tweaking them as they became larger with each moan she uttered.
When she turned to look at me with her glazed eyes, I took it as an invitation to join them, and I didn’t need much persuasion. I stripped down in a flash and moved toward them. James looked as though he had his hands full for the moment, so I sat down in front of Lucy with my legs wide open. With a moan she lowered her head to my crotch.
With each thrust from behind, Lucy’s tongue plunged forward, licking furiously at my cunt. I was so wet and turned on already that I felt as if I was about to come any minute. But it was James who came first, and his spasming climax provoked an unstoppable pleasure-filled chain reaction of orgasms, which left us all in a naked, sweaty heap on the floor. The room quickly filled up with the sweet smell of come, which lingered for days afterward, and was definitely a boost on those rainy, homesick nights when Lucy and I would discuss the English weather, Elizabethan literature and our sexy, naked tutor. Not necessarily in that order.
As I latched my glossy lips around Ben’s salty cock, tickling the rim of his anus with my manicured nails, I thought of my old life, thousands of miles away across the Pacific Ocean. I’d called my boyfriend, Jack, the night before from the private room he and I were supposed to share here on Molokai, and broken it off with him. I told him he cared for money more than for me, and that I wasn’t his trophy cheerleader anymore. He was supposed to be here with us”"his sister Nora, her boyfriend John, and me”"island hopping in Hawaii. We’d planned it for months. We’d had the tickets, the accommodations. Then, at the last minute, he’d cancelled on me. “An important client’s coming,” he’d explained. And I had finally admitted to myself that he would rather run his dull business than be with me.
But I knew Ben had wanted my plump ass, my C-cup tits, and my curvy 110-pound frame since the day we’d first seen each other at the pool. He was so quiet and manly. I’d wanted to fuck him too, from the very first second I saw him, and I pleasured myself three times a day with images of Ben at the beach in my head”"his broad shoulders, his sinuous six-pack and his big biceps. Early each morning he ran barefoot and shirtless across the prickly native grasses of the golf course down to Three Mile Beach”"the longest uninterrupted span of beach in the Hawaiian Islands”"running all the way to the end and back. Then he’d return to his condo, straight across from my bedroom window, his muscles defined and glistening as he sat out on the patio picking the barbs from his feet. My muff would beat like a bass drum when I’d glimpse his bulging package, and it took everything I had in me to hold in my desperate squeals as I jilled off into ecstasy.
But now that I’d broken up with Jack once and for all, I could finally have Ben inside me! So when I’d seen him leave for his run early that morning, I’d gone to take a shower and prepared myself to seduce him. I made up my face only a little, put on a pair of hoop earrings and left my wavy black hair loose to blow as it would in the wind. I pulled on a pair of skimpy surf shorts and found my tiniest, tightest tank-top. No bra, no panties. Then, with John and Nora still sleeping, I took the long walk down to Three Mile Beach.
Though it wasn’t terribly hot at that early hour of the morning, the low tropical sun was glaring off the emerald Pacific, and I soon started to sweat. So I walked down to the water and sat on the wet sand to wait for Ben. The waves washed far up the beach, licking at my crotch like a wet tongue. Sometimes they’d rush upon me, tossing my delicate body to and fro, and almost suck me out to sea as they retreated. I imagined that was how Ben would be with me”"forceful but tender. I started touching myself again. With my thighs spread wide, my back arched, and my tits and rib cage gloriously presented to the deep blue sky, I rubbed my throbbing clit through my tight shorts, imagining his meaty manhood thrusting inside me, his strong hands firmly tossing my supple body from side to side.
A sweet tropical breeze blew across my face, mingling with the scent of my pussy juices, and I imagined his rough fingers sailing softly across my thin strip of pubic hair. I yearned desperately to take all his length deep inside me. I groped my plump ass, pretending to be Ben, and slipped a manicured finger between my butt cheeks. Then I took hold of my tits, kneading them strongly and pinching my nipples underneath my tank top.
After a while Ben’s faraway figure appeared down the beach. I leaped up to get my flip-flops and walked quickly up to the skinny trail leading back to the golf course. On this higher ground, I could hide behind the outcrops of volcanic rock and coconut trees. As I diligently fingered my smooth, slippery slit beneath my shorts, the silhouette of neighboring Oahu’s ancient Diamond Head volcano, far across the deceptively calm Kaiwi Channel, revealed itself in fleeting glimpses through the fluttering palms.
My thin surf shorts were soaked, and my white tank top was wet and clinging, so that the shapes of my taut nipples and every ridge of my rib cage were highly visible. When Ben finally appeared on the beach below, my pink hole was throbbing and ready to erupt. I watched him walk into the water to cool off. Then, dripping, he headed toward the trail. As he passed the group of trees where I was waiting, I called to him: “Hey, hot stuff!”
He stood silently as I approached him. His gaze flitted over my green eyes, my slim belly, and my ripe tits, until I was close enough to press myself against him. I rubbed my firm, milky melons around on his solid torso and whispered, “Where would you like to start? With my tits?” Then I turned around and pulled my shorts down just enough to reveal the top half of my tan, toned butt. “Or with my ass?”
Suddenly he had a huge tree trunk pounding away inside his shorts. I licked my lips and dropped to my knees. “Better yet,” I breathed as I slowly slipped his shorts down his over his monster erection, “why don’t I start where I want?”
And with that I slid my soft lips gradually down the entire length of his iron rod. I felt it fattening rapidly inside my mouth as he tangled his fingers in my wet, silken hair. I reached around, grasping his rock-hard ass with both hands.
“Oh . . . Damn!” he exclaimed as my nimble tongue worked over his shaft inside my moist, salivating mouth. I bobbed my head up and down his length, from base to head, slowly at first, and then vigorously.
“I want this inside me!” I demanded, yanking feverishly on his branch. “I need you to fuck me right now!”
He lifted me with ease and walked to the green of the nearby 13th hole, where the grass was soft and less prickly than the native Hawaiian grasses surrounding the course. He laid me down on my back and straddled me. My tits jiggled as he liberated them from my tight tank top, pulling it up past my beckoning lips, but leaving it draped over my eyes, so I couldn’t see. Then, powerfully but gently, he flipped me onto my front, yanking down my shorts like a Hawaiian whitetip reef shark tearing into an octopus. As I swayed my tanned, bubbly ass for him, I felt his fingers dig into it. Then he flipped me over onto my back again, and was in me instantly. I squealed so loudly that they might have heard it in their condos all the way on the other side of the hill. I was so creamy already that he was able to give me the entirety of his thick ramrod right from the start.
I was so aroused I screamed, “Pull my hair! Pull it hard!”
Without lifting my shirt from my eyes, he gathered a handful of my loose tresses, and I moaned with pleasure as he tugged at them, while with his other hand he held my wrists together behind my head. My glistening cunt was seething, sending surges of heat through my entire body. I arched sharply up on my shoulder blades as he hammered me harder, faster, deeper, and I screamed again.
“Yes, fuck me, Ben!” I howled. “I need you to fuck me harder!”
I still couldn’t see, but even with my shirt blocking my eyes the bright Polynesian sun was almost blinding. I felt my boobs bouncing about from the pounding he was giving me. The more uncontrollably they quaked, the harder he thrust. I don’t know how he held out for so long. I felt that my delicate body might break apart, but I never wanted it to end.
Suddenly he pulled out and turned me over onto my hands and knees, intending to finish me off doggie-style. As he re-entered me I ground my ass against him as hard as I could. My tossing head whipped my hair all around, until he grabbed it again and yanked my head backwards. I loved it, and I could hear myself moaning and squealing like mad. Finally I collapsed on the lawn as he pushed against me. Ben straddled my ass, and reached back for my feet. Bending my legs at the knees, he held my feet up against his sides as he rode me home, right there on the 13th hole. In a few more seconds I exploded, and as I screamed I felt him launch his molten-hot sperm inside me like a missile. He let off three or four more bursts as a warm serenity enveloped me.
We were weak, worn out and sweating, so we cooled off in the ocean.
As we walked together across the hilly golf course back toward our condos, I explained to him how I’d just broken up with Jack, who was my friend Nora’s brother. Given that, we decided, it was best to keep our new relationship a secret for the time being.
The hot Hawaiian sun had dried us both by the time we got back. I opened the large glass sliding door of my condo and looked around. No sign of John and Nora. Ben pulled me to him, kissed me and slapped my ass. As we broke apart, I slid my tongue out over my upper lip to reveal the underside of my tongue stud, then winked and looked suggestively down at the regenerated volcano in his thin shorts. I took a swift look into John and Nora’s room to make sure they really weren’t around.
“Must’ve gone to breakfast,” Ben suggested.
That was good enough for me. I shoved him to the sofa, climbed up on all fours beside him, and greedily helped myself again to a mouthful of his mighty battleship. It tasted like come and saltwater at first, but I soon had it squeaky clean. I worked the swollen head with my tongue stud, and licked the massive stalk from base to tip like a melting ice-cream cone. Only it wasn’t melting. “Oh Jesus!” he gasped out.
Without releasing my wet lips from his engorged missile, I climbed over him and straddled his face. He groaned as I pressed my smooth ass to his mouth while sucking on his balls, with my hand desperately wrapped around to his rock-hard cock as though it were a rescue rope tossed from a lifeboat. I rocked my ass from side to side as he expertly worked my sensitive clit. Clutching his ass cheeks in my hands, I again took his shiny man meat deep inside my mouth while he tickled my pulsating clit with the tip of his tongue. God, he knew just how to lick me! Reacting to the intensity of my squeals, he spun his skillful tongue speedily and repetitively inside my pounding pussy as I rode his face into a sustained ecstasy. It was then, with his mouth on my pussy, my lips locked around his meat, my fingertips tickling his rectum, that I realized how happy I was to have broken up with Jack.
I sat upright on Ben’s face, then dismounted. “Tie me up, Ben,” I demanded. “Tie me up and take me!”
Bless him for not questioning my needs! He bound my thin wrists and one foot together behind my back, using my stretched-out tank top. With his fingers inside my creamy cunt, he flipped me onto my back, onto my belly, onto my side, showing his total control of my body. It was the first time I had given myself to someone so completely, and it was the most exciting moment of my life. I began to cry with happiness.
“Are you all right?” Ben asked me.
“I’ve . . . never . . . been better!” I struggled to reply.
As he carried me to climax, lapping at my clit and finger-fucking my pussy, I was like an undersea hot spot, bursting through a crack in the ocean floor, rising up through the cold darkness and finally breaking the surface of the still Pacific in a glorious eruption of fire and magma.
I was out of breath and panting as I lay limp and contented on the bed. But as I slowly regained my senses I was more than eager to return the favor. “C’mon up here, big guy,” I suggested.
Ben sidled his stiff plank up to my mouth, and I had at it, slurping, humming, making all sorts of sounds to excite him, my cheeks still wet from my tears. There I was, still tied up, my lips locked to his fat, shining stalk of sugar cane, when we heard a key in the door”"the sound of John and Nora coming back. They would be inside within seconds.
Ben quickly scooped me up and bounded up the stairs with me as though I were weightless. “Wait!” I whispered, “Our clothes!”
He ran back, gathered our clothes fast as lightning, then bolted back up the stairs, carrying me into my room and placing me gently on the bed. I lay on my belly, my arms and one leg still tied behind me, and felt him struggling to undo the knot.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “They’ll be downstairs a while. Go lock the door”"I have some unfinished business.”
So when he got back to the bed I resumed my sucking, slurping and tongue swirling, until at long last he shot into the back of my throat with more force than I’d ever experienced. As I swallowed, we heard Nora and John laughing on their way upstairs. Again Ben set to untying me.
