Ernest Hemingway once said, “If you’re lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” As I think back to the summer I spent in the City of Lights after my freshman year in college, I realize how true those words are, even for an eighteen-year-old woman.
I spent three months seeing the world in faded Levi’s and cowboy boots, sun-streaked hair and a golden tan thanks to a month spent at my grandmother’s beach resort. My only break from playing cards and bingo with her old cronies there had been reading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, which literally transported me to another world. The book, recounting the author’s sexual trysts among the prostitutes and pimps in Paris of the Thirties, was judged so lewd that it had been banned in America for thirty years after it was originally published in Europe. My young impressionable mind, however, was in such awe of Miller’s colorful and sensual style of writing that it almost made me renounce on the spot the literary aspirations I’d secretly harbored.
I decided, however, that while I would certainly never write like Miller, the least I could do was emulate his bohemian lifestyle. True, it probably wasn’t the sexually prolific Miller that my creative writing professor had in mind when he urged me to look for inspiration in the writers of the past, but Miller was to become that inspiration. Hoping to stimulate my creative juices, I decided that I too must live in Paris. I needed to walk along the winding back streets of Montmartre, drink carafes of red wine in the late-night bars of St. Germaine and gaze at the Mona Lisa’s enigmatic smile at the Louvre. But most of all I intended to suck up all the literary inspiration Paris had to offer. And I don’t use that verb lightly.
To get permission from my parents to go there alone, I convinced them that living in France was the only way I could become fluent in the language, and I needed it to create. I further reasoned that I could support myself by teaching English and quicker than you can say, “Baguette,” I was off.
As my train pulled into the Gare du Nord in the City of Love–or as Miller calls it, the Land of Fuck–I could barely contain my excitement. Upon entering Paris, in fact, I had crossed much more than just a geographical border. I’d entered a state of mind where anything was possible. I looked around at the beautiful people and set about devouring my own moveable feast.
That happened literally. Since I hadn’t eaten anything all day, my first stop before checking into a local hotel was a small, charming cafe for a quick bite. Either my tan was especially noticeable or my shirt was especially see-through, because as I stood ordering a crepe and a caf cr me, I noticed the men at tables and on line staring at me unashamedly. I was unsure how to react but discovered later that in France, unlike in America, staring at a woman is not considered rude but is an unspoken compliment to her beauty. Having cultivated a grunge look in college that admiration was new to me. But hoping to lose the psychological baggage I’d brought with me from JFK Airport, I began to relish the hungry looks and felt giddy with my newfound ability to command attention. It wasn’t long before I could tell that Paris would be a place of innocence lost and paradise found.
My next order of business was going to the Alliance Fran aise, a respected language institute on the wide, tree-lined Boulevard Raspail. I signed up for an intensive daily French course that was to begin immediately. I was, after all, there to learn! Soon I’d have a teacher, too. After only a few hours in that hotbed of raging foreign hormones I realized that I wasn’t the only American expatriate with fucking on her mind.
Before classes began I scanned a bulletin board for lodging, unable to afford an entire summer in a hotel and hoping to avoid staying in a dreary youth hostel. Nothing sounded very appealing, but luckily I hit it off with a fellow New Yorker in class named Bronte, who was spending the summer in a small studio her parents had rented. When she heard that I was looking for a room she kindly invited me to stay with her, offering me a bed for as long as I wished.
Her studio was in the Bastille quarter, home to what was once the dreaded jail for political prisoners. Angry Parisians stormed the Bastille on July 14, 1789, triggering the French Revolution and establishing their own Independence Day. The large square where the infamous guillotines had long ago chopped off the heads of the monarchy now boasts a selection of caf s and art galleries. Ours would be a good arrangement, I thought. Bronte and I had similar ideas of how to spend the summer and we realized that we could accomplish more together than alone.
Bronte was a shapely brunette with luscious lips. She was also completely uninhibited and helped me unleash my sexual tiger. With her encouragement, I began walking with a more confident step for once I left my bicycle at home and let lust be my guide. In order to survive the sweltering July heat, we dressed as scantily as was legal, and in Paris, that is truly minimal. Bronte wore lacy, corset-like tops and short black skirts. I stayed more casual and tended to leave my bra off. I can still remember the pleasant feeling of the cotton fabric rubbing my naked tits as they bobbed up and down the streets of Paris. Such openly sexual attire was probably responsible for the summer’s more memorable encounters.
On my way to class one morning, there was a short circuit on the m tro subway that caused the packed train to stop in complete darkness. What could have been scary turned into an unbelievably erotic experience. Not long after the lights went out I felt a robust body lean against me. A surprising hardness pressed itself firmly between my buttocks and two hands slipped under my shirt, lightly caressing my soft breasts. Agile fingers tweaked my nipples until they were hard as acorns. I was left completely breathless.
Hoping the electricity would never come back on I arched my back, wallowing in the dirty pleasure of having the hands of a total stranger all over me in the darkness. Much too soon the car jolted back into motion and the lights came on, but there were so many people crushed together that nobody could see what was going on. That of course made it much more exciting.
One hand continued fondling my breast while the other slowly made its way under my skirt. I’d followed Bronte’s advice that morning and stayed naked underneath, hoping to avoid panty lines showing through the sheer material. As one hand effortlessly made its way from my ass cheeks to my moistened cunt, I realized I’d made the right decision. Forget panty lines, I thought, the point then was easy access.
From his position behind me, my new m tro buddy easily slipped two fingers inside my pussy. I grasped the m tro car’s metal pole with both hands, concentrating on his fingers making their way toward “La vie en rose.” I parted my legs and rubbed against his palm so I could come as quickly as possible. St. Placide was only four stops away. Mission accomplished, I felt like yelling, “Vive la France!” but instead jumped onto the platform just as the doors shut, without even looking back. Later, while discussing my day at the Alliance Fran aise with a teacher after class, I could honestly tell her that getting there was half the fun.
Before Bronte and I could get a taste of the local delicacies, so to speak, we had a few dalliances with the guys in the class. I had my eyes on one hot guy from Long Island. The irony of crossing the Atlantic to end up with someone who lived almost next door was not lost on me. Jerry wasn’t so exotic, perhaps, but he definitely knew how to bring out the patriot in me. So with the excuse of practicing French irregular verbs after class we indulged in an afternoon rendezvous back at my apartment.
We picked up some cheese, wine and delicious almond-filled pastries at a boulangerie bakery in Rue de Buci and had an intimate picnic that we ended up eating with most of our clothes off. I wore bikini briefs while he had on a faded Yankees T-shirt–a true baseball fan, I soon discovered that he kept that shirt on even while fucking. So while my Long Island wonderboy busily made his way to third base I trailed my nails under his jersey. This made him thrust even quicker and raise my legs onto his shoulders until they were wrapped around his head. As he hit a home run, I thought of a potential title for my memoirs: How To Keep Homesick-ness at Bay. Its subtitle would be Fucking Abroad.
Afterwards, as we lay gorged on regional produce and sweaty sex, we exchanged our impressions of the French. For example, what was the deal with the toilet being in a different room from the sink? Why did waiters grip wine bottles between their thighs while uncorking them? And why didn’t the women shave under their arms? After struggling with such lofty dilemmas, we promised to meet up after the summer and swap our “Brooklyn does Paris” stories. We then proceeded to seal our promise with–what else?–a good old New York-style fuck. Sometimes home really is right around the corner.
Besides the occasional rendezvous, I usually avoided classmates–there were only so many times I could bear hearing, “Que’est-ce qui’se fucking passe,” “This is fucking boring” in a Texas accent–so after each class Bronte and I walked around the Rive Gauche, the happening Left Bank area of the Seine, to look for some local action. To get there we passed through the beautiful Gardins des Luxembourg, where wannabe Renoirs painted the landscape. From the gardens we headed toward the quays and browsed around the bouquinistes second-hand book stalls . We usually ended up at a small English-language bookshop in the Latin Quarter where Hemingway borrowed books when he was broke.
Carrying works by George Sand or Anais Nin, lover of both Henry Miller and his wife, we stopped in one of the many caf s along the Boulevard St. Michel where we could indulge in the French national pastime: people watching. With a cool glass of chardonnay and a salade nicoise in front of us we contemplated Notre Dame outlined against the distant Ile de la Cit . The majestic cathedral provides the background for Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame, the wrenching tale of a hunchbacked bellringer’s love for the gypsy girl Esmeralda.
Surrounded as we were by Paris’s beauty and culture, it was easy to see how Paris had inspired countless artists and lovers. I found great inspiration walking home alone one day while Bronte was on a class excursion to Versailles: an unbelievably sexy guy leaning on his Porsche.