Nora knocked on my door. I called out for her to hold on just a moment.
“Where were you this morning?” she asked through the door.
“Went for a walk,” I answered. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“We stopped off at Ben’s. Thought we’d invite him for dinner tonight. He wasn’t there, though.”
“No? Probably still running.”
“He goes for a long time, huh?”
“Oh, he’s been going very long this morning,” I replied, smiling at Ben. He finally got the knot loose, then quickly pulled on his shorts, went out the window and dropped to the ground, leaving me free to open the door for Nora.
Later that evening, the four of us drove into the island’s only town to have dinner at a romantic patio restaurant on the very edge of the water. Our table overlooked a thin strip of sandy beach lined with coconut trees, and we could hear the waves peacefully massaging the shore a few feet below us as the red sun sank into the ocean. The evening air was sweet and warm, and we enjoyed Mai Tais to a background of a soft ukulele music. My low-cut summer dress fluttered delicately in the gentle breeze. Ben couldn’t take his eyes off my creamy cleavage, and his obvious desire called to me powerfully.
Finally I excused myself and walked out into the shimmering darkness of the white-sand beach. A few minutes later I felt Ben’s rock-solid package press against my ass. His rugged hands slipped the thin straps smoothly from my shoulders, and he cupped my exposed tits. I slid my fingers inside his trousers to fondle his towering spire, then brought them to my mouth and licked his precome off them, one by one.
“How fast can you fuck me?” I whispered, and a moment later I was on my hands and knees in the moist sand, absorbing Ben’s thunderous thrusts as the last glimmer of blood-red sun quietly sank into the Pacific.
Early the next morning the four of us took a guided hike through the rain forest to a magnificent waterfall and freshwater lagoon hidden deep in a lush mountain valley. The ancient Polynesians had carved huge stone phalluses throughout Molokai, and it was easy to understand why: the heat, the sweet scents, the endless ocean, the naked skin glistening from sweat and sunscreen, filled me with an all-consuming, overwhelming carnal desire that I simply could not contain anymore. Nor did I want to.
We followed a winding dirt trail through a thick forest, past wild passion fruit trees and the low, overgrown ruins of ancient temples. As we came within sight of the falls, I nudged Ben and beckoned subtly to a secluded outcropping of shimmering rock alongside the lagoon. We fell unnoticed to the rear of the group, and faded silently together into the forest. There in that secret spot, enveloped in the mist of the waterfall, my wonderful lover fucked me again.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
He was standing, lifting me up and dropping me down hard on his solid shaft, over and over. Cool droplets of mist sprinkled my ass, my bouncing boobs. Holding onto his strong shoulders, I leaned back and watched the sky shake. When he lowered us into a shallow pool, we fucked entwined, staring into each other’s eyes.
“This seems like a dream,” I whispered.
“It’s . . . real,” he assured me, between thrusts. “Feel it, baby . . . Feel everything!”
I laughed, and with Ben supporting me with his hands below my spine, I arched up to him as far as I could. My milky, mist-sprinkled melons pointed gloriously skyward, my wavy hair floating in the water. As I watched the waterfall plummeting violently into the tranquil lagoon, I felt a torrent of his powerful juice gushing inside me. We orgasmed simultaneously, our moans only slightly drowned out by the thundering of the falls.
We flew home the next morning. I didn’t regret having wasted most of my vacation being angry about Jack, because the last two days with Ben had been the single most sensual experience of my life.
Nora sat beside me on our flight. At one point, out of the blue, she said, “So when where you planning to tell me about your new fuck?”
I looked at her in surprise. “You know?”
“Of course,” she laughed. “It was obvious. We’ve never seen you so happy as in the last two days.”
I could only blush.
“You know,” she continued, “our vacation isn’t quite over yet. And I see that the rear lavatory sign has just blinked off . . .”
I smiled, then got up and walked down to Ben’s seat. I leaned over, giving him a faceful of cleavage, and put my moistened lips to his ear.
“Ever been sucked off in a 767?”
A minute later he joined me in the lavatory for the flight of his life.
The Singapore Sling, the storied pink drink now known around the world, was first concocted at the Long Bar of the famous Raffles Hotel in Singapore in the early years of the 20th century. Although some claim that the recipe has changed over the years, the hotel still serves this potent mixture of gin, Benedictine, cherry brandy and several other ingredients to eager tourists and residents alike.
But if the Singapore Sling is the well-known signature cocktail of that bustling island state in Southeast Asia, the “Singapore swing” may be its most popular activity, at least among a certain crowd.
In Singapore there are many restless “expat” short for expatriate wives whose husbands are constantly away on business trips, providing them with the opportunity to prove the veracity of the old adage: When the cat’s away the mice will play.
What most surprised me about living in Singapore was how much it reminded me of a suburb in New Jersey an affluent suburb, to be sure, where each house came complete with a maid, a pool and a tennis court. But the people in these air-conditioned condos were fantastically friendly. After a few days I felt as though I already knew everybody. It was like being back on my college campus in freshman year, where waving hello to the students one passed was almost compulsory. In the mornings, when the kids were delivered by their mothers to the many International schools, it was customary to stay a while and chat, perhaps even go for coffee.
In other cosmopolitan cities the locals generally have a somewhat negative reaction to newcomers who, due to business reasons or whatever, are there for a limited amount of time. “Oh, you are only here for two years?” they will say, and that will be basically the end of the friendship. No more invitations to barbecues or birthday parties. What’s the use, since you will soon be leaving anyway.
But in Singapore this attitude is a non-starter. Most expats are there for a relatively fixed term, so one might as well make the best of it. Barbecues, drinking sessions, birthday parties the more the merrier, since we’re all in the same boat.
The real icing on the cake and a rather well-kept secret is that most expats here are living well above the manner in which they would be living at home. Initially my expectations had been quite low. I mean, certainly Singapore was not Paris or London. And yet life here is so much easier especially when you factor in the live-in help that it is almost ridiculous to imagine that anybody who has the choice of living here would ever contemplate leaving.
For one thing, in most other cities, it would be difficult for many of us to afford a maid, let alone fit one into our relatively small by Singapore standards apartment. Yet here at least one live-in maid was almost the norm in the expat crowd. Occasionally you did find a superwoman type who insisted on defying all rhyme or reason by doing it all on her own, but that was really the exception. In fact, I had been warned that the topic of maids was the main fodder at most dinner party conversations along with the pros and cons of the various international schools: Do they teach Mandarin? Will the kids end up speaking Singlish a unique blend of Malay, English and several other dialects ? Are the fees exorbitant? and that had certainly proved to be the case. Everyone seemed to agree that the biggest bonus of having a maid was that it allowed a pampered wife or tai-tai, as they were called here to have a lot of free time on her hands.
Some of my friends were surprised that I, a notoriously possessive wife, could ever accept an attractive young maid living in the house with my husband and me. But after years of housework and child care with only minimal and often incompetent assistance, having someone constantly there to help out was a huge relief, and I wouldn’t have cared if she had walked around the house naked, with just yellow dish gloves on. The fact is that she was often down on her knees scrubbing floors, or attending to our toddler, with her skimpy camisole top affording a good view of her ample breasts. But I honestly did not mind and judging from the barely concealed smile on his face much of the time, neither did my husband.
In your own hometown it is unlikely that you will be living in a place that boasts a beautiful outdoor lap pool and tennis courts, or a playground you can access via your own elevator. Or that you will be easily able to afford private tennis, swimming and even Mandarin lessons for your children. So if you are reading this and you have children, I strongly recommend moving to Singapore. Of course, if you are single and horny, I also recommend moving to Singapore.
In fact, there are so many classes and activities available here that the impulse to “keep up with the Joneses” needs to be kept in check, or you will end up shuttling your poor kids around like a demented soccer mom, and it is just way too hot to do that. Mostly the kids just want to hang out in their air-conditioned apartments, drinking chocolate milk and watching Pok mon.
After all, were talking Singapore, where there is only one season: hot and humid. Ideal for a fungal infection, but not necessarily for outdoor activities. Kind of like July in New Jersey, all year round. It’s the type of heat that makes a trip to the beauty parlor completely irrelevant, along with any but the lightest and skimpiest of clothing. If you don’t want to smell like a durian the local fruit which has the most odious odor possible more than one daily shower is in order, along with lots of fresh deodorant. If one is planning an outing with the kids allegedly for some fresh air, but also a good way to scope out the single dads or business types out for an early lunch it’s best to do it in the morning, before it gets way too hot.
And thank God for the Botanic Gardens, a real oasis right smack in the center of the bustling metropolis. Boasting more than half a million species of plants and trees, it provides the perfect sanctuary from the constant noise of construction work, a result of the frenzied building of high-rise condominiums all over the city. It is an idyllic park comprising about 130 acres of land. There are swans, ducks and turtles swimming in the surrounding lakes, and often there are free outdoor concerts staged by the symphony orchestra on a small islet right in the middle of what is called Symphony Lake. In accordance with both its tropical location and its historic colonial background, the park encompasses both a jungle atmosphere and a plethora of manicured lawns. The real highlight is the orchid breeding program, which began in 1928 and produces more than 400 species of orchid and thousands of hybrids.
In lieu of a relaxing session of tai chi in the park, you might opt for a cheap massage on trendy Orchard Road after a tough day shopping for Prada and Ferragamo. Inside the colossal commercial center called Ngee Ann City also known as Takashimaya , the massage is done by the visually impaired. Or you could peruse the colorful bazaars in Little India, and have a traditional henna design painted on your hands and feet. Enjoy some delicious food in Chinatown, and visit the Thian Hock Keng Temple Temple of Heavenly Happiness , one of the most fascinating temples in Singapore. Another must-see for those interested in theology is the Sultan Mosque on Arab Street. This whole area is especially lively at night during Ramadan when Muslims abstain from eating and drinking during the day , because at dusk the faithful come here to break their fast and eat together.
Also not to be missed is the quiet area around Club Street known as Ann Siang Hill, which was a clove and nutmeg plantation until it became a prime residential area for Hokkien merchants. This area is impressive for the highly decorated terraces which once housed the old Chinese guilds, and have now been restored.
Just a taxi ride away you can find Sentosa, Singapore’s answer to Disneyland, an entire island dedicated to entertainment and leisure. You can swim in the surf of man-made beaches but beware of the ever-present possibility of heat exhaustion . For war aficionados there is Fort Siloso, a 19th-century military base complete with underground tunnels, which was captured by the Japanese during World War II and used as a POW camp. Large black and white photographs document the period for the historically inclined.
You can get around Sentosa for free by using the monorail which operates on a continuous loop. Or if you are in the mood for something really different, go to the development known as Changi Village and take a bumboat across the water to the remarkably undeveloped and rural retreat known as Pulau Ubin.
In mid-September comes the Hungry Ghost Festival, when the local people believe that the spirits of the dead come back to earth. So to appease the ghosts, the people offer burning incense on street corners, along with oranges and other small food treats. At night Chinese street opera troupes wayang stage colorful and dramatic performances of ancient legends.
Another celebration, the Mid-Autumn Festival, takes place on the 15th day of the eighth month of the Chinese calendar, and is celebrated with mooncakes and lanterns to acknowledge the harvest. Legend says that this festival is in honor of a 14th century Chinese patriot who is said to have hidden notes to his companions in mooncakes while trying to overthrow the Yuan Dynasty. These little round mooncakes are sold in shops and stalls all over Singapore, but you can find an especially wide variety of them in Chinatown. Traditionally these pastries contain sweet fillings made of ground lotus seeds, red beans, and duck eggs. At the colorful Chinese Garden every year there is a lantern competition, with children carrying candle-lit lanterns that are said to light up the sky.