Normally I would just walk on by, but I had already been in Paris for two weeks and was itching for some Gallic action, so I gave him my best American smile, revealing on the spot that I was a foreigner. He grinned back and mumbled just loud enough for me to hear: “Vous etes tres jolie!” “You are very beautiful!” . I was hooked. It may have been a typical French pick-up line but that didn’t matter. He told me that his name was Luc and he was on his way to the Bois de Boulogne, a huge park that gives Parisians a welcome respite from the hot city streets. I’d wanted to visit the Bois de Boulogne since I got into town so I hopped right on board. The 2,135-acre oasis comprises parks, race courses and the gorgeous Gardins des Bagatelles, but more to the point, it serves as a refuge for illicit love affairs.
I can’t recall if it was the heat, his unbelievably good looks or the motor of the Porsche, but I was getting hornier by the minute. Right before we found our way to the Bois literally translated forest I guided his hand onto my thigh and watched his expression change from one of surprise to one of excitement. Looking straight ahead I squeezed his hand deep between my legs, grinding my pussy against his rough palm. I was wearing a salmon pink sun dress which had hiked up to my belly button.
With his eyes on the road, he proceeded with the usual pleasantries you’re expected to exchange with someone you’ve just met so notwithstanding his finger in my cunt he inquired politely, “Quest’ce que vous faite dans la vie?” which sounds like a Verlaine poem but only means ‘What do you do in life?’ I was tempted to answer, “Je baise des estrangers dans des voitures des sports,” “I fuck strangers in sports cars” , but instead I said, “J’etudie le francais” “I study French” .
Strolling amongst the impressive array of flowers in the Bagatelle gardens afterwards, I used everything I’d learned, moving from “I study French” to “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?” which doesn’t exactly mean, “Do you want to have a coffee with me?” . I gathered from the bulge in his crotch that his answer was, “Oui!” After leaving the Porsche in an hourly parking garage–and leaving a very promising five-hour deposit–we walked toward my apartment in the Bastille quarter. On the way we stopped at a smoky bistro for some oysters and Martinis. After downing a few and buying a bottle to bring with us, we left with just one thing on our minds: a leisurely afternoon of frolicking between the sheets.
The apartment was very dark since the shutters were drawn to keep out the midday sun. Once inside, Luc kept the blinds closed, only opening the refrigerator door to shine light on what he was doing. Cool air rushed out as Luc lifted my arms and slowly inched my dress over my head, stripping me to my beige satin thong. He motioned for me to walk around so he could admire my tan body. Slightly heady from the Martinis, I pranced around for him aware that my high-heeled sandals made my ass even more open and inviting. Eager to dispel the myth of French unfriendliness he dove right in, cupping my breasts in his palms and licking my nipples as if they were slathered in cr me br l e.
My body was heaving with anticipation and ready to explode. He sat me gently on the edge of the bed and, pushing my thong to one side, started licking me. I was just about to come when he pushed me back on the bed and replaced his tongue with his cock, thrusting it in deeply and quickly. I came in crashing waves, gratefully conscious that this was no mere boy fucking me, but a real live homme.
After my climax, I sat Luc back on the bed and kneeled on the hard parquet, taking his balls in my mouth one by one while I manipulated his shaft with my hand. Finally I got to his fantastic cock, and tried to put it as far in my throat as possible. I had to gasp for air, that French prick was so huge, but I went back for more, holding onto his thighs with both hands until I felt him shudder uncontrollably. As soon as I had swallowed his sweet juices, he replaced his come with another mouthful of Martini, and I tasted a cocktail worthy of the best barman. For a long time afterwards the taste of a Martini would remind me of that afternoon quicker than a Proustian madeleine.
I had almost dozed off in a contented stupor only to realize I wasn’t dreaming and that Luc’s cock really was nudging against my mouth. His hand was tickling my cunt, sending shivers through my legs. As his fingers twisted and turned I was getting increasingly more aroused. Deciding to avail myself of that magnificent French cock once more, I straddled him while he was lying down on the bed. Moving my backside toward him I lifted myself high on my haunches and spread my knees wide enough to get that prick inside me until I was riding a French stallion up and down through the Bois.
Right before Luc came, I turned myself around again, all the while keeping his cock inside me, so that my tits could dangle in front of his face. He immediately took hold of my nipples with a firm grasp. As I became ready to explode, he let go of my nipples and put his hands on my hips, rolling me over on my back so that he could spray his creamy nectar all over my body. He rubbed his come smoothly over my tits while his tongue made a short detour down south bringing me to another powerful, delicious orgasm.
Covered in come and sweat, I later followed my French hunk to the shower and realized that he still wasn’t through with me. Under the warm cascading water he started sponging my body, soaping me slowly between the thighs and buttocks. I pressed my body up against his, silently begging him to take me again. Happy to oblige that unspoken request, luc hoisted me up against the wall. I closed my legs tightly around his torso and he began pounding his way back until he had finally worn us both out. Luc’s was a lesson in love that I wouldn’t soon forget.
Unfortunately my afternoons of carefree lovemaking and lusty encounters in the m tro had to come to an end my last day in Paris eventually arrived and I had to return to America. On my last night Bronte and I splurged on dinner at the famous Altitude 95 restaurant in the Eiffel Tower. To get to the restaurant we had to first walk up three hundred sixty steps, but the foie gras and breathtaking views made the hike worthwhile. As we sipped our pinot noir and gazed at the City of Lights below, a wave of melancholy descended on us.
Afterwards, intoxicated on wine and nostalgia, we mellowed out at a jazz club where we were told that Josephine Baker danced the night away semi-nude. In the darkness of the club, we locked arms with other revelers and joined in several impromptu and very drunken choruses of “Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end . . . We’d sing and dance forever and a day . . . “
That night was a most memorable end to an unforgettable summer. Later that day as I groggily watched the French countryside glide past through my train window I was consoled with the thought that no matter where I went for the rest of my life it would stay with me, this moveable feast.
I’d been working at the New York office of a highbrow magazine called The Discerning Intellectual for two years before getting my dream assignment: covering the prestigious Festival del Cinema Awards at the Lido in Venice, Italy. This European version of the Academy Awards take place every September and attracts thousands of actors, journalists and cinema aficionados from all over the world. I’d be spending a week in the land of gondolas, gelato and Bellini cocktails, officially for work but since I truly believe that all work and no play is a bad thing, I planned to enjoy myself too. And so I found myself a couple of weeks later on an Alitalia flight listening to an Andrea Bocelli soundtrack, sipping a glass of prosecco while dreaming of being ravished on a gondola by a handsome Marcello Mastroianni look-alike.
After landing at the Marco Polo Airport, I grabbed my leather Furla carry-on bag and grabbed a taxi-vaporetto a small speedboat to where I would be spending the week: the luxurious Hotel Des Bains at the Lido. As we sped through the lagoon, avoiding near-death collisions with slow gondolas and large traghetti ferries , I laughed when I realized that even without cars Venice still has to contend with its share of crazy Italian drivers.
Unfortunately, the initial euphoria of being at a film festival in Venice soon gave way to the grim reality of boring press conferences, obscure subtitled films and smoky cocktail receptions where a glimpse of Melanie Griffith is the highlight of the evening. Deciding that I badly needed a break from all the inane, pseudo-intellectual banter and pretentious directors, I restlessly dreamed of fleeing the Lido crowds and finding something more native to do.
A film critic at the festival, who’d had one glass of spumante Italian sparkling wine too many, tipped me off: “Have you checked out the island of Murano yet? The men there are real hunks. And most of them blow glass,” she said, smiling broadly. I didn’t know whether that was supposed to be the double entendre it sounded like, but decided to find out for myself. The idea of catching a vaporetto and heading for the nearby tiny island of Murano appealed to me greatly. Famous for glassblowing and for the pastel-colored houses on stilts which dot the canals, Murano is home to the beautiful world-renowned Venini and Moretti vases, multicolored glass reproductions and grandiose chandeliers. Hoping to find more than just a decoration for my mantelpiece, I woke up bright and early the very next morning for a taste of la dolce vita.
Before leaving my hotel, I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of croissants and cappuccino by the side of the pool. During my meal I thought about the hotel’s reputation as a debauched literati’s haven it had, in fact, served as the backdrop for Thomas Mann’s “Death in Venice,” the story of lust between an older man and a young boy. Hmmm, I mused, maybe if things went well on the glassblowing island I could bring back a real-life souvenir tonight.