So my life in Singapore was breezing along, but soon I began to crave some adventure. After all, my husband, like those of most expat wives, was away on business every single week, and I had a lot of free time on my hands. It was time to look around and see what the local male population had to offer. Most of my friends were already involved in extramarital affairs, which they justified by pointing out that their husbands were taking weekly trips to places where sealing a business deal often involved some sort of hot woman, who wasn’t there to sing karaoke.
Often after an exhausting morning of shopping or sightseeing in Little India, a group of my girlfriends and I would stop for a quick bite at a nearby vegetarian restaurant. These breaks were usually taken up with gabbing about our favorite subject sex while munching on the long paper-thin Indian bread called dhosa, served with a variety of sauces and coffee. But one morning, in order to try something a little more upscale than Little India could offer, we treated ourselves to a delicious champagne brunch at the swank Fullerton Hotel, overlooking the Singapore River in what used to be the General Post Office building.
My husband was away on yet another business trip, this time to mainland China, which was only one of the reasons I found myself keenly ogling a gorgeous man in casual jeans and a crisp linen shirt, sipping a flute of champagne while reading the international Herald Tribune. As my friends and I giggled loudly over our usual titillating conversation, his eyes locked with mine, and I may even have blushed a little as I realized that he could probably hear every word of our X-rated girl talk. One of my friends, Ayesha, a sensuous and gorgeous girl who used to model and dance in Bollywood movies, was telling us all about how keen she was on oral sex, and how she had located this wonderful mechanical tongue in some shop in Little India. My hot stranger in jeans looked very interested in this revelation, and his smile seemed to me to imply that he had a wonderful tongue of his own, conveniently located in his mouth.
On the way out of the hotel I was caught in one of those heavy tropical rainstorms, in which an umbrella is completely irrelevant, since the rain seems to fall not vertically but horizontally, drenching you from all sides. In these heavy rainfalls, caused by the Northeast monsoons, you can very quickly find yourself ankle-deep in water. So of course I ran back into the hotel lobby, with my new beige Max Mara skirt now completely transparent, and my flimsy linen blouse rendered as sheer as a pane of glass. It had not been such a smart idea to wear no bra or maybe it had been, as the service certainly seemed to improve rapidly. The door was thrown open for me, and at least two men came to up to me to ask me if I needed assistance, while ogling my now visible breasts and very taut nipples.
The fact was that I had an appointment that night to meet up with an old college boyfriend named Nick, who was staying in Singapore for only a few days. Nick now worked as a news correspondent in Afghanistan, and I hadn’t seen him for over ten years. When he had contacted me, we had arranged for a rendezvous at a restaurant on Boat Quay, an area in which many old bars and restaurants have been renovated, and have given new life to the restored row of old trading houses lining the southern bank of the river.
Meantime, however, I figured there was nothing wrong with a quickie right there at the Fullerton if only so that I could get out of my drenched clothes for a little while and I might have gone with one of the oglers, if the gorgeous dude in the jeans hadn’t happened to come out of the dining room at that moment. I greeted him boldly like an old friend, and it didn’t take him long to understand that I was interested in getting to know him better. He offered me the proverbial “shelter from the storm” in the form of his luxurious suite right there in the hotel not to mention his hot body. This was what I called hospitality of the highest kind.
During our initial conversation he offhandedly mentioned that he was a plastic surgeon a turn-on , that he owned a Ferrari a major turn-on and that he had been using his suite to catch up on some work before an important conference to be held at the hotel. The conference wouldn’t be starting for another couple of hours, however, so there was no rush.
He graciously helped me get out of my wet clothes, and I returned the favor. Two naked strangers facing each other is there any better way of getting acquainted? As his large erect cock neared my hot, wet, throbbing cunt, I couldn’t help but think that this had to be the true meaning of global warming. My moistness may have been partly due to the rain, but most of it was the result of looking at his strong manly body and imagining all the things I could do with it.
There was no need for foreplay. The man it was not until later that I learned his name, and he mine lifted me up with my back against the wall and entered me swiftly, filling me completely, as my long tanned legs tanned from hours of lazy lounging by the pool, dreaming of just this type of scenario wrapped around his muscular back, trying to pull him as deep inside me as possible.
The sensation was fabulous, and I never wanted the growing spasms racing through my body to end. My head was thrown back in the throes of desire, and I held on for dear life as he pulled me away from the wall and moved around the room with his dick still pumping inside me.
When my orgasm was finally over he disengaged and set me gently on my feet, but I sank down onto the plush carpet, almost in a faint from the sheer passion of it all. But I managed to lift myself to a sitting position so that I could reach his huge cock with my mouth. I ran my tongue around his throbbing, twitching manhood, then licked the tip while running my freshly manicured nails up and down that hot pole. It didn’t take long for his lava-like cream to burst out of him, running all over my mouth and face.
His orgasm just made me want more, and I stood up and led him into the marble shower in the bathroom, where organic bath creams were waiting for us to pour them all over each other. Under the hot running water things started to get steamy again. This time he sat down on a low ledge in the shower, and I sat right on top of him, taking him into me slowly but surely. His lips and tongue kissed and nuzzled my face and neck, and his hands played with my hard-nippled breasts as I rocked my body up and down, slowly at first, but unable to resist for long the ever-growing rhythm of my intense desire. I tried to hold back my climax, but it was soon evident that we were both on the verge of exploding in an astronomical orgasm. Which is what we did.
Later on he ordered room service, and we ate some nasi lemak a Malay specialty consisting of rice cooked slowly with coconut milk and served with anchovies, peanuts, egg, cucumber and chili with mango pudding for dessert.
On my way home from this delightful encounter I decided to stop at a coffee shop in Takashimaya, a beautiful store where the employees have the pleasant custom of standing at attention and greeting the very first customers at ten o’clock each morning. It was deliciously relaxing to sip a latte while listening to Billie Holiday croon about her unfaithful man, and thinking about how I might set up a second encounter with my passionate, Ferrari-driving plastic surgeon. Perhaps, I thought, I should call up his office to book an appointment. I could see myself lying down on his examination table, opening my shirt and exclaiming, Look at these tits, doctor. I really don’t think they need any enhancement, but what is your professional opinion? You might want to suck them a little first, so you can make an educated guess . . .
In spite of the fact that my panties were moist as a result of these reflections, and the memory of my recent adventure, I also spent some time considering just what I should wear that night for my hopefully X-rated reunion with my college friend. There were various possibilities, but in the end I decided on a skimpy little pink number that showed off an enticing expanse of tit and thigh. I also decided I wouldn’t really need underwear. After all, less is more, as they say.
Just a few hours later I was eating a scrumptious and delicious dinner at one of the more romantic restaurants along Boat Quay. The dinner was Asian themed, and featured hot and spicy sambal tiger prawns and chili crabs, accompanied by baby Shanghai greens, washed down with imported wine lots of wine. Nick and I reminisced about our college days, and about all the great sex we had had then, especially when we would go out dancing at one of the local juke joints. Most of the time I would tease him by dancing with my girlfriends while he watched avidly, getting hornier by the minute. Then we would go back to my dorm room and have mind-blowing sex. Sometimes one or two of my girlfriends would join in.
These reminiscences turned both of us on, and after dinner, to show him that I was still the hot chick he remembered, I suggested my own version of a Singapore Sling. In my version he slung himself across the seat of a trishaw a three-wheeled pedicab with me sitting on top of him, bouncing up and down with his very hard cock inside me, while a blissfully oblivious or very discreet driver pedaled us around on a tour of Singapore by night. By the time we descended, we could safely say that the years had not diminished our passion, and that Singapore certainly had a great deal to offer.
One of the most deliciously extravagant weekends of my life had to be the time I flew business class to participate in a specialty foods weekend convention being held in the European capital of the world: Vienna. I was very happy to discover that this city is so much more than operettas, psychoanalysis and apfelstrudel. Besides being the music center of the world, boasting such former residents as Brahms, Beethoven, Mozart and Schubert, it is also home to some of the most imposing symphony orchestras around. While there, I was kept fully informed of the many concerts by the music schedules posted on billboards all over the city. Even when walking along one of the tree-lined boulevards, it seemed that I could always hear an orchestra rehearsing, musical church bells chiming or a soprano rehearsing her scales. It felt like being constantly invited to an impromptu concert.
I was glad that I had decided to arrive one day early on my cushy Air Lauda flight, where I was served salmon with a delicious salad vinaigrette on the side, and cold white wine with, most impressively, real silverware. The hotel was in the better part of town, and very comfortable, with a white fluffy duvet and hand-embroidered curtains. This was actually my first solo business trip, and it felt both weird and strangely liberating to be flying on my own, doing away with the mind-bending decision-making-by-committee process which had characterized most of my trips until now.
Since I had an entire day on my own before the convention was scheduled to start, I was able to peruse Vienna at a leisurely pace. I had heard about the tinselly and slightly chintzy Christkindlmarkt on the Rathausplatz in front of the City Hall, but was pleased to find out that there were market stalls there selling handmade crafts even when it wasn’t Christmas. Nearby was the popular Naschmarkt, where it the customer was expected to haggle over the prices of ceramics, porcelain, glassware and crystal. The more expensive crystals like Reidel could also be found in the ritzier shops in the neighboring pedestrian Karntnerstrasse.
The May weather was truly glorious, coming as it did before the summer, when the city was packed with tourists, and after the winter, which drew the Christmas and New Year’s crowds, when many of the Viennese themselves escape to the powder-perfect ski slopes. A gentle breeze was blowing, which I later found out to be the famed Fohn wind, a breeze that creates picture-perfect blue skies but finally brings on clouds and rain. The interesting fact about this wind is that it is thought to make the Viennese people go a little crazy which gives them an excuse for blaming any naughty behavior on the weather.
People here are truly fanatic about the weather, mainly because it dictates so much of their way of life. Considering how prevalent outdoor sports are in the area, a perfect weekend can mean anything from marathon downhill skiing the national sport to a pleasant experience on a rural working farm, which offers an idyllic base for hiking in the mountains and the lake areas.
Along the wide, tree-lined boulevards, with their imposing buildings that house the City Hall, the University, the Burg theater and the Borse Stock Exchange , I shook off the drops of rain caused by the light Fohn passing. Exploring St. Stephen’s church, where the mass is sung in Latin, I was amazed to discover that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had been assistant Kapellmeister at this very church at the very end of his life. This famous son of Vienna, born in 1756, died at the tragically young age of 35, and though celebrated now as one of the greatest composers of all time by the Austrians, as well as the rest of the world, was mistreated and not taken seriously as an artist when he was alive. At six years of age, pushed by an overly ambitious father, Mozart was presented to the royal courts of Europe as a sensation, only to end up being buried in an unmarked grave.
The city is dotted with baroque palaces, mostly built in the 18th century, and the leisurely pace of the strolling people makes it clear that Vienna does not hurry, but is still very much under the magical influence of Old World-style charm and courtly grace. So after all this sightseeing, what could be more natural than to spend the afternoon hidden away in one of the snug Kaffeehouses, which is precisely what I ended up doing.
Intending to head for the Film Museum to see a retrospective on the director Orson Welles, I gave in to temptation and stopped at Demel, one of the oldest of the Viennese caf s reputed to be the best in the world to have a slice of Brueghel torte marzipan pastry with some excellent coffee. Beneath the crystal chandeliers, surrounded by opulent red velvet seats, I listened to the sound of the Vienna Boys’ Choir coming over the speakers, and, along with the Viennese who were probably dreaming of better, faraway, imperial days, I mused about my own past and what was to happen in the near future.
Having absorbed the architectural marvels and the churches full of golden statues, and being spoiled by the rich, delicious whipped cream the Schlagobers that garnished the pastries I was devouring in the warmth of the caf , I really felt on vacation for the first time in months.