For my island-hopping excursion, I had worn a very inappropriate loose white skirt with a black halter top and matching black mules. “The better to tour in,” I hummed with Little Red Riding Hood in mind. On second thought make that, “The better to fuck in,” I laughed. But enough with the fairy-tale rhythms, I thought. On to the real stuff.
I realized just how short my skirt was when I fell prey to the wind stirred up by the speedboat and tothe hungry eyes of the male passengers. My top was tied very tight, which always makes my nipples hard, especially when it’s windy or cold. The ride on the vaporetto was extremely pleasant and since it was so sunny I decided to stay on the outer deck, not caring about the water spraying on my legs, which were turning golden brown from the morning sun. Being away from the touristy Lido and the loud throngs of people already seemed to me like a trip to paradise. Little did I know what otherworldly experience Murano held in store for me.
The vaporetto slowed down as it neared the small port to let off the few passengers who had ventured away from the Venetian mainland. Walking across the rickety wooden plank that connected the boat to the dock, I found myself staring at a couple of dark, good-looking men leaning against the old walls that lined the lagoon smoking cigarettes. I mentally thanked the lady back at the Lido for the good advice on where to find vintage Italian-and I wasn’t talking Gucci! From behind the safety of my dark sunglasses I noticed that they were staring right back at me, mentally undressing me while they did. As I disembarked from the vaporetto, I tried to contain the tingles of excitement I suddenly felt coursing over my body.
By then the wind was whipping my long blonde hair all over the place, since I’d opted to let it fall loose instead of tying it up in the tight bun I usually wore. As soon as I stepped into the piazzetta an army of pigeons descended on me. As I waved my arms in the air to get rid of them, one of my nipples nearly popped out of my halter top. Lazily taking in the scene, leaning against the wall, one hunky guy in particular seemed to appraise me as though I were a piece of valuable, delicate glass. His eyes stopped appreciatively on my ass, which was clearly outlined by the wind against my skirt. For a minute I was tempted to run up to him, I felt that horny, but then decided to not succumb so quickly and maybe play hard-to-get. After all, I was supposed to be there solely on a glassblowing excursion.
I walked past the Michelangelo marvel, wandering along the cobblestoned streets of Murano licking a delicious bacio gelato with pistachios and while imagining I was busy licking something else. After passing the kitsch and somewhat tacky tourist shops that display every glass reproduction possible, I dreamily sauntered inland to find those places far off the beaten track where the glass really is melted and shaped into beautiful artifacts. I followed the dark and dusty alleyways of the labyrinth that is Murano as though guided by instinct to the glass district called Fondamenta Vetrai. Here the art of glassblowing has been practiced since the thirteenth century I had wanted to see the process ever since I was given my first forest-green Venini vase. At least eighteen hundred people work the furnaces-not bad considering that this is an island of six thousand inhabitants.
Slightly dizzy from the molten ash in the air and the smell of smoke that pervaded everything, I entered what looked like a dark storage room where a group of men were busy working. They looked curiously at the scantily dressed American tourist who had left the other visitors behind and ventured into their secret domain. “Buongiorno, signorina,” they said politely. I smiled and indicated that I just wanted to watch without disturbing. Their scruffy jeans and sweaty forearms overpowered the room with an undeniable maleness that I found mesmerizing.
I had already felt turned on watching as one man placed his lips on a blowhose, the long tube that holds the molten glass, and began blowing it into a variety of amorphous shapes. Lulled by the sound of a drill and surrounded by a darkness which was only broken by the different fires, I suddenly felt a hard body right up behind me. After hearing “Ciao, bella,” whispered in my ear I spun around to see a dark and very handsome stranger. He was greeted deferentially by everybody, and I later discovered that he was that particular glass laboratory’s artigiano, or “artist.” Actually he was their master glassblower, as he would later tell me under a very different set of circumstances. To be honest, I had no idea such a title existed and it made me very curious-in more ways than one-to find out exactly what talent one must possess to become a master glassblower.
When this handsome stranger asked if I wanted to explore the laboratory with him I didn’t hesitate for a minute. Relying on what little I remembered from my college-level Italian 101, I tried to understand his deep-voiced words. After introducing himself as Fabrizio he explained the ins and outs of his craft. The true art of glassblowing risked near extinction thanks to the modern “assembly-line” mentality that had invaded the island. According to Fabrizio, the glassblowing industry was being ruined by mass tourism and even worse, mass production was replacing the unique and individually handmade figures created by the reputable Murano laboratories with cheap imitations made from poor-quality glass. Another problem afflicting the island was boredom besides pursuing the art of glassblowing there wasn’t much else to do there. Well, he grinned mischievously, there was almost nothing to do.
He suggested that we get an aperitivo at the nearby enoteca or better an ombra a shadow , which in Venetian dialect means a drink. After downing quite a few shadows of Lugana, a dry white wine from the area, and eating a paper cone full of tiny fried shrimp, a Murano specialty, we made our way back to his laboratory. It was past work time, with only one furnace still burning, since all the workers had long since gone home to their families. By the look in Fabrizio’s eye, I could tell that this was how he had intended me to see it from the very beginning.
Holding my hand, he led me into a dark room filled with old artifacts and glass of all dimensions and colors. After closing the door behind us, he turned and grabbed me with his strong, callused hands. Breathless from the Lugana and from his musky scent, I felt myself surrender completely to his erotic advances. Fabrizio sat down on a chair and in one quick movement pulled me onto his lap facing him with my legs wide open. I leaned backwards so I could feel his hardness rub against me. Drunk on white wine and on the molten ash from the furnace which pervaded the air, I couldn’t wait to begin this ride.
He slowly untied my halter and let the flap of material fall forward, exposing my braless breasts one by one until they dangled inches in front of his face. “Bellissimi,” he murmured as he proceeded to lick my stiff, sensitive nipples. He gently caressed them with his mouth, cupped them and moved them back and forth across his lips so he could savor them. I tried to kiss those beautiful carnal lips, but he kept his face down, preferring to concentrate on my breasts. The tips were getting so hard I almost couldn’t stand it.
He let me off his lap and directed me towards a wooden table illuminated on one side by the small furnace, lowering me face-forward so I couldn’t see what was happening. As he lifted my short skirt and slipped a finger into my cunt I quickly guessed his intent and tried to show him my appreciation by spreading my legs further, allowing him easier access to my moist hole.
His large Murano cock filled me from behind and I closed my eyes so I could concentrate on his fun-loving, glassblowing rod. As it moved rhythmically in and out of me, I held onto the sides of the table for dear life. When his thrusts became as hard as I could take, he swiftly pulled out and motioned for me to get on my knees. I was shaking from the excitement of being taken in such strange and erotic surroundings and begged him to get inside me once again, but he had an idea of his own. It was an idea I appreciated.
My breasts were taut and hard, my skirt was askew and the terra-cotta tiles felt very hot under my knees, but all I could think of at that point was getting the master’s cock into my mouth as soon as possible. I knelt in front of him with my lips moistened and parted slightly, I motioned for Fabrizio to oblige me by fillng me up in this considerably more personal way. He didn’t hesitate over my offer either, a profound look of satisfaction crossing his face while I blew him as I imagined only a glassblowing apprentice could. After a few minutes I sensed that he was getting ready to pull out before coming, but I would have none of it and held onto his buttocks as tightly as I could, until I was finally swallowing his sweet Venetian come. “Brava, bravissima!” he nodded approvingly as I gulped down the very last drop.
“Grazie, grazie,” I dreamily muttered as he said that he wanted me to truly learn the basics of glassblowing. He took off my skirt and my panties and sat me on the table as though I were a slab of glass which needed to be shaped into an exquisite vase. He opened my legs wide and lowered his mouth as though using the blowhose. Grabbing hold of my ass with both his hands he started to lick me with a very powerful tongue. I was experiencing the true expertise that could only have come from years of practice and having ultimately mastered his trade. As his tongue continued its quick swirling dance, I knew that I would never again be able to look at a glass vase the same way again, especially if the owner of such a vase said in a somewhat superior tone, “It’s from Murano. Are you familiar with Murano glass? Do you know the tongue work that goes into them?”
Yes, I could just imagine such a conversation taking place in some swank Park Avenue apartment as I attempted to wrap my legs around Fabrizio’s perfectly sculpted torso. Undazed by my sexual frenzy, he kept them wide apart so that he could let himself in and out more easily. Gazing past his broad shoulders at the wooden cassonetto ceiling probably from the fifteenth century, I found myself musing for some reason I felt my clitoris at last give in and yield to uncontrollable shudders. Hello, Murano! Here I come!