I knew that this delicious feeling of being free from the slavery of the clock would be over by tomorrow, but first I planned to enjoy a night on the town. So I headed back to my hotel, which was part of the Romantik chain of hotels, not super-expensive but definitely cozy and charming, with a great location and a reputation for serving a great breakfast of eggs and cold cuts. There I got out of the traveling attire in which I had arrived at Schwechat Airport five hours before. After a hot soak in a porcelain bath, surrounded by flickering aromatic candles, and a nap in the nude on the white duvet, I felt completely transported to another age and time one where women danced at midnight balls in very tight low-cut bodices.
Suddenly I was fast asleep and having a deliciously wicked dream, in which I was reliving a scene from the film Dangerous Liaisons. Sprawled in the nude across a richly ornate canopied bed, I was acting as a desk for an old count, who was writing a letter to his wife with a feather pen, using my creamy white ass as his writing surface. He was a very precise writer, and every punctuation mark he made resulted in a deep thrust with the pen in the crack of my derriere. The fact that he was completely dressed, with laced boots and a velvet jacket, while I was completely naked, was a real turn-on. I was excited by the thought of being just another object decorating his study, like an inkwell or an antique book the difference being that I was an object with the ability to reach multiple orgasms. This was a potential I was hoping the count would help me realize. Finally he reached the end of the letter, which brought on a final deep thrusting period.
The count then put the parchment away, turned me around so that my wet and very horny cunt was facing him and proceeded to indulge in a long, highly satisfying bout of cunnilingus. His tongue lapped at my frontal lips and circled my mound in quick, whipping motions. His ministrations soon extended all the way to my ass, just where the feather pen had been making its thrusting punctuation. I woke up in a moaning heap, dripping wet and with lovely Viennese cream oozing out of me.
After a quick shower to wash off the smell of come, I put on a low-cut black cashmere sweater over velvet shorts. Sheer stockings and black knee-length high-heeled boots completed the sexy look I was hoping to achieve. I kept my blonde hair, which was still a little curly and damp from the shower, hanging loose over my shoulders, and added a little mascara as I headed out to have what I hoped would be a delicious dinner in the hotel dining room.
The vaulted wooden ceilings and the pink linen tablecloths seemed like a very good sign. The waiter immediately brought me a glass of cold Sekt Austrian sparkling wine as I calmly perused the menu. I decided to have the classic wiener schnitzel breaded veal scallop with a side dish of rot kraut red cabbage . Not particularly romantic perhaps, but definitely delicious. I also couldn’t pass up a serving of Palatschinken Hungarian pancakes stuffed with chocolate and marmalade but decided to forgo the Kasespatzle pasta dumplings in favor of a heavenly Bohemian dessert.
I had almost finished my bottle of dry white wine when the waiter brought over a bottle of Gruner Veltliner more dry white wine , compliments of the gentleman sitting on his own in a far corner. With a smile, I accepted the wine, and then motioned for the fellow to come over. After all the wine I had drunk, and in the dim light afforded by the pewter candlesticks, he looked smashingly handsome so much so, in fact, that it was hard to imagine why he was alone in the first place.
He introduced himself as Klaus, an investment banker. He was a native of Vienna, he told me, and had spent his entire life there. He was a charming talker and an attentive listener, but the fact is that I wasn’t all that interested in conversation. I was still a little horny from the dream back in my room, and I wanted to take back from this imperial city a souvenir worth remembering and I didn’t just mean the Swarowski crystal heart I had bought earlier that day. Perhaps, I thought, we could dance the night away at the famous New Year’s Eve ball in spite of the fact that it was May while the Vienna Philharmonic played, or boat down the Danube river to watch the sun set behind the blooming cherry trees, which made the surrounding villages seem to radiate. This was the kind of romantic vision that swarmed through my mind, while at the same time my body was yearning for a quick erotic tryst up in my room. I kept both these ideas to myself, however.
Klaus insisted on paying the bill for my dinner, and then taking me on a slightly tipsy tour of the city he loved. He pointed out the monuments which would be covered in snow during the wintertime, and the various landmarks pertaining to the old Hapsburg rulers of the Austro-Hungarian empire. Vienna had been the home of great artists at the end of the 19th century artistic revolution, who had set the stage for experimental and radical art, and Klaus, as it turned out, was both an artist and a bohemian at heart.
Although the city was famous for its classical composers, Klaus informed me proudly that there were more jazz joints here than in any other European city, including Paris. It was getting pretty late when we headed towards a jazz session that was just starting in a small, cozy caf down a dark lane, a place not frequented by tourists, but catering only to those in the know, like Klaus, who was obviously acquainted with the bartender. He ordered two single-malt whiskeys, and I definitely felt the effect of the liquor throughout my body as it mixed with the wine I had drunk earlier.
When we left the caf I invited Klaus back to my hotel for a nightcap, hoping that he would spend the night. From the obvious bulge in his pants, I didn’t think I had to worry. I definitely had the feeling that the comfy bed in the Romantik Hotel was going to be put to good use.
When we got there, he first offered to sponge me in the bath, and even though I didn’t feel all that dirty, you could never accuse me of refusing to be sponged down in the nude by a complete stranger, and a devastatingly handsome one at that. I quickly slipped out of my clothes and walked stark naked in front of Klaus, who playfully grabbed at my buttocks. He then expressed the desire to get inside me as soon as possible, without too many preliminaries. Smiling at him, I let him know that I was the type of girl who liked preliminaries after I had climaxed.
So, before even entering the hot bubbly bath, I bent over the porcelain tub and, to quote a famous line from The Godfather, let my ass make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. I was hot and ready as his large Viennese cock waltzed straight into me, and the ensuing rhythmic dance was definitely worthy of being televised and broadcast all over the world but there I was, confusing a good old Austrian fuck with the New Year’s Eve Ball again. In any case, this was one waltz I wouldn’t be forgetting soon. His hands gripped my haunches and his hairy chest tickled my back as we swayed back and forth over the bath, literally falling into the water during our mutual climax.
It wasn’t a bad place to fall into, especially since in doing so I landed with my mouth very close to his huge dick. It didn’t take my lips very long to bring it back to life and get it to pulse and throb. But since I didn’t want to drown, I soon replaced my facial lips with my vaginal lips, mounting him face to face so that my mouth could concentrate on his taut nipples. I then began to slide up and down his pole in slow motion. He appeared to enjoy this at first, but soon I could see by the expression on his face that this pleasure was also a form of torture, as he was dying to orgasm, and my leisurely pace wasn’t allowing him to reach that plateau of ecstasy yet. Well, I was in no hurry. He needed to pay the piper first, and I wanted that payment in the form of some attention to my hard pink nipples, which were in fact feeling slighted and ignored. I now dangled them directly in front of Klaus’s face, as a sign that the tit issue needed to be addressed immediately.
Klaus, in fact, seemed eager to comply, and his mouth enveloped my sumptuous pink grapefruits one at a time. His tongue circled the tips, and his teeth gently nipped them until they were standing tautly to attention.
I soon felt myself getting close to climax as well, but I forced myself to wait for Klaus, so that we could reach the peak of the mountain together. It seemed like the correct and polite thing to do. After all, one’s cunt should always be polite and respectful in a foreign country. That’s just common courtesy. Otherwise your host may not invite you to come again.
Klaus, however, seemed perfectly happy to keep me coming all night long, as a matter of fact. I couldn’t help being impressed by the sheer stamina of this beautiful man as we spent the next several hours frolicking from the tub to the carpeted floor and finally to the bed.
After a while Klaus asked me if I was willing to get a little more adventuresome and play around a bit, and by that time I was feeling so good that I told him I was game for anything. He then undid the velvet rope that held back the window curtains and used it to tied my hands behind my back in a loose knot, attaching the other end to one of the legs of the bed. This erotic scenario turned me on even more, and I spread my legs wide open, so that there could be no mistaking what part of me I wanted him to focus on. He then asked me if I would mind being blindfolded, and I agreed immediately, figuring that that way I would be better able to concentrate on the exciting tactical sensations that my body felt at his every touch: a finger on my nipple, a tongue along the inside of my thigh, a toe feeling its way up my ass.
For a few moments after he blindfolded me I didn’t feel anything, and I was almost going crazy with anticipation. But I soon felt something being slowly poured into my open and panting mouth. It was a delicious sweet wine which he had gotten from the fridge, and which I eagerly swallowed as I felt him mounting me. So while his large dick made itself cozily at home inside my already well-fucked pussy, his buttocks pressing up against my mound with each rhythmic stroke, I continued to sip the delicious nectar from the bottle he held to my lips.
Then suddenly the taste of the nectar changed, though it was still just as sweet, and instead of flowing gently into my mouth it was shooting quickly and strongly down my throat. Blindfolded as I was, I now realized that the bottle had been replaced by his cock, and that the hot froth rushing down my throat was no longer the wine, but his come. It was almost impossible to swallow the large quantity of sperm that was flooding my mouth, although I tried my damnedest to take in as much as I could, because this was the next best thing to Austrian wine that I had come across.
When the light of dawn finally began pouring in through the curtains, I realized that I hadn’t really slept at all, and that it was only a few hours before I must attend the start of my boring business convention. On the upside, I figured there would be plenty of time to sleep on my Air Lauda flight home on Sunday night. I wouldn’t even have to eat anything, as all my appetites would have been completely satisfied during my lovely Viennese weekend.
The French call it le t l phone rose, the pink telephone, and, every night it connects thousands of Parisians who have sex on their minds. For some it’s just verbal stimulation for most, however, it’s first contact by which to arrange a tryst a pickup at one’s fingertips.
Just dial any of a dozen special numbers and join the r seau, the network, which functions as a giant, frenetic party line. Everyone speaks at once, trying to project their desires into the phone. Some people are modest and for the most part just listen, others are demanding, frank and blunt, but all are looking for a partner on the same line at the same time. It’s chaos, of course, a rendezvous in pandemonium somehow, though, contacts are made and telephone numbers exchanged. Countless introductions are made every day. What happens after that is nobody’s business but the participants’.
In one form or another, the network has existed for as long as I can remember. It used to involve only certain telephone lines that had not been assigned. Knowing what number to call was like having a key to a sex club. Several people spoke simultaneously, usually over the repetitious buzz of a busy signal they enjoyed erotic conversations, traded invitations to orgies and arranged dates for sex. Numbers were passed around among friends and, when one became too well-known, another number would suddenly appear and the process would begin again. Many swingers were hooked on the network, for it was an endless source of new partners.
Perhaps the most famous orgy site in Paris, a luxurious barge on the Seine, found most of its guests via the network. Although the barge now is long gone, the r seau remains. In fact it’s been institutionalized and opened to everyone. The telephone company in France has publicly endorsed it and even included the telltale digits 69 somewhere in all the network’s telephone numbers. For a modest fee of about two francs per call about thirty-five cents , you can dial into the system.
Without a doubt, the service has become a spectacular hit. The telephone network’s lines are humming day and night. The phone company, which is certainly making millions from it, has successfully transformed the household telephone into an open-sesame for sex-seekers.
You dial a number and voil ! you’re on the system. At least a half dozen voices will probably be competing for attention and, if you wish, you can add your own message to the confusion. You may want to say something as simple as “Pierre is looking for a woman.” If you’re Pierre and you mean what you say, your intonation should ripple with sensuality so that any potential inamorata can hear what she can’t yet see and touch. A lot can be accomplished with just pitch and timbre. Some impassioned telephoners can make their words crack like whips and creak like leather boots others speak with voices that rustle like silk stockings.
A friend of mine, Colette, is totally at home on the r seau and her voice is irresistible. She used to work dubbing films and was always given the bimbo parts. When she speaks, she coos naturally. With just a little effort, she affects a breathy lisp and can sound like she’s on the brink of an orgasm. A few words from Colette and the whole network is calling her name.
“I’ve met dozens of women on the ‘pink telephone,’” Alain, a thirty-year-old executive, told me, “and the truth is that they usually look the way they sound. At first I was worried that this supersexy voice that I’d just made a date with would belong to a real pig, but I’ve seldom been disappointed. A few weeks ago I fell in love with Nathalie while talking to her on the network. She slurs her words in a certain way that seems to caress your ears.
“Nathalie and I spoke a couple of times before agreeing to meet at the Drugstore on the Champs Elys es. The moment she walked through the door, I knew who she was. She’s a little plump, with big tits and a firm tail. Anyone can see she was born to be laid and, an hour later, I was going at it between her legs.”
After dialing another number, I met Corinne, a secretary who was looking for a tall, buxom woman. “My husband’s gone most of the time,” she told me, “and he doesn’t mind me playing around as long as I do it only with women. That’s okay with me. No matter what, I need an orgasm at least once a day.” And I could hear the urgency in her voice. She makes her dates from the office when her boss is out. “That’s when the most women are on the line,” she said. “No one likes to go home alone and, thanks to the r seau, I seldom have to.”
Like Corinne, most callers on the network make it clear what they want. Such specifications as “jumbo tits,” “Oriental specialist” or “shaved pussy” are mentioned. One day I heard a man repeating again and again: “Looking for a well-endowed guy for a threesome.” He was suddenly interrupted by another male voice that said, “Looking for three well-endowed chicks for a foursome.”
Some people employ pseudonyms that refer to their sexiest attributes, the hope being that such names will arouse interest. For instance, I once heard a self-confident voice announce, “This is Monsieur Big Cock on the line!” In response, a woman purred softly, “Kitten here!”
“It’s the fantasy that turns me on,” according to Jean-Claude, a salesman who is on the network every evening. “I call myself Rambo and my preference is hesitant, tender women. I don’t want to know what they look like. I don’t want to see them. I just want to talk to them and have them tell me what they would do to me in bed. There was one who called herself Snow White. She and I spoke nightly for months. Of course we both masturbated as we talked. It was a real love affair. Then she began to insist that we meet. I finally gave in and we got together face-to-face. For me, though, the magic was gone.”
Jean-Claude tends to be faithful to one number. Most people, however, flit from number to number like butterflies in a garden of flowers, constantly looking for sweeter, headier excitement.
Jean-Claude’s friend Xavier keeps a log of who says what to whom on the pink phone. Perusing it is like reading the minutes of a wild party. “There’s a number on the network for me to call in each of my moods,” he told me, “and, believe me, I have plenty of moods.”
One thing that makes the r seau work so well is that, sexually speaking, the French are daring in what they do and timid in what they say. The stereotypical and somewhat idealized French lover, who is supposedly a smooth talker, makes love with the light on but in silence. The pink telephone allows him to do the opposite. The lights are off, so to speak, while the sound is on. It’s an ideal catharsis to release all the pent-up, raunchy words he’s been hoarding for years.
No wonder the network has become so enormously popular. Its clientele is so large that pink-telephone numbers are advertised like laundry detergents. All over Paris are posters and signs featuring pictures of sexy women in provocative poses, urging you to call a particular number and share your most private fantasies on the line. Recently plastered all over the city, for example, was a poster that showed a well-built woman in garter belt and stockings, bending low to show her round, naked buttocks to bemused pedestrians. “I’m a rendezvous for the horny,” the caption said. Included, too, of course, was the phone number.
The personal ads in newspapers and magazines are nowadays interspersed with close-ups of cannonball tits and sensual, half-opened lips caressing a telephone receiver. The same ads are commonplace in the Paris subway you can gaze at them all the way home and let your mind drift into the erotic world that awaits you on the pink-telephone network.
Another way of utilizing the system is as a kind of confessional booth while, at the same time, letting others get turned on by your revelations. Some of the most striking utterances concern outrageously shameful and exciting experiences that someone or other has decided to tell about. Some network numbers specialize in drawing callers out in this way. I have two favorites in this regard. On either of these can be heard nonstop, live interviews, often surprising and sensational ones. A “mistress of ceremonies” asks questions. Her role clearly is to evoke responses from the depths of callers’ libidos.
One evening I listened as a woman related in detail how she’d almost lost her virginity to the boy who’d lived next door. It had happened while their families were on vacation and she and he had had to share a small bed. “It was so hot that I was wearing only a T-shirt and shorts,” she confessed. “He had nothing on but shorts. We said good night and I tried to fall asleep. Suddenly I felt his leg pressing against mine and then his hard penis against my hip. My body started to quiver with desire. It was a strange new feeling, and not knowing what to do, I didn’t move. I was petrified!”
The girl paused, overwhelmed by emotion, and there were a few seconds of silence. “So your neighbor made the first move?” the interviewer then asked.
“Yes,” the girl replied. “He lifted my T-shirt, put his arm around me and reached for my breasts.”
“And then?”
“I just did what came naturally. I turned to him, pulled down his shorts and grabbed his penis. I hadn’t ever touched one before. It was hard and big. He pushed and pushed and almost got inside me. But then he came. I felt his warm sperm all over my thighs.”
Another evening I dialed in on a couple who, as they spoke to the interviewer, were making love to each other.
“She’s on all fours,” the man confided, panting heavily. “I’m going to put my prick in her pussy.”
“Yes, do it! Do it!” the interviewer replied, “I’m sure she’ll like it that way. Do you like it doggie-style, Christine?”
“Yes! Oh, yes,” Christine moaned. “It’s so good!”
“Fuck her good. She deserves it,” the interviewer suggested.
I heard a chorus of moans and groans from Christine and her man. “Get that cock of yours in as far as you can,” the emcee rasped. “Is it all the way in now? Rub your finger against her clit!”
“I’m doing it,” he replied. “I’m giving it to her. Soon you can have her! You can suck my come out of her gash.”
“Yes,” the interviewer said. “Get her ready for me. I want to play with her.”
“I’m going to come,” the man gasped.
Often, for the caller who is shy and reluctant to reveal his sexual self on the network, it’s a verbal game he’s unfamiliar with. You must remember that blurting out one’s libidinous habits and fantasies into a telephone is, for the French, a new twist. It takes a skilled interviewer to draw out the very soul of one’s sexuality.
“What kind of women do you like best?” I heard an interviewer ask a man whose responses had been hesitant until then.
“Tall, slim, with a sense of humor…” he replied self-consciously.
“How should she be in bed?” the emcee interrupted.
“Active…”
“Active how? Tell me!”
“I mean she should be imaginative…You know…”
“Do you want her to lick your cock? Would you like to suck her pussy?”
“Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed. Then, overcoming his timidity he added, “I want her to masturbate for me and to show me everything she does to orgasm when she’s alone.”
The man’s voice cracked with emotion. No doubt his hand was between his legs. “I love to watch,” he whispered. “I’d like to have two women, girlfriends who’ve invited me to their home. I’d sit in a corner while they took off their clothes and started playing with each other, sucking each other’s cunts, sticking their fingers into each other…” The man was panting, breathing so hard into the phone that he could barely speak.
“What would you do while they were getting each other off? Would you take out your prick?”
“Yes! I would play with myself!”
“You’re doing it now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” he confessed, the heat of sexual arousal in his voice.
The new telephonic sex wave has generated many variations on the theme, but unlike its American counterpart, its cost here in France has remained minimal. It is simply added to your monthly phone bill. In fact, anyone who wants to provide a pink-telephone service can have a number and advertise it. For example, an unpublished poetess recently opened her own sex line and all day long she reads her erotic poetry to callers.
If you should call a certain number you’ll get your “Eroscope,” which is the horoscope of your erotic life. It advises, for example, whom you should make love to and how you should go about it. Each astrological sign has a daily forecast and a dose of blunt, explicit counsel. Giving me mine, a girlish voice announced, “Capricorn. Don’t hesitate. I know he’s young and inexperienced, but seduce him anyway.” Women born under the sign of the crab, on the other hand, were told to “ride a train where you’ll meet a man who wants to lick your clitoris.”
Another line is called “Allo Lolo” “Hello Boobs” and it specializes in comic sex. The last time I listened in, a cute skit was presented, complete with background sounds from an animated cartoon including a lot of high-pitched wows and oops and zips. The scene sounded like it was straight from fantasyland.
“Suck me!” a he-man voice ordered.
“Thank you!” a female responded.
“Honey, I’m going to shove my superdick into your throat until you swallow your words.”
“Ummbmmgmm,” was all she could utter, along with some gurgling and smacking-lip sounds.
“Take it all!” he barked and the sketch concluded with exaggerated liquid sounds that connoted ejaculation.
Pink-telephone sex proves once again that there will always be new wrinkles to be found in the sheets. Here in France, bedroom doors have been opened a little wider and, quite literally, the sexual sound barrier has been eradicated. Such eavesdropping has not only added a new dimension to the voyeur’s repertoire, but has also fundamentally changed Parisian pickup patterns. The telephone now offers erotic stimulation, day and night. All of us can now get an earful of hot talk or look for a hot partner without ever leaving our beds. When you call someone here and get a busy signal, it may mean they’re having a good time.
Here’s a witty guide to the French national sport, the pickup, practiced by sly drageurs pickup cons skilled in posing as enraptured artists, dangerous villains, rescuing knights, long lost friends, poll takers, even as a last resort themselves to snare the sexiest of prey
The French national sport has yet to achieve Olympic standing. Although almost everybody, from prime minister to local tramp, has practiced it at one time or another, the rules are vague, the venue undefined and trophies never awarded. The name of the game is the pickup.
To be French is to be a dragueur that is, a pickup artist. It’s an urge that seems to just come naturally. But not all dragueurs are equal. Some consistently behave like barbarians while others are virtuosos, their techniques always smooth and persuasive.
I have been the recipient of many dragueurs’ endeavors and I have even indulged in the game myself. As a result, I have put together my own pickup guide to Paris, a kind of catalog of places where the French score and how they go about it. Because some techniques are more successful than others, and some spots better hunting grounds, I have intermixed the places and ploys that are most effective.
Places Caf s, Restaurants and Parks
These are the traditional haunts of the dragueur and they still live up to their time-honored reputation. A woman sitting alone in a caf or restaurant on the Champs- lys es, say, or in Montparnasse or St.-Germain, is often a willing target, ready to flirt. For instance, the three establishments known as the DRUGSTORE two on the Champs- lys es and one in St.-Germain , which may be better described as caf s and minimalls, are open late at night and enjoy well-earned reputations for promiscuity. The tables are jammed against one another and a pickup is usually not difficult to come by.
The bar of LA COUPOLE on the boulevard du Montparnasse, is frequented by older women in search of younger companions and, across the street, LE S LECT is a mecca for Left Bank students and artists. Farther up the boulevard is LACLOSERIE DES LILAS the bar, not the expensive restaurant , once an Ernest Hemingway hangout and still a watering hole for those seeking affectionate company. More of the singles set can be found at LE BALZAR on rue des coles. And the lovely girls from Beaux Arts the storied school of fine arts fend to congregate in LA PALETTE on the rue de Seine or in the caf s on the Place de la Contrescarpe.
Any park in Paris is a good hunting ground. The Luxembourg Gardens on weekdays and the Bois de Boulogne on Sundays are the best bets.