After having sweaty sex among the tools of his trade I began to feel incredibly thirsty, so I suggested we go back to the enoteca for another round of shadows. Fabrizio had a better idea, and suggested that he take me on his own gondola towards St. Mark’s Square on the main island of Venice so we could watch the sun setting on the lagoon. After a romantic ride down the canals he parked on the mainland, and it suddenly occurred to me that since there are no cars in Venice, a girl had to make do with a ride in a gondola, a quintessential Venetian experience that is definitely worth trying-especially when the gondolier happens to be as gorgeous as Fabrizio.
Leading me through the dark, winding alleys, we reached a darkly lit osteria, supposedly a hangout of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, Fabrizio said, that was almost hidden away in the narrow Calle Vallarosso of San Marco. On the terrace of the bar we stared out at the mysterious nighttime fog that descends onto the lagoon while downing a fair share of the delicious Bellini cocktails champagne with peach juice . Afterwards, we headed to a nearby trattoria to taste some Venetian specialties: spaghetti al nero di sepia spaghetti with black octopus ink , polenta alla veneziana, insalata di mare seafood salad and sorbetto all’amarone. And naturally we had some more wine.
After dinner we wandered through the dark, unbelievably narrow maze of calles or alleyways to reach Piazza San Marco, which at that time was empty and majestic without the maddening daytime crowds. Turning a corner, we were once again seemingly lost in a darkness inhabited by the ghosts of courtesans past, rushing off to their bordellos. Fabrizio suddenly stopped and pressed me back up against the musty wall of what I read from the white marble inscription to be Calle Barozzi, an alleyway I would not soon forget. He hoisted me up, and I wrapped my legs around his torso and held on for dear life.
I had developed a penchant for being fucked suspended in thin air, I thought as he thrust himself deep inside me. While my loins felt like they were burning up from his rhythmic banging, he casually asked me, “Come ti piace Venice?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” I replied, “I like Venice very much. Just don’t stop!” From behind him I saw a black cat profiled by the light of the street lamp slinking away into the dark night. Mmmm, perfect. It was really true that Venice by night is completely different from the mental postcard picture one has. Without all the tourists, it seemed to be inhabited only by cats, clandestine lovers and certain questionable-looking figures. After all this was the home of the legendary lover Giacomo Casanova, who had seduced hundreds of courtesans in his time.
It was getting very late, especially since on our way back to Murano we couldn’t resist a quick gondola fuck in the dark lagoon for good measure. The softness of the plush red cushions and the rocking of the boat against the small waves were definitely conducive to it. Unfortunately by midnight all vaporetti stop running and I found myself stuck on the glass-blowing haven for the night.
As I felt Fabrizio’s hand lightly squeeze my thigh, I didn’t really mind being stranded too much and promised to take the first boat back in the morning so I would be back in time to cover the Kieslowsky viewings and the festival’s final award ceremony. And so as we inched our way back to the wonderful glassblowing island of Murano, enveloped in a misty-colored Turner-like dawn breaking on the canal, I vowed to keep this, the best-kept secret of Venice, from everyone else-except you.
Russia was my dream. Well, Russian women were, anyway. I’ve always fantasized about making love to a curvy Russian woman wearing nothing but a plush fur coat and heels. Her breasts are firm and her nipples are hard. Her hips command sex. The fire is roaring, snowdrifts block the door. There is nothing to do for days but drink vodka and fuck. And I imagined that in a country still struggling with a free-market economy that they–meaning these dream women–would be ready to accept me and my money.
Well, almost.
Getting there was no problem. And yes, my greenbacks were like candy to sugar-crazed children. But almost twenty years of U.S.-abetted reform had done nothing–despite the best efforts of Microsoft and McDonald’s–to move the culture into the present. Their fear and distrust of Americans was as pronounced as their lust for Yankee dollars. I was not the jet-setter I thought I would be when I got there, I was just another Western rube waiting to get taken. Mata Hari dreams of sexy Russian double agents in spiked heels and sheer stockings sucking me off for secrets were not forthcoming.
The Leningradsky hotel, however, was lousy with hookers.
Almost all of them seemed to be hovering between thirty and forty years old or they were some pretty beat-up twenty-eight-year-olds , almost all of them with platinum-blonde hair and thick, cat-eye mascara. Actually they were pretty sexy in a very experienced, very professional way, but sleazier than their American counterparts. But they spoke with Russian accents that would make your cock drip with anticipation of a very professional blowjob. This was as close as I would get to being James Bond.
I sat in the bar drinking warm Czech beer. She said her name was Ursula when she sat down next to me, smiled and took one of my Marlboros without asking. I lit it for her and she put her hand on my knee in thanks. When I didn’t move it climbed up my thigh toward my crotch. She knew what she was doing, subtly feeling my cock as it grew inside my pants. She whispered with a deep breath. “Are you lonely? Take me to your room and I will be your lover.”
I threw a fistful of rubles on the bar and got up slowly. “You have American money?” she whispered again. I nodded. “One hundred American, I make you very happy,” she said. We were on our way.
Her tight sweater hugged her bullet-shaped breasts. I could see the outline of her garter belt and the top of one stocking as I climbed the stairs behind her. I wanted to lick the back of her legs and keep going until I got to her pussy.
We got to my room and she made it clear without saying a word that she wanted the dough up front. I got that out of the way real fast.
Her shirt came off quickly, her breasts peering through a flesh-colored bra that had seen better days. She peeled off the skirt and stood before me in her stockings and garter as her panties hit the floor. From the looks of her dark-brown snatch, it was obvious she wasn’t a real blonde–but her bush seemed softer and more inviting than I would have thought. I reached out to touch it and she pushed me back on the bed. In a second she was on her knees pulling my pants off and wrapping her wet lips around my knob.
She was a bombshell all right, and she definitely knew what she was doing. Her tongue danced under my cock while her hands found my balls. She stroked them with her long nails and hummed lightly, tickling my stiff American cock while she did her best to get a mouthful of American come. I pulled her off me before I exploded too soon. I wanted to get between her thighs and feel the slickness of her stockings as she wrapped her legs around my waist.
I had a feeling this one knew how to fuck and I was determined to find out. But before I could make my move she took my dripping cock in her hands again, sucked the shaft to the back of her throat and worked it until I was a babbling, coming mess. I came so hard I was out of breath.
When she took her mouth off me she made sure to do it so slowly that I shook with her every touch. I leaned back and relaxed, my cock dripping with come and saliva. She stood up in front of me. Her pussy was right in front of my face. She pressed it against my mouth and I grabbed her ass, my hands inside her garter. She smelled good, like black-market French perfume.
“One hundred American and I fuck you,” she said. This was getting expensive. I tried to cut a deal with her but she was having none of it. She turned away from me and began to put her shirt back on. She had me and she knew it. I found another hundred and gave it to her.
She pushed me back on the bed and then jumped in after me. My cock was still wet with her saliva and so she stroked me gently with her hands, tying her legs up with mine while she kissed me on the ear. I was already beginning to get hard. “Don’t worry, darlink,” she said. “I make you good fuck, very happy.”
She took off her bra and her tits didn’t move–they were surprisingly firm, the nipples soft and pink. She let me lick them and maybe, just maybe, she actually liked it. You can never tell with pros.
Throwing the sheets back with a flourish worthy of a matador, I made my way on top of her, got between her thighs and nudged her legs apart with my knee. Cock in hand, I worked her labia with my fingers and got ready to slide into her pussy. Her hot box opened around the tip of my cock, getting ready to accept my entire shaft.
But she still had a few tricks up her sleeve. She rolled me over onto my back and started to mount me. Lying on top of me now, she pressed her mouth against mine and gave me a deep kiss while she fingered my rod and slid it in. Her pussy was soft and wet and felt like the eager twat of a much younger woman.
She rode me gently, holding me down and chewing lightly on my ear. Slowly I was working my way back to orgasm. I rolled her over, her thighs drawn up close around her chest and her feet in the air, and I began to fuck her as fast as I could. For a hundred American she was going to get a good, hard American fuck.
She began screaming and I began fucking her even harder–Christ! I even thought she might come–and I swear she went limp as I blasted off into her dripping Russian pussy. Her lipstick was smeared over both our sweaty faces. Spent and satiated, I collapsed on top of her and held her not like a whore, but like a lover.
But real romance was not to be had. I thought I had given her a good ride and might pick her up one night for the price of a few drinks which, when paid for in rubles, works out a lot cheaper than a suck and a fuck . Oh well. Some dreams are meant to die. After a week getting drunk with other frustrated Americans at various hotel bars and dodging other Ursula look-alikes it was time to get out, pack my vodka hangover in my suitcase and haul ass back to civilization.