Ploy “The Inspired Artist”
The dragueur becomes a soon-to-be-famous artist, suddenly enraptured by a woman who sits alone in a caf . “I paint virgins,” the self-styled artist might say, his voice dripping with sincerity. “There’s something pure and holy about you. I must have you as my model!” Would-be photographers have successfully exploited this same approach. “I’ve been watching you,” I’ve heard them enthuse. “The way your skin catches the light…like that! Don’t move! You must let me take a few photographs.”
Many a gullible young woman has found herself unexpectedly undressing in front of an amateur’s sketch pad or camera. This ploy exploits feminine vanity what woman, after all, has not stood before a mirror and wished that her body were an inspiration to someone?
A sculptor I know has produced an amusing variation on the theme. “I’d like a mold of your ass,” he tells women. “Please come to my studio and sit in a bucket of clay for me. I’m collecting the anatomical parts for a composite sculpture of the perfect woman.”
Ploy “The Old-Fashioned Way”
The waiter becomes a go-between, delivering a rose, a piece of chocolate or even a billet-doux. It’s a bit out of date, perhaps, but such an approach possesses a certain dignity and charm. Not long ago I saw it used in a restaurant near the Sorbonne, although the usual roles were reversed. An enamored student sent a chocolate clair to a professor whom she’d quietly admired. He smiled upon the clair’s receipt and wrote a quick note for the waiter to deliver. A few minutes later, student and professor were sitting together.
A good friend of mine, Marcel, often buys two tickets to whatever play he wishes to see and then he cruises through the caf s in St.-Germain. When he spots a femme he likes, he has the waiter deliver one of the tickets. If she accepts it, she finds herself seated next to him at the play.
A waiter once brought me an envelope with a man’s photo inside. As I looked at it, the man passed in front of my table, then disappeared out the door. On the back of the photo was his phone number. Playing the odds, he knew that sooner or later he’d pick a winner.
Ploy “The Classic Approach”
This is the most obvious, most frequently used technique, but it has a very low potential for success. Nevertheless, undaunted by their failures, many Frenchmen persist in asking, “Do you have the time?” of any woman seen sitting near a wall clock. Or, “May I borrow your paper?” when the chair next to her is littered with that day’s dailies.
Such lackluster wit typifies these and myriad other classic and all-too-obvious approaches. The typical Frenchwoman’s response is none at all. She looks straight ahead, focusing on some distant object, making it clear to the hapless dragueur that, as far as she’s concerned, he does not exist. If that is the best he can do for openers, whatever else he may do will probably be uninventive, unstimulating and unmemorable.
Places Discos
The PALACE rue du Faubourg-Montmartre and the BAINS DOUCHES rue du Bourg-l’Abb have been fashionable pickup discos for years. Recently, two sexy newcomers have appeared on the disco scene, the SCALA rue de Rivoli and the remodeled BALAJO rue de Lappe .
Ploy “A Long Lost Friend”
“Catherine!” the dragueur exclaims to a girl he wishes to meet. “Where have you been?” Her name is not Catherine and she tells him so the dragueur however, insists she is whom he says. He goes on to name places they’ve been together, people they both know and things they have done together. “Stop playing games, Catherine!” he demands. She gets angry. Then he begins to relent. “Okay, maybe you’re not Catherine. Why don’t we have a drink and you can tell me who you really are!”
Ploy “Jealousy”
The dragueur rushes up to the object of his quest. “See that girl over there?” he asks her, pointing to a sensational-looking woman. “That’s my girlfriend. We’ve just had a terrible fight. Would you please sit and talk with me for a few minutes, just to make her jealous?” Of course, the more beautiful the “girlfriend,” the more delighted the new girl is to become her “rival.”
Ploy “Honesty”
In the hot and sexy atmosphere of a disco or a party, especially in the late evening, many things are possible. Honesty is one of them. The dragueur asks the desired woman to dance and simply whispers in her ear, “Would you like to go have a drink somewhere, or would you prefer going to my place and making love?” Many Frenchwomen like this provocatively frank approach and respond positively. Sophie, a computer programmer, told me, “It’s happened to me a couple of times and I’ve always chosen the bed!”
Places Swimming Pools and Skating Rinks
Sports always invite good social interaction. Once the two of you are in the water, for example, or skimming across the ice on silver blades, you’re already panting in unison. So why not go all the way? The PISCINE DELlGNY Pont de la Concorde , open only in summer, is well populated by lonely ladies in topless bikinis. For ice skating, the PATINOIRE DES BUTTES-CHAUMONT rue Edouard-Pailleron is good for roller skating, LA MAIN JAUNE Place de la Porte-Champeret or the terraces behind the Trocadero are recommended.
Ploy “Collision Course”
Creating a minor accident is seldom difficult and a friendly bump is a good way to start a relationship. Monique, a rather well-endowed friend of mine, jogs in the Bois de Boulogne practically every weekend and considers herself accident-prone. But nearly every collision brings a new man into her life.
In a swimming pool, the guy with the wild backstroke who pretends not to know where he is going, often ends up stroking a woman’s naked stomach. The clumsier, less subtle dragueur can simply take a flying leap from poolside and literally pounce upon a sexy water nymph who’s swimming by.
Ploy “Decoys”
A female friend of the dragueur’s approaches the intended pickup and begins a casual conversation. Then, just by “coincidence,” the dragueur joins them. Then the accomplice suddenly remembers that she has to make a phone call and disappears.
In an even more devious variation of this ploy, the dragueur and his accomplice stage a little argument in front of the girl to be picked up.
“You’re a son of a bitch!” the accomplice snaps.
“Don’t call me names!” the dragueur replies.
“I didn’t call you a name!”
“Of course, you did! Didn’t she?” the dragueur says, turning to the other girl for support.
The accomplice stalks off, leaving the dragueur publicly wronged and in the company of a sympathetic witness.
Ploy “Sex Statistics”
“May I have a moment of your time?” the dragueur inquires, blocking a woman’s path and showing her his clipboard. “I work for the National Institute of Statistics. I’m interviewing women in their twenties about their leisure-time activities.”
He opens with a few innocuous questions, like “Do you live alone?” or “Are you opposed to pornography?” Then he moves on to the stuff he really wants to know. “Are you monogamous?” “Do you like oral sex?” Sooner or later he asks for her name and telephone number. Once armed with her sexual profile, how can he miss?
Ploy “Lost Money”
A well-dressed dragueur stops a girl on the street and tells her that he’s just been robbed. “I have no money, no credit cards, nothing!” he says. “Please lend me a metro ticket and one franc for a telephone call! I’ll pay you back, I promise. Just give me your name and address.” And, behaving like an honorable gentleman, he refuses to accept anything from her unless he will be permitted to return it in person, of course.
Ploy “Heroes and Villains”
Jacques, a pickup specialist I recently met, uses a one-two system that, he boasts, works almost every time. He and a friend, Pierre, prowl the Champs- lys es. Upon spotting a likely prospect, they go into action.
Pierre approaches the girl and hisses at her, “Want to fuck?” Of course, the girl ignores him and quickens her pace. But Pierre persists, whispering blunt proposals and trying to block her path. In short, he behaves like a genuinely dangerous sex maniac.
Then, like a chivalrous knight, Jacques comes to the girl’s rescue. “Leave her alone,” he snaps. Pierre replies with angry four-letter words and clenches his fists. But Jacques seizes the initiative, grabbing the offender’s lapels and threatening to rearrange his face. Pierre backs down and slinks away, leaving the girl with her hero. And for the next woman, of course, Jacques and Pierre reverse roles.
Places Monuments, Museums and Shops
Americans, male or female, are the preferred delicacy. The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and the Louvre are obvious and overworked pickup sites. The Centre Pompidou is better, a fascinating environment ideal for serendipitous encounters. The larger department stores like Printemps and Galeries Lafayette both on boulevard Haussmann provide a superb selection for the dragueur. If you’re looking for a strong, domineering type, go to the sporting-goods department for a submissive one, try the knitting department. If you hope to meet a sexy woman, hang around the lingerie counters.
Ploy “PR”
The dragueur is respectably dressed that is, he wears a suit and tie. He stands, very visible, in the museum lobby, near the ticket booth, with a notebook in hand. He spots a lovely tourist and marches up to her. “I work for the museum,” he declares. “I’m in charge of PR…Congratulations! You’re the ten thousandth visitor this month! The museum would like to buy you lunch.”
Ploy “Missing Grandma”
“Have you seen an old lady wearing a red raincoat?” the dragueur asks the girl he wants to know. “She’s my grandmother and was here just a minute ago.” Of course, the girl hasn’t seen his grandma because the old dame doesn’t exist. The dragueur wanders off, pretending to look for her, and then comes back later to resume his dialogue with the girl. “She must have left without me,” he concludes. “She’s done that before. You know what I mean. You’ve got a grandmother, too, don’t you?” Once her concern has been evoked, it’s a short jump from sympathy to intimacy and an innocuous discussion about grandmothers can easily lead to coffee in an intimate caf and then…
Ploy “The Right Size”
When the dragueur finds a girl he likes in a store, he takes a dress from the rack, goes up to her and says, “Excuse me, I’m looking for a gift for my sister. I don’t know her size, but she looks as if she’s about your size. I can’t imagine how this would fit her. Would you be kind enough to try it on for me?” From there, it’s natural to continue the conversation in the store’s caf .
For a Frenchman, the pickup, past and future, is an endless source of boastful, amusing and upbeat stories. Like the proverbial fisherman who brags about his catch, the dragueur, given the chance, will describe in graphic, minute detail his latest conquests and how they were made. According to the unwritten rules of the macho game, his male friends will never question his veracity, for they, in turn, intend to match story for story and perhaps to stretch the truth a bit. A Frenchman may exaggerate the number of girls he’s managed to catch, and to overrate their beauty, but there can be no doubt that he has indeed gone “fishing” and tested his lines.
In Hong Kong, a center of thriving commerce, sex is no less an industry than anything else. For centuries, Hong Kong has remained one of the foremost ports of pleasure in the world. One of its most alluring aspects is the incredible variety of available women Chinese, British, Thai, Filipino, American, Japanese and Australian a true sexual smorgasbord. Unfortunately, this time-honored tradition is likely to soon end. In 1997, Hong Kong will be turned over to mainland China, and sweeping changes will undoubtedly follow. Although the days of this sexual paradise are numbered, there’s still sufficient time to get in on the fun so don’t delay! S.W.P.
Hong Kong can be described as the G-spot of China, a pulsating megacity that can be heartily appreciated by Easterners and Westerners alike. Unlike the huge People’s Republic of China that hovers over it, Hong Kong is a crossroads where the visitor finds a tantalizing convergence of the commercial sex of the East and the singles’ scene of the West.
Bangkok and Manila may be legends, too, but Hong Kong offers a different, more varied menu. The island metropolis presents a unique cultural medley exotic, outlandish and thoroughly accessible. Large colonies of Europeans and Americans, and thousands of Filipino workers and entertainers, share the city with its five million or more citizens, most of whom are of Chinese ancestry. Each group has created its own sex scene, and you can hop from one to the next as quickly as you can change bars. No doubt about it, Hong Kong is a fast and easy lay. And if the British Crown Colony is unable to satiate your appetite which would be hard to imagine only an hour away by high-speed ferry is the Portuguese colony of Macao, a time-honored mecca for sybaritic seekers that is still as wonderfully sinful today as ever.
Ed a long-time resident, unabashedly anchored in the city for the available sex was to be my guide. He had first visited Hong Kong during his army service in nearby Vietnam, and he fell in love at once, both with the city and a Chinese girl. She turned out to be no more than a fling, but Ed’s love for Hong Kong has endured.
Upon my arrival, we headed directly for Wan Chai, the sailors’ quarter, a notorious district of seedy dives where the cheung-sam the traditional, tight-fitting Chinese dress is worn split to the waist.