I headed for Byelorussky Station. I would take the first train West, maybe make it to Croatia and get a boat to Italy from there. I’d figure it out as I went along, since anything had to be better than jaded, suspicious Muscovites. What I didn’t figure on was that I’d never board my train, at least not that night. Moscow, like so many other bustling centers of intrigue, has a damn inviting underbelly of crime, decadence and sex if you just know where to look.
My entry port to adventure was the smokiest train station bar I’d ever seen. Byelorussky Station is sprawling and efficient in that despite all odds, it actually works. It’s huge and wide open by American standards and thoroughly confusing by any standards. I still had no idea where I was heading so I bought some of the crappy cigs everyone in Russia smokes and sat down in a bar called “Siberia,” clearly someone’s idea of a post-Stalin joke. I was reminded that the Eastern Bloc was not known for its rip-roaring sense of humor.
Oddly enough, I felt right at home in Siberia. The bar was filled with sleazy but sexy twenty-somethings with viciously dyed blonde hair, fake leather pants and lots of cheap spiky jewelry listening to heavy metal blasting from an odd, Polish-made jukebox. This was not a normal train station bar. I ordered vodka. They brought me a short glass and a half- filled bottle.
I smoked and drank and listened to what sounded like one of those eighties hair bands that people make fun of. I looked at the girls who filled the place–they were the first women I’d seen who seemed to actually embrace some sort of American culture, even if it was twenty years old. I figured this was what was happening on American radio when the Wall came down in Berlin and when Leningrad fell to the reformists, and they kept it. It was all they knew.
I smiled at them. They smiled back. The men drank vodka and grunted. I thought about striking up a conversation, but my Russian, she is not so good. It took me about an hour to learn to say, “Ya ne govoru pro-russky,” which means “I don’t speak Russian,” and another hour to properly say, “Zrastuvyte,” which oddly enough means “Hello.” Thankfully, a Euro-sounding “Hallo” works just as well.
A girl with dyed blonde hair down to her ass, leather pants, stiletto boots and a ripped Motorhead T-shirt strategically held together with safety pins beat me to it. “You American?” she asked. It was already the best conversation I’d had all week. I nodded. “You give me drink?” I grabbed another shot glass from the other side of the bar and poured her a stiff one. They were all stiff ones in Moscow. She downed it in one gulp and helped herself to another as I thought of my own increasingly stiff one. “You like me?” There was nothing girlish about the way she asked. It was more like a shrouded demand. “You want a date?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was being made by a heavy-metal hooker!
Well, she wasn’t a hooker, exactly, but she made it clear that could be had.
Anyway, I’m easy. “Okay,” I replied. Everyone understands that.
“We go to Los Angeles.”
Fuck that, I thought. If she was looking for a ticket out of the country, she’s got another thing coming. I soon found out that Los Angeles was a heavy-metal club in an industrial park on the edge of Moscow. The popular Russian idea of a club was really an old zinc bar and some ancient disco lights in a run-down warehouse. A Russian heavy-metal band was shrieking through battered equipment–it looked like the amps were made from old space heaters.
It became clear I was expected to pay for everything. No prob, I figured. In rubles it all added up to just a few dollars worth of admission and vodka. “You like?” she said, this time sounding like she was actually interested. I nodded and she gave me a deep French kiss that made me really like. She picked my money up off the bar and took my hand.
The alley in back of the club, lit by blinding halogen lamps next to abandoned guard towers, was like a heavy-metal swing club. Half a dozen horny, drunken couples fucked against Dumpsters while outsized Russian headbangers were getting blowjobs from girls in torn fishnet stockings. My girl wasted no time in getting my cock out of my pants and sucking me off too.
I have to tell you it turned me on watching another young metal chick getting some guy’s cock buried deep in her shaved pussy right next to me as my girl sucked away on my hard prick. She was one girl who knew how to work a cock, getting my dick as hot as it was wet, licking my nuts and fingering my ass.
The girl next to me leaning against a wall was done getting fucked but obviously wasn’t done getting off she stood there playing with herself watching my girl suck my cock. I looked over at her as she penetrated her slit with long fingers that she would lick after every couple of strokes. She loved the way her own pussy tasted. I loved the way her torn fishnets looked and I wanted to fuck her, feeling the scratchy texture of her heavy-metal hosiery while my girl watched us.
So that’s exactly what I did.
Vodka is a wonderful thing. It gave me the courage to go for it. I look back and think that maybe one of the Russian dudes could have killed me. I was a stranger in the back of an abandoned-warehouse-turned-heavy-metal-sex-club. But no one stopped me.
I pushed her up against the wall and stuck my cock deep into her Russian cunt, slowly at first and then faster, to the beat of the music that spilled outside. Over my shoulder I watched my girl peel off her leather pants and to my surprise, grab me by the hair and lift me off the fishnet slut I was banging. She bent over a concrete embankment and spread her pussy lips behind her. If this was Russian jealously, I wanted more. I grabbed her hips and fucked her doggie-style as hard as I could.
The angel I had been fucking against the wall bent down and began sucking my nuts while I slid my cock in and out of my girl, bent over so her head was down by her knees, her pussy wide open and willing. I could feel the one girl’s pussy squeezing my prick as I fucked her, trying to keep control as I felt a wad building.
The other girl lapped at my balls and was even eating the same pussy I was fucking I could feel her trying to slip her tongue into my girl’s wet gash whenever I pulled my cock out. Her face was soon glazed with her spit, my girl’s juice and my sweat. Everything around us smelled like sex. It was the all-consuming fuck.
Hers was the best pussy I’ve ever had. There was so much action on my cock I could hardly focus on what I was doing. My knees were starting to get weak. With a final thrust I buried my cock in as far as I could and I came what felt like a gallon of sperm. My head was dizzy with cheap vodka and cheaper heavy metal. When I finished ejaculating I realized I had an audience. All the dudes were applauding.
I took both girls back to the bar, one on each arm, threw down a fistful of paper money and started pouring vodka for everyone.
I don’t know how I made it back to my hotel, but when I woke up my head felt like it had been used for band practice. I had no money left, and I mean no money. Someone–I suspect one of the metal crew, because I vaguely remember coming home with at least one of the girls–had been through my room. Luckily I still had my passport.
No more train stations for me. After a visit to the AmEx office to get some new plastic and traveller’s cheques I was back at the train station, ready to roll. I bought a ten-day rail pass and climbed into the first second-class compartment I could find, headed toward Europe. The front of the train said Paris. It would take a couple of days to get there and that suited me just fine.
I was almost asleep when my train left the station, only to be awakened by a pretty college girl with a backpack climbing into the car. I smiled at her and closed my eyes. She could wait. Sweet American dreams filled my head as I dozed off to the sound of the train heading West.
“Failte ar bord! Aer Lingus is delighted to welcome you on board!”
I fastened my seat belt, listening to the lyrical voice of Enya coming over the loudspeaker, and dreamed of Dublin, the city of oysters, Guinness and James Joyce. The occasion was a short trip to Ireland, dubbed the “Celtic tiger” because of its unbelievable economic growth, for a job
interview. I was making the two-and-a-half-hour journey from Milan in first class courtesy of my potential new bosses. Although my liberal arts background gave me some misgivings about accepting a job in what was being referred to as the new Silicon Valley, I was determined to enjoy all the perks the trip had to offer. I just had no idea how soon I would begin enjoying them.
I was only scheduled to be in Dublin for one night but I planned to make the most of the break from my usual routine. The company booked me into a room at the very posh Shelbourne Hotel in the center of the city next to the lush grounds of St. Stephen’s Park, which I heard was at the corner of the park where the band U2 had played their first concerts and most likely near one of the local pubs that they had enjoyed their pints of Guinness. Maybe it was at a pub called The Hairy Lemon, which seemed like a pretty good place to meet the local fauna–meaning good-looking Irish blokes, of course. I made a mental note to stop by.
I wanted to make a good, corporate impression, so I had packed my very professional Armani suit and some Prada high-heeled shoes to go with it. My only regret was that the August heat of Milan had compelled me to wear such flimsy clothing for the flight. In just my short skirt and halter top I was beginning to feel slightly chilly, not to mention under-dressed for the first-class section of the plane. The passenger next to me didn’t seem to mind, though, as he glanced appreciatively at the suntanned legs peeking out from under my skirt, which rode up my thigh when I sat down. My legs were completely bare because it had been too hot to wear panty hose, but I felt too self-conscious to adjust it.
The handsome stranger was an uncanny Gabriel Byrne look-alike with jet black hair and delicious blue eyes who introduced himself as Seamus. He mentioned that he was regional manager for a software company in Dublin and was actually returning from a business meeting in Milan, which explained why he was dressed in such an elegant suit. I found myself savoring the attention he was giving me and because of the closeness of our surroundings felt a certain tingle of excitement. We made small talk over some delicious wild salmon an Irish specialty and baby asparagus, the whole time drinking chilled chardonnay from real glass, not the plastic cups they use in coach.
After downing a bottle at such a high altitude I started feeling very cozy indeed, not minding the first-class treatment a bit. “Would you like to share something a little more Irish?” he asked, already calling to the hostess to come over. I was feeling a bit woozy by then and not exactly sure what he had in mind. When he ordered two glasses of ten-year-old Bushmills Malt, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed and realized I was already extremely attracted to him and getting horny fast. “The best Ireland has to offer,” he said as he extended the glass of whiskey to me.
Not exactly, I disagreed while mentally undressing him.
As I sipped the delicious single malt, I was lulled by his melodic Cork accent, which sounds so much softer than the Dublin one. I conveniently forgot what a low tolerance for alcohol I have on the ground, let alone in the air. Could he possibly know that alcohol makes me completely uninhibited and daring? He was about to find out. He said, “Thankfully I’m sitting next to a sexy woman this time. On my last trip I was next to an old lady who wouldn’t stop talking about the ‘old country’ and what a shame it was changing so quickly.”
Hmmm, flattery will get you everywhere, I thought giddily through my chardonnay-and-whiskey buzz. Then I wondered, Was it just my imagination or was he deliberately resting his leg against my bare one?
Notwithstanding the wine and whiskey I was still feeling a little cold and asked the hostess to bring me a blanket. It was a nice fleecy one, I noticed. The alcohol was definitely beginning to take its toll by that point, and I slowly dozed off leaning against the window. I imagined myself lying in a lush field of Connemara, the ruggedly beautiful western part of Ireland, lightly caressed by the wind. It was such an amazing dream, but I was gently aroused from my reverie by the hand of the passenger, who, from underneath the blanket, was gently stroking my backside. He didn’t even need to lift my skirt since it had already moved by itself, practically all the way up to my hips. From behind me, he reached under my thong and started playing with me. Totally surprised, wanting neither the dream nor the fingering to end, I pretended to be in a deep sleep. Some part of me almost started to believe that this might very well be a standard first-class perk. I’ll definitely be flying first class from now on, I noted in my haze.
He started to remove his hand just when I was nearing a climax, but my legs immediately tightened their hold on his finger, willing him, begging him to stay inside. I thought I heard a slight chuckle near but at that point I was too scared to open my eyes. I was scared that Seamus, my very own Gabriel Byrne, might decide he’d teased me enough and would leave me to my orgasm-less slumber.
At that point my legs were spread open like a sliced apple and his fingers felt like they were smearing peanut butter and jelly on the halves that thought could only be the by-product of an American childhood, otherwise I might be imagining sliced soda bread and Irish creamery butter! . What he was smearing was the jelly that my own excitement was producing. I felt my pussy pulsing while the lips rapidly swelled up. Seamus seemed in no hurry at all and expertly explored his newfound territory. Thank God the blanket was pulled up under my chin although by that time I was so close to having an orgasm that I wouldn’t have cared if the entire plane had seen me. Actually I had the feeling that the passengers next to us could see what was going on, but it only served to excite me that much more. Being thousands of miles up in the air with a total stranger fingering my clit was by far the most thrilling thing I’d ever experienced, but I was in for much more Irish extravaganza.
His fingers moved up under my halter top, which was really just a flimsy excuse for the type of camisole you’re supposed to wear over a bathing suit, not with nothing under it. My nipples were already hard from the attention he had paid to my pussy, but as I was being caressed by his calloused hands–which he explained he had gotten milking cows on his uncle’s farm in Cork during the summers–I thought I’d jump out of my seat with excitement. He cupped one breast at a time, rolling the nipples between his thumb and his index finger, occasionally flicking the soft, round tips. He eased them out of my camisole with no difficulty at all, never letting them out of his grasp, and whispered near my ear, “Nice . . . I can’t wait to suck those pretty peaches.”
Seamus got me so worked up that I was completely wet. With my eyes closed I felt every muscle in my body responding to a single touch of his finger. Unable to hold back any longer I felt myself yielding to uncontrollable shudders as I came over and over again. Way up in the air, flying through the clouds, I was on my own supersonic jet. I felt like the entire plane was shaking with me, and that the hostess was announcing, “We are experiencing some turbulence, so would the passenger in row three please stop coming?” What was that? Oh my god! But luckily she was only saying, “Please fasten your seat belts. We are beginning our descent into Dublin.”
“We’re already there? It can’t be,” I muttered as I looked longingly at the bulge in Seamus’s pants, imagining what it would feel like to take him in my mouth and return some of that famous Irish hospitality I had just experienced.
He patted my ass playfully and whispered, “Don’t worry, honey. You’ll get your chance to get acquainted with my better half. Just be a little patient and we’ll finish up this job on land.” That fit my schedule just fine. Since my job interview wasn’t until the following morning, I’d have plenty of time to experience what Dublin had to offer.
A taxi drove us quickly into the heart of Dublin, passing through some of the city’s more dismal areas like the industrial estates. But after less than twenty minutes we were reaching the city center, or “An Lar” as they call it. As we drove down O’Connell Street and over the River Liffey I could see the Ha’penny bridge in the distance, named such because at one time in order to cross it one had to pay a halfpenny toll. The streets were full of people walking past small corner markets overflowing with fruits, vegetables and flowers. Elderly ladies were calling out to the people strolling by, “What will it be, love?” indicating the roses they had placed in old-fashioned baby carriages. At that point, however, the Dublin sites were lost on me even though the driver was kindly indicating them. This was probably because Seamus’s hand had found its way back to my pussy. As he teased me, I unzipped his pants and held on to his cock for dear life. It was so much bigger and harder than I had dared hope. How romantic,
I thought, crotch and pussy connected while being driven through the quaint cityscape. Yes, this is definitely how everyone should see Dublin for the first time!
After passing Merrion Square with its beautiful Georgian townhouses, where the property prices had skyrocketed in the last few years, we finally took a right turn onto St. Stephen’s Green where the hotel was located. It had felt deliciously naughty to politely answer the driver’s inquiries as we groped each other, but I’m sure he appreciated the five-pound note Seamus gave him as a tip. The only thing I could think of was getting to my room so we could finish what we had started on the plane, in as many positions as humanly possible.
It was indeed an incredibly posh-looking hotel that I had been booked into, conveniently located right in front of this beautiful park. Yes, Seamus approvingly confirmed, the Shelbourne was indeed the most luxurious hotel in Dublin since it opened in the nineteenth century. Walking on the plush crimson carpeting, I approached the imposing mahogany stairwell thinking that the company I was scheduled to interview for had indeed spared no expense in their accommodations.
“Let’s have a drink in the bar. It’s one of the most exclusive in the city,” Seamus said. The bar looked very dark and smoky and was filled with blokes reading the paper or chatting while they sipped their pints. He ordered two pints of Guinness and a plate of oysters on ice. As soon as the barman put down my glass I immediately picked it up but was motioned to stop by both the barman and a gentleman on the stool next to me, who said, “Ah no. You’ve got to let it sit awhile until the top settles.” They looked at each other with a look that said, “Foreigners, what do you expect?” Boy, they take their Guinness seriously here.
Seamus seemed to thoroughly enjoy both the surroundings and the fact that I was in such a genteel, old-fashioned establishment wearing nothing but a short skirt and camisole. Because of the steady cold breeze from the air conditioner, my nipples were visibly outlined and on display for the tweed-dressed old gents to ogle. “You’ve got to give the locals their due,” Seamus justified as he squeezed my ass. I was a little embarrassed but also excited by the extreme foreignness of it all. Surrounded by tweed, pipes and bottles of Jameson whiskey, I thought, Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore. I laughed quietly to myself because it was such a cheesy thing to say.
After two pints of delicious dark Guinness and about half a dozen oysters, we mercifully made our way up to the executive suite of the hotel. Not bad, I thought. There’s even a view of the park. People were getting the sun, sprawled on the grass near the rows of different colored tulips listening to a local Irish singer singing romantic ballads. It kind of reminded me of New York City’s Central Park in the summer.
Unbelievably horny, I took off my skirt leaving only the thong and camisole. “You bad girl, coming on a plane dressed like that!” Seamus said, playfully rubbing his fingers across my nipples.