Not too long ago, His or Her Majesty’s sailors would land on the wharf at the naval dockyard and flood Wan Chai in their quest for “China girls.” During the Vietnam War, American troops poured into the city for R and R Wan Chai was a fortress of fornication.
Ed and I installed ourselves in a timeworn dance hall on Tonnochy Road, a dark and shabby place with rows of little booths where couples can happily grab and grope in private. The music was loud and scratchy rock ‘n’ roll with Chinese lyrics. It was nearly midnight and the establishment was still nearly empty. Hong Kong nightlife starts late. A dozen or so hostesses eyed us playfully. One of them swished by, hoping to be invited for a drink, but Ed ignored her.
“Chinese women are something special,” he told me. “You must remember that they’re of a culture that’s been studying the pleasures of sex for a long time. The Chinese were deep into the fine points of eroticism when our forefathers were still chasing women with clubs. A Chinese woman seems to understand instinctively what you want or, better, what you need. You don’t have to have a long discussion about it. She just understands and does it. Besides, she probably looks fourteen, is twenty-five, and has the experience of a forty-year-old.”
“If they are understanding,” I wondered aloud, “why didn’t you bring your Chinese girlfriend Lee-Ann?”
“Now that she lives with me, she won’t go to bars,” he replied. “But she never complains if I go out in the evening. She’s clever. Whenever I come home, even if it’s at dawn, she snuggles against me and tries to turn me on. It’s her way of figuring out what I’ve done. She knows my limits.
“It took me a long time to realize all her subtleties. Obviously, if I can’t get it up, I’ve been screwing around, which means I’ll have a scene on my hands. On the other hand, I can’t resist Hong Kong’s temptations so quite often I call Lee-Ann to tell her that I’ll be working late. When that happens and I pick up a woman, I always pull out before I come. You know, coitus interruptus. The girls are usually surprised, but I think they’re sort of glad. They always try to get me to resume and finish what we started, and we often have a wild tussle before I get my clothes on.
“At first,” he went on, “it was almost impossible to pull out like that. After a while, though, it became easier. It’s a question of self-control. And Lee-Ann always gets what she wants, no matter how late I arrive home. In fact, she probably gels more of it, and gets it better. Recently I learned that the old Mandarins practiced the same withdrawal as an exercise of self-discipline. They could have as many women as they wanted, but only as long as they didn’t ejaculate.”
Dick, a Hong Kong-born Brit, joined us. After one of the hostesses brought his customary drink, another girl came over almost immediately, and the two sat down on either side of Dick.
“They know I like a pair,” he explained to me, “but not just for the reason you think. These days, it’s for my own safety. I have a theory, you see, that if any one of them has Buddha’s revenge, the others will know it and shun her. So, for safety’s sake, I always take a duo. Of course, they could both have it, but you have to take a little risk if you want this kind of fun.”
Dick got up and danced with one of the girls. Then he returned to the booth and, with a knowing smile, passed her on to Ed to be danced with. When Ed returned from the dance floor, he was flushed and excited. Later, he explained why. “She does what we call the Chinese touch. Every once in a while you find a girl who knows how to do it. While you’re dancing, she puts her hand on the back of your neck and massages one of the vertebrae there. It’s a kind of erotic acupuncture, I guess, and its effect hits you suddenly, like a jolt. What it does is give you an instant erection. With a girl like that, a guy can keep going all night.”
Ed and I left Dick to his three-way pleasure and sailed aboard the Star Ferry across Hong Kong bay to Tsim Sha Tsui, a modern neighborhood, full of expensive hotels and shopping malls. Wedged between them, along a side street Hankow Road , is Bottoms Up, a nightclub whose claim to fame is that an early James Bond film, The Man with the Golden Gun, used it as a location. Despite its name, Bottoms Up is downstairs. It’s divided into four small hexagonal bars, each attended by a naked woman. They perch on pedestals only inches from the customers.
But Bottoms Up doesn’t offer just this static titillation. The girls are friendly, and pleasant conversation is expected of them, what with their bare tits almost literally in your beer. Some of the customers here are women who occasionally bare and compare their bodies and, of course, many men aren’t at all hesitant about showing off their hardware. “As long as no one makes a fuss,” the owner told me, “customers can do what they like.”
Most impressive of Hong Kong’s pleasure palaces are three Japanese-style clubs China City, Club Volvo and Metropolitan. Each is as large as a city block. These gaudy giants, on the basis of kitsch and glitz, as well as size, are likely candidates for the Guinness Book of World Records. “We spent a million dollars for the lights alone,” the manager of Club Volvo told me. Bathing in the reflections of the ostentatious waterfalls are four hundred hostesses clad in evening gowns and furs. They could be mistaken for virginal teenagers decked out for the prom.
Chinese, Thai, Filipino, Japanese, even British and Australian girls working their way around the world, they explain greet you at the door. Each is equipped with a walkie-talkie so the mamasan Chinese Madam will know where each is and with whom. Upon your entrance, you’ll be escorted to an old Rolls-Royce that drives you down the aisle to your table, past dozens of smiling hostesses an enormous harem awaiting your beck and call.
Take your choice, as long as you can pay for her but even in the private rooms, no serious hanky-panky is allowed, just talking and petting. One side of the booth is a glass window so the mamasan can check up on her girls! Should you wonder what the tab will be, there’s high-tech assistance. On each table a digital counter tallies the cost of drinks and hostess time. For many of the wealthy Chinese and Japanese who patronize these temples of sex, the spending is just part of the excitement. The bigger the bill, the bigger the thrill.
“Careful,” Ed warned. “These women have cash registers in their cunts.”
The manager brought us each a tall cognac, the preferred drink of Hong Kongites, who down it straight, four fingers at a time. “Ten thousand liters of fine French brandy are consumed at the Volvo every year,” he told me.
Local legend has it that when the first British ships arrived, the Chinese saw the crews swill rum and run amok. But the officers, splendid-looking in their gold braid, sipped cognac and behaved in genteel fashion. And so the drink became a status symbol among affluent Orientals in Hong Kong. The more expensive the cognac, the better to be seen drinking it. If you want to impress a Chinese lady, therefore, you’d better know your brandy.
Should you want to take a hostess home, you can “buy” her out of the club for the night at an exorbitant price. The bill will probably amaze you, but there is a consolation in the thought that you are sampling an exotic priestess, a living testament to the fact that nobody can package and sell sex like the Chinese.
With all the competition she faces, where does that leave the average woman in Hong Kong? She may have difficulty finding lovers to take her favors for free. “Men are so used to having their choice of beautiful women in bars and brothels,” Harry, an English writer, told me, “they forget that for many ladies, Asian and European, sex is not a business.”
Harry lives in Cheung Chau, a small island that lies about an hour away by ferry. A bohemian satellite of Hong Kong, Cheung Chau has no cars, and its harbor looks like a backdrop for an old-time Fu Manchu film.
On weekends the small, dumbbell-shaped island fills up with the yuppie set from Hong Kong. Atop its central hills, from which complexes of apartments overlook the water, the singles’ game is played with passion and perseverance and women outnumber men by three to one.
“Sometimes the place gets a little too frantic for me,” Harry went on, “so I drift among Hong Kong’s pubs. It’s like another world white skins, blonde hair, freckles, crisp English accents and warm ale.”
He took me to the Bull and Bear to share a customary after-work pint. The pub was an authentic import, right down to the British barmaids and a dart board. There was hardly an Oriental face to be seen. Highly visible were a number of Caucasian women. They were establishing eye-contact with any single man who entered. It was obviously open season.
“Here’s where you find the forgotten women of Hong Kong.” Harry said, “the expatriates British, American and Australian ladies who stop in for a drink or two at happy hour. They’re easy pickings. Most have come to the Orient in search of adventure, but few ever find it. While most guys are hustling the Thais, Filipinas and Chinese, I often tour the watering holes where Westerners hang out, just to see what I can find.”
The pickup game is playfully polite in these places. It involves the kind of cool verbal sparring indirect and antiseptic that leads to several drinks and, if successful, to a one-night stand.
Harry and I moved on to Mad Dogs, and then to the White Stag, which were very much the same as the Bull and Bear. The last stop in our pub crawl was Ned Kelley’s Last Stand, an Australian-owned bar, named for an infamous outlaw Down Under’s Jesse James and noted for its jazz band and easygoing clientele. The atmosphere was relaxed and the lady-hunting fast and frank, a Crocodile Dundee wooing game that produced a quick, no-nonsense response. Yes! Or, no.
“After a few pints,” Harry said “I often forget the time and miss the last ferry to Cheung Chau. If I haven’t already found a woman, I usually head for Hot Gossip on Canton Road.”
A favorite for Hong Kong yuppies, both Occidental and Oriental, the neon-lit Hot Gossip caters to the singles’ set a touch of Manhattan on the shores of the China Sea. “I can usually obtain what I need there,” Harry went on, “but I have to be careful. Last time, I met two British girls who were into what they called experimental sex. It sounded pretty good in the taxi, but when we got to their place they wanted to shave my pubic hair and play with some kind of electrodes they’d wired up. I got the hell out of there and spent the night in one of the short-time hotels in Wan Chai, listening to everybody but me make love.”
Ed had promised to take me to a “pickup paradise” on Sunday morning. He picked me up at the appointed hour. At about ten o’clock, we walked together to Statue Square, a small park beside the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. Hundreds at Filipino women, most of them young and bubbly, were setting out baskets of food and picnicking. Most were dressed in copies of designer clothes and carrying imitation Vuitton bags.
“There are about forty thousand Filipinas in Hong Kong,” Ed said. “They typically come here on two-year contracts to work at menial jobs women without men. But those guys he pointed to a couple of Europeans who were obviously fascinated by the spectacle probably won’t get much more than a few words and a smile.”
“The secret is a simple one,” Delia, a Filipina who has worked in Hong Kong for five years, told me later. “A girl will never go off with someone she has just met, especially in front of her friends. A man would have to be a little devious. For example, he could surreptitiously slip her a note bearing his telephone number, or hurriedly arrange to meet her someplace else, away from the park.”
That afternoon, Ed and I went to a beauty contest in a large Chinese restaurant. Such events take place frequently. Mostly, they are convenient excuses for parties. About three hundred spectators, nearly all women, had filled the restaurant when Ed and I arrived. Surprisingly, few Caucasian guys were there. Something of a local dignitary, Ed has often been appointed as a judge, and he has seldom refused. He was one of three judges this time.
The girls paraded down the runway costumed like queens or bathing beauties or hookers. Some were spectacular-looking, and most moved with innate sensuality. They swept past the head table, timing their songs or dances so their tits and asses were close to the judges’ faces.
During the intermission, Ed wandered among the crowd, chatting with the girls and discreetly pressing his business card into their hands. “To be honest,” he said afterwards, “I don’t care how well they sing or dance. As far as I’m concerned, the sexiest one always gets my vote.”
During the final judging, I caught sight of Ed slipping one of his hands under the table. By the time the winner was proclaimed and crowned. Ed seemed to be in desperate need of relief. As we left, he asked, “Got your passport with you?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
”Time for a massage,” he confided. We then walked hurriedly to a ferry slip.
An hour’s voyage away, Macao is delightfully more decadent than even Hong Kong and maintains much of its original piquancy, Along with the many modern hotels and commercial centers, there are plenty of narrow, twisting streets and rundown Chinese inns where naughtiness continues to flourish. It’s a Portuguese colony that will be absorbed into China in 1997 as Hong Kong will, too. Entry formalities are minimal.
An estimated four thousand Thai girls are wedged into the colony’s few square miles, so these days Macao is a sort of little Bangkok. Most of the major hotels, such as the Estoril, have massage parlors, and sex-oriented establishments of all kinds dot the city. The Thai girls who work here retain their seductive charms and are among the real beauties of the Orient. Most people on the ferry with us, however, were going to Macao to gamble. The tiny place boasts more casinos than any other Asian city.