“Coming is right, thanks to an accommodating seatmate like you,” I replied. We giggled and went to inspect the bathroom. We decided to take a bubble bath in the large, marble tub, but I decided to have an “appetizer” first while the tub was filling up.
Seamus slowly stripped, revealing a strong chest with wild curly hair and a truly great cock, or “grand” as the Dubliners say, which was already hard as a rock. He got a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream from the mini-bar, poured a glassful and then dipped his cock in. “Wanna lick?” he asked me as though offering an ice-cream cone. He sat on the edge of the bed with his legs open, gently caressing my blonde hair while I was on my knees licking his cock and sucking his balls. I guess this is what they meant by the original Bailey’s flavor. I could tell he was thoroughly enjoying himself, but just to make him a little crazier, I ran my long fingernails along the ropy veins bulging along the sides of his prick, making tiny swirls and patterns. I put him completely in my mouth–which was no easy task–and started sucking him harder and harder with total abandon.
“Come here and lie down on your back,” he said. I was only too happy to oblige, whipping off my camisole so my tits fell free. I laid down on the plush carpet as he straddled my neck easing his manhood down into my eager mouth. His thighs tightened around me, making everything more intense. Within moments his goods were gushing inside me. He nodded his approval when he saw I was able to swallow every drop without letting any slip onto the carpet. “You’re the perfect hotel guest,” he joked. I was hoping he’d fuck me in the missionary position because I wanted to feel his wonderful body on top of me, and I told him as much. But in no time at all he had me on all fours, my knees still a little weak from all the whiskey and the excitement, my ass was pointed toward the sky waiting for my celtic warrior.
He pushed my thong to one side without even bothering to take it off. My pussy was soaked so it was easy for him to push deep inside me. He was draped over my back pushing back and forth while holding onto my dangling tits. “Oh, yes, my little sweet, you’re just what the doctor ordered,” he whispered in my ear. My orgasm was long in coming, but the beautiful spasms continued for so long that I just dropped over onto my side, almost falling flat on the rug. He wasn’t through, though, and decided to clean me up with his own tongue. Turning me over so he could lick his own juices excited me all over again.
Seamus got a wild look in his eyes that made me think he was about to come again, but it turned out that he suddenly remembered the bath he had started running! Sure enough the water was practically up to the brim and looked very inviting. Just before getting in he got two crystal tumblers and two small bottles of whiskey from the fridge. While he poured us drinks, I slowly got into the bubbly water, thinking how nice it would be to finally relax in the hot bath. But alas, my insatiable Irish stud had other plans. After sitting down behind me in the tub he began sponging my tits. He then held a glass from behind up to my mouth, urging me to sip some of the scotch. I drained it in one gulp. “You are a thirsty girl, aren’t you?” He put down my glass and sipped his own scotch very slowly with his left hand while keeping two fingers of his right hand tucked deep inside my cunt. “Now, this is how I like to drink my scotch,” he said laughing.
He put down his glass and lightly lifted me by the waist to sit me down in his lap, but not until he adjusted his enormous shaft in my pussy. I was going crazy with anticipation, but he seemed to enjoy that position too much. “Now for some true relaxation.” I watched unbelieving as he leaned his head back against the wall and feigned sleeping, all the while staying deep inside me. What incredible self-control he had! I, on the other hand, could feel that I was quickly losing it. To make matters worse his hand was still playing with one of my tits, stroking it lazily as though he didn’t even notice that his cock was inside me. I decided to take matters into my own hands and maneuvered myself up onto my haunches, making sure I didn’t let his dick slip out of me. I started riding his prick up and down, taking him in him slowly but surely. I looked back over my shoulder to see how I was doing. From the broad grin on his face I could tell he thought my equestrian skills were still just fine.
“I’m happy to see you’re taking advantage of Dublin’s famous horseback riding,” he joked holding my wet hair as though grasping the mane of a wild horse. I was riding hard and fast by then in a complete frenzy of excitement. Soon we were both coming again, as we would many times that afternoon.
After Seamus left, I dried myself off and dozed on the immense white bed, reminiscing about the plane trip and about my formal welcome to Dublin. That was by far the most exciting sex I’d ever had, and I was glad I had made the trip. Perhaps I would see him again, perhaps not. I didn’t want to spoil things with plans but secretly hoped our paths would cross again. I had heard Irish men were terrific lovers, and I had just gotten firsthand confirmation.
I realized suddenly that I was extremely late for an informal get-together I had been invited to by the company. Though the interview wasn’t until the following day it would be a good chance to meet some of the people I might be working with. I slipped into a slinky top with black jeans and Prada mules and was ready to go. After a short walk down Grafton Street, where someone was strumming “Nothing Compares to U” on a guitar in the distance, and then onto cobblestoned Duke Street, I was almost there.
We were meeting at Davy Byrne’s, a local pub where Leopold Bloom had famously stopped to drink a glass of port and eat a gorgonzola sandwich, as recounted by Joyce. I was so thrilled with this literary revelation that I didn’t even mind all the smoke around me. I was immediately greeted by a few of my potential colleagues who seemed to be griping about their jobs. It was difficult for me to get into work mode after the events of the day, but I tried my best.
After alternating a round of bitter, creamy Guinness with a round of Red Bull and vodka, the trendy drink of the moment, everybody was ready to hit Temple Bar. Similar in style to the Left Bank in Paris, that was definitely the happening place in Dublin. After dancing a few hours at the nightclub Kitchen right in the basement of the Clarence Hotel, which is owned by U2, I was definitely ready to turn in for the night. After all, I did have an interview the next day, even though I already felt that whatever the outcome my trip had definitely been, as they say, a positive experience. I said good-bye to my newfound Irish mates who asked me right before I left, if I liked their city. “Oh yes,” I answered truthfully with a broad grin. “Dublin has a lot to offer a woman like me.” As I left them, I saw a slightly quizzical look on their faces and laughed to myself as I greeted the night.
I live in Europe and supplement my income by traveling around to the growing number of casinos on the Continent that offer American-style poker. I’d heard the seven-card-stud players at a place called Kasino Reeperbahn in Hamburg gave a lot of action. I also knew that the Reeperbahn, a six-block avenue near the city’s waterfront area, is known theworld over–and proclaimed by civic boosters–to be the most sinful mile on Earth. I wanted to see how it compared to other red-light districts I’d visited.
I walked from the train station to my modest downtown hotel. After washing down a juicy weisswurst with a pint of Hamburg’s finest lager, I was ready for the short walk to Vice Central.
The St. Pauli church is the gateway to the Reeperbahn and lends its name to the several dozen blocks on either side of the avenue. St. Pauli girls have been legendary among seafaring men for centuries, even being immortalized as a brand of beer, but not even Amster-dam’s red-light district had prepared me for the decadence of the neighborhood I was entering.
Along one side of the Reeperbahn I saw an almost unbroken parade of sex boutiques, live-sex shows, sex cinemas, lap-dancing clubs and garish slot-machine casinos. Surprisingly, I also passed a number of inviting restaurants and sidewalk cafes filled with young couples and families enjoying the mild spring evening. St. Pauli is not only Hamburg’s major claim to world notoriety, it is also the city’s main entertainment center, where you’ll see people having snacks at a tiny sandwich shop between the Sex Kino and the Pascha Exotic Palace. Glancing across the broad esplanade, I saw a different balance. There were still sex shops, but there were also cafes and a couple of legitimate theaters Cats has been playing on the Reeperbahn for years.
I’d picked up a pamphlet at my hotel that had a map called “St. Pauli from A to Z” with a listing under “Bordelle” for the Laufhaus Eros I planned to check it out but in my business the needs of the bankroll take precedence over those of the flesh. I glanced in at the Laufhaus as I passed and saw a giant carved stone phallus at the base of a stairway near a neon sign advertising women upstairs. The strip-club barkers on either side of the brothel immediately started for me as I paused, so I pushed past them at a brisk pace toward the Kasino, two blocks away. I threaded my way through scattered groups of sullen, mohawked panhandlers entranced by the endless display of breasts and bottoms and dildos and love dolls and flashing lights emanating from the open-front slot machine emporia. Kasino Reeperbahn is a three-story Victorian-era white brick building that somehow maintains a certain dignity in the midst of the Sodom it calls home. I found the poker game just getting started on the third floor, adjacent to the small lounge, and took the last seat.
Germans play poker like they’re panzer commanders, trying to win through a mix of audacity and brute force. There were four or five players chasing every pot, throwing in raises without normal poker rhyme or reason, huge stacks of chips eventually covering the middle of the table. But as Rommel discovered, superiority in materiel will ultimately win out. For an hour, I stayed out of the way of these would-be battle wagon skippers, folding hand after hand, forfeiting only my antes. Then came the inevitable hand when I held the best cards, with four belligerent players making maximum wagers on each round of betting. Ten minutes later, I was back on the Reeperbahn eight hundred dollars richer. It was more than enough to cover the expenses of my trip and fund whatever exotic venereal delights I might encounter.