When we debarked, Ed hailed a taxi and we headed for the Estoril. I waited at the bar while he went into the massage parlor. A couple of hours later he emerged, smiling, smelling of jasmine, relaxed and renewed. We took a late boat back to Hong Kong, which at two in the morning was still casting its voluptuous glow.
Most people think of Hong Kong as a shopper’s paradise, but the best bargains are not necessarily found in the boutiques or electronics stores. Like some of the other urban centers of Asia, Hong Kong presents the visitor with a delicious assortment of hedonistic opportunities. Its many sex worlds happily coexist and combine, forming an intoxicating melange of the Orient and Occident. “East is East and West is West,” Kipling wrote, “and never the twain shall meet.” Except in Hong Kong.
Like the wildflower that pushes its way through concrete to bloom in the middle of an urban sidewalk, the desire for erotic intimacy is seemingly unquenchable. While living in the uncertain limbo of a refugee camp, Marta Horakova grows to accept the soul-numbing lack of privacy and the boredom of day-to-day life. Then a brash newcomer enters and changes the claustrophobic world of the female refugees. As a result, Horakova discovers that sexual desire can arise in the most unlikely circumstances. Better still, she learns that being lost in the voluptuous pleasures of the flesh provides an excellent if temporary escape from her ugly surroundings. E.McK.
The universal sameness of the refugee camp in Austria was getting on my nerves. There were seven or eight of us in one room all the time, seven or eight women with nothing to connect one another, nothing but the fact that we had to survive. Leaving one’s homeland forever is not an easy business, believe me, however disgusted you are with its political system. But living here, in this bedroom, within your own few square feet, among a flock of mean hags, got under our skins.
Yes, hags. That was how we thought of one another. Forced to share this noisy little room, we didn’t make friends it was impossible. We became secret enemies, wishing each other bad luck, gossiping about one another, secretly stealing each other’s butter and jam from the ever empty refrigerator, and arguing whose turn it was to scrub the filthy floor.
Well, perhaps we were not quite as mean as I am trying to imply. The fact is that when you do not know whether or not you are going to be accepted as a refugee to the United States, or Canada, or Australia, you become kind of desperate after a few months. Each of you has her own story to tell: One swam across a river, another crossed the Austrian border on a moonless night, another had to marry a foreigner in order to get out of her communist homeland. But you didn’t talk much about these topics partly because one life story seemed so similar to the others, and partly because you tended to see the other women in your room as potential rivals. You kept in mind, then, that whatever you said or did would certainly be used against you at some point. Or at least you thought it would.
Also, we were alone and unprotected, the only unattached women in the whole camp. Families and married couples were tucked away in little “family hotels.” The fact that there was a men’s house across the snow-covered yard a men’s house roaring with some fifteen hundred horny men just added to our loneliness.
So we were living in gloomy peace and quiet, not talking much to one another, not having too much fun, turning down men who, it seemed, didn’t have anything better to do than try to get into our panties. Yes, it would have been easy to choose a man or two and start something, but none of us did, because it was winter outside and hotel rooms were expensive. And, besides, we were still kind of uptight about our “reputation,” not in the least wanting to be the talk of the camp.
Our day began with a breakfast at six o’clock sharp. Those of us who had jobs would then leave to wash dishes, wait on tables, or sweep floors in hotels and guest houses to make a lousy little bit of money. And those who didn’t have jobs would sit around, trying to learn English or German or French. None of us could be sure in what country she was going to end up, so we strived to learn all we could about the unknown world we were about to enter, writing letters to all the friends in all the places we could think of.
Then, one day, this nineteen-year-old brat walked into our room, threw her belongings on the only empty bed, spread her arms to all of us and said, “Hallo! How nice to see you, ladies. My name is Mila and we are going to be friends!” Then she sat cross-legged on the bed as dirty lumps of snow fell from her boots and melted on the mattress.
“First of all, Miss I-don’t-care-who-you-are,” the Polish teacher, Bashka, was quick to reply, “you must always take off your shoes before entering our room. Second of all, you must leave no dirty dishes in the sink, ever!”
Mila was looking right through her, surprised and offended. Without changing her position, she took out a cheap cigarette and a box of matches. And as Bashka continued “No visitors after eight o’clock. All lights out by ten,” Mila lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“And no smoking in this room!” Bashka yelled out hysterically.
The newcomer had a short temper. She rose from the bed, cigarette in hand, and, leaving filthy footprints on the floor, she walked the short distance to the door. “That’s why I left my fucking homeland?” she said before slamming it. “I fucking wanted some fucking freedom and then I end up here with seven stupid witches! Where the hell am I? On a fucking chicken farm, or what?”
A Committee for Punishing that Unbearable Brat was established on the spot. After a long, heated discussion, we decided that, no, we were not going to flush her knapsack down the toilet. We decided not to kill her, either, because it was not worth getting in trouble for. Even suggestions that we should pierce her nose with a fork, or dent her ears, were dismissed.
Sure, we were pretty mad at her, all of us, but there was something mysteriously likable about her.
I was in my early thirties at the time, and most of the others in the room were well over twenty. We were not really old no, no, no but we thought we were. Turning thirty in a place like Prague, where I happen to come from, is much worse than turning fifty, in, say, the U.S. In a second-rate city like the Czech capital, where every future-minded female youth tries desperately to grab a husband by the age of twenty, your thirtieth birthday leaves you feeling like an uninteresting, abandoned piece of rubbish, buried in the trash of centuries. I had yet to discover that I was not quite as old as I thought.
Anyway, that evening, after the young brat’s arrival, we were sitting in our room, bored but not talking much. We didn’t have much to say. All of us were here together, so what could we gossip about? As for Mila, we didn’t know enough about her to discuss, unfortunately.
The evening passed slowly. We didn’t have any visitors, having long ago scared them off. We read, watched the TV, washed our bodies in the sink, and at ten o’clock the lights went out. So we lay there, each in her bed, each resting on her side, trying to protect her soft body, her privacy, her thoughts, against the world. I put my hands between my legs, as I did every night. My body ached for a caressing palm that knew its every secret place, but the old, rusty, squeaking springs of my bed prevented any attempt to masturbate. After a few months of no privacy whatsoever, I was painfully frustrated. Pent up.
In the darkness, each of us dreamed of big, brawny, huggable men. And then, at one o’clock or so, the screeching door opened. Our new roommate, Mila, danced in, running her mouth in Czech. And who was with her? A big, dark, broad-shouldered man whose half-silhouette was disclosed by the light shining in from the hall. He was running his mouth in Hungarian.
“Who is that?” Bashka whispered.
Mila didn’t answer. The broad-shouldered man replied. “No problem,” he grunted. “No problem.”
Leaving most of their clothing on the floor, they jumped right into Mila’s bed.
Then, in two minutes, it all started. The terrible sound. We called it that the terrible sound the next morning, as soon as Mila and her new lover now nicknamed “No Problem,” since no one cared about his real name had left the room. After a day or two, we dropped the adjective and just called it “the sound.”
The sound, generated by the old, half-rotten mattress under the strain of No Problem’s energetic fucking, occupied our minds twenty-four hours a day. Now we could gossip about Mila and No Problem now we could start blabbing about them as soon as they slammed the door behind them. In the daytime we complained about how we couldn’t sleep and planned ways to get rid of that nineteen-year-old whore. At night we just listened. No Problem didn’t bother with such corniness as foreplay and kisses and whispers of love. The two of them didn’t have a common language anyway. As soon as they were undressed, he put it in. No, we didn’t see it. In the dark, we couldn’t see a shadow on the wall, so we never caught a glimpse of No Problem even when he shamelessly walked out of the ladies’ room. But it sounded enormous. And we did hear it. We heard it sloshily moving deep inside of Mila. His sexual performances were long-lasting and loud, but not too inventive. The rest of us couldn’t sleep because we were tormented by the unmistakable sounds that penetrated our ears, our heads, our pussies.
All of us women, empty vessels, lay there wide awake, curled up, thinking about our loneliness, our horniness, and the misery of our lives.
One night, Bashka, whose bed was right next to Mila’s and who, therefore, suffered most, decided to take action. She spoke some Hungarian, she explained as she left to seek No Problem in the men’s barracks. Speaking Hungarian was a great advantage, considering that the whole of the man’s knowledge of foreign languages consisted of “no problem” in broken German. Nobody knows what Bashka said to him, but that evening he arrived at our door alone. He went right to Bashka’s bed and dropped his trousers to the floor.
On the neighboring bed, Stana whispered in surprise, “What the hell are you doing?”
“No problem,” he replied, flopping on Bashka’s mattress. Bashka just sighed. And then the sound started as on previous nights, except Bashka’s bedsprings were even louder than Mila’s had been.
Next morning, Bashka’s face was glowing. When she left the room, we started gossiping, not about Mila, of course, but about Bashka.
After dinner that night, Mila joined me in the shower room. I was not too happy, to tell the truth, because when she entered, I was trying to make myself come with a stream of water aimed between my legs. Mila spoiled it all. Besides, it was she and her Hungarian stud who had caused my horniness in the first place.
She took off her T-shirt, exposing her gorgeous breasts, and she began washing herself with a bar of the sour-smelling brown refugee-camp soap. “Would you please wash my back?” she asked.
“Wash your back?” I snapped. “Don’t you want me to wash your ass, too?”
“No. I can reach my ass easily. Just my back, please.”
I washed her back, and Mila purred with pleasure. And I discovered that it was not all that bad washing her back. There were all those little curves, and her skin was so young and soft. Well, I was not mad at her anymore. I realized that we should help one another, shouldn’t we? As I washed her back, her wet skin glistened with drops of water, as if she were a happy seal. I soaped her with my own soap, muttering that I didn’t want to touch her ill-smelling soap. Mila just smiled as I lathered her pale back. More than before, I missed that stream of water between my thighs. I remembered its gentle touch on my pussy lips, which had filled me with pleasant vibrations. I worked the soap into rich and fragrant suds on Mila’s back, washing every square inch, washing her pretty shoulders, her neck, the two little dimples at the top of her buttocks. I proceeded down, lower and lower, making her utter little laughs, but she didn’t stop me. I ran my hand along the lovely curve of her hips. Then I washed her ass and heard her sigh a little but I resisted the sudden urge to put my hand between her legs to discover what she had there. Mila’s body was more puzzling than a man’s.
Suddenly the thought popped into my mind that she didn’t really need me to wash her back she was limber enough to do it herself. She just liked to be touched, I realized. She needed to be touched. All of a sudden, I felt good. Maybe all of us in the room should run our mouths less, I thought, and touch each other more. I wanted to ask Mila if she missed creating that terrible sound with No Problem, but I didn’t.
Meanwhile, No Problem was taking over our room. According to some mysterious law of nature which those of us who were still unfucked by him couldn’t comprehend No Problem was progressing bed to bed: from Mila to Bashka, from Bashka to Stana, from Stana to Jitka, from Jitka to Zdena. The sound was coming closer to us who remained unsounded, to the not-yet-fucked who still gossiped. Those who’d had it weren’t gossiping anymore. They were making friends with one another.
My bed was right next to the window. It meant that if No Problem didn’t have a heart attack soon, he would fuck his way to me within a few nights. I wasn’t complaining, mind you, but I wasn’t waiting impatiently for him, either. Even the sound wasn’t preventing me from sleeping, for Mila had the most gorgeous tits I’d ever seen, with nipples sweet and rosy. She had velvety skin and a delicious mouth. And her pussy tasted even better.
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