My first stop was the Laufhaus Eros. I was expecting an elegant lounge stocked with a selection of equally elegant ladies, where I could combine a chat with the madame with the more pleasant task of choosing a companion. As I found out, such clubs exist in Ham-burg, but not tawdry St. Pauli. A Lauf-haus is a very different sort of bordello.
When I reached the third floor landing, I was confronted by a wall of glass-front doors leading to about two dozen sparsely furnished cubicles. Some had drawn curtains, indicating that a client was being entertained. Others framed a wide variety of young ladies wearing Frederick’s of Hollywood scanties or less. I window-shopped through the two stories of this sexual mini-mall, feeling a growing urgency in my groin as the girls opened their doors to coo softly or brazenly bawl out their exotic treats. They rolled down their bra cups and rubbed their nipples or turned and bent over to pull their silk panties up and flex their creamy cheeks for me.
The girl who almost snagged me was a tiny blonde hardbody sitting cross-legged on a stool, displaying her wares for all the world to see. Her cupcake-sized breasts spilled out of her halter top. When she saw me stop she sensuously uncrossed her legs, dragging one firm, shapely thigh over the other, revealing crotchless panties. She also revealed a pussy completely bare save for a tiny, delicate white rose tattooed where her pubic hair would have been. Then she stretched back, giving me a glimpse of her plump, inviting lower lips.
The overall atmosphere of this sexual supermarket was a bit too tacky even for my jaded tastes, so despite my raging hard-on I decided to continue my foray into St. Pauli before deciding on a companion. But I didn’t want to leave without at least a taste of this honey. I stepped to my Rosenmadchen’s door, raised my hands and made the universal double-curve sign for a woman’s shape, holding out a ten-mark note.
She understood immediately and opened the door, snatching the bank-note. She stood still while I ran one hand over her firm breasts, reaching inside her top to knead the firm, giving flesh. The skin of her back was cool and smooth as I ran my other hand down her spine to cup both firm, tiny buttocks in my palm. I had one hand softly caressing the lush globes of her exquisite ass as I ran the middle finger of the other between her slightly parted thighs, pressing against the warm, damp length of the cunt she’d flashed at me just seconds before.
By then my erection was straining against the front of my jeans. I felt like I had a fiery iron bar pressed into the flesh of my upper thigh. The girl reached forward and ran her delicate fingers along the length of my shaft through the material. “Komm,” she whispered, giving my cockhead a little squeeze and turning her head back toward the cubicle. As horny as she’d gotten me, though, I still wasn’t ready to pay her fifty marks to finish me off properly. I smiled, pressed twenty more marks into her palm and walked off.
I consulted my map to plan my next move. I was intrigued by the name of one of the side streets, Grosse Freiheit, which translates to Great Freedom. I strolled down the street under banners advertising the Dollhouse, a bar and restaurant that featured a strip show and lap dancers of both sexes. This is also Hamburg’s center for music clubs. I passed a number of them interspersed with Laufhausen, sex clubs and toy stores. On Grosse Freiheit I found a black stone plaque commemorating the legendary Star Club, which presented some of the greatest stars of rock and roll from 1962 to 1969. The Beatles played their first, historic gigs outside England in the Star Club, and the time they spent in gritty, exotic, erotic St. Pauli undoubtedly contributed to their maturation as artists.
I couldn’t resist taking a walk-through of Paradise Laufhaus, one of several clubs specializing in Thai girls exclusively. Their exotic beauty and lush, dark flesh caused a stirring in my groin but it was getting late and I still had a lot to see. Although St. Pauli swings into the wee hours, I’d been told it wasn’t wise to stroll through the dark streets and alleyways too late, and I was carrying a lot of cash, although on the advice of the concierge I’d left my wallet and passport at the hotel.
After ambling through the neighborhood around Grosse Freiheit, down one block lined exclusively with gay shops, clubs and cinemas, taking it all in, I headed for the really raunchy side of St. Pauli. My guidebook noted four streets around one square block where I would find the most “ladies of the horizontal trade.” I wasn’t sure what to expect.
A forbidding, three-story red brick Polizei Police station stands at the corner of Davidstrasse and the Reeper-bahn. Directly across the narrow street I saw a line of girls on the sidewalk leading from the cafes on the avenue. There must have been at least fifty women standing there, many of them astonishingly beautiful. Unlike the girls in the brothels, they wore what I guess was legal street garb. It was a delicious sight, their butt cheeks hanging out below the hems of too-small hot pants, jiggling and quivering as they strutted their stuff, the creamy slopes of their breasts exposed in peasant blouses and tight halters. A few were engaged in negotiations with prospective customers, but most of the girls were free or at least available . I could see them eyeing me as I crossed the street.
The first to reach me was a dark-skinned brunette in toreador pants that looked painted on. I could see the puffy swell of her sex as she stood spread-legged, making little pumping motions with her hips. “Na, Susser mal mitkommen?” she whispered throatily.
My “A to Z” warned that if you’re not interested in the women here, make it clear immediately or risk an unpleasant and humiliating tongue-lashing. So I shook my head and walked past her, continuing to shake it as I passed the rest of the pack, although there were at least three women who made my cock jump for joy. I was determined to walk around the whole block before deciding what to do next and whom to do it with.
Herbertstrasse forms another side of the block and is guarded on both ends by ten-foot red steel walls. After passing through the narrow entry, forbidden to men under eighteen and all women or at least those who don’t work there , I saw an outdoor Laufhaus. Both sides of the streets were lined with a continuous array of the ladies in the windows. I walked without stopping but glanced at most of the sixty or so working girls. Compared to the streetwalkers outside the wall, the girls of Herbertstrasse were older, plainer and exhibited a wider range of unusual sexual characteristics. I saw two girls next to one another who were obviously competing for Most Surgically Enhanced Breasts, each of them showing off boobs in the fifty-inch range. There were also several obese women, one of truly elephantine proportions. Most of the ladies were looking for customers with specialized tastes I don’t share, so I exited through the other gate to find the same erotic smorgasbord as on the far end of the street. It was almos
t midnight, and my prick was still burning a hole through my jeans. A tall blonde girl with high Nordic cheekbones and a blouse open to the waist approached me. She stood so close I could see the delicate tracery of veins on the sides of her pale, pendulous breasts.
“Hello sweetie. Come with me for a while,” she said, mimicking her colleague down the street.
“Sprechen sie Englisch?” I asked. But as my eyes roved up and down the lush curves of her body, taking in the firm, muscular thighs peeking out from under the hem of her red miniskirt, I knew I would wind up my evening with her, even if I had to negotiate the deal in pidgin German.
“Yes, I do,” she replied to my relief. She had the trace of an accent that, among Germans, is usually the sign of a university education or of having lived in an English-speaking country. “It’s a hundred marks for me and twenty for the room.”
As we strolled hand in hand to one of the many “tourist” and “student” hotels that dot the St. Pauli, she told me her name was Ingrid, she was an art student from Munich and she’d been here in St. Pauli for three months. I told her I was surprised to find a German girl working the streets, since I thought that most of the young blondes in the windows were from Eastern Europe, as was the case in street-side brothels in Amsterdam.
“Ja,” she said as we entered the urinous atmosphere of a seedy hotel reception area. “That is true here, as well. Many of them were tricked into coming here and cannot leave without paying more than they can earn to those who brought them here and sold them. But many, and the few Germans, are like me. At home, they’re too poor to marry and unable to find work. I am poor as well, a poor student with a poor student boyfriend in a rich country that is expensive to live in. The Poles, Ukrainians and Romanians come for six months or a year and can make enough to go home and start a small shop or have a dowry necessary to attract a husband. I’m here with my boyfriend for six months. With him here, I’m safe from the pfimpfen on the street. When our time is done, we will have enough savings to pay everything for our last year at university.”
We didn’t stop to check in. I worked my way through college in a hotel just like this one, only in the Times Square section of Manhattan, so I knew that Ingrid had paid the forty-mark-per-night rate posted outside earlier in the evening and was splitting the twenty marks I had paid her with the desk clerk. The beery, disheveled, middle-aged clerk was engaged in a spirited debate with two American college kids who had been lured in by the cheap “student” rate but hadn’t realized what sort of hotel it was until the lady in the next room was boisterously servicing her third client. Their request for a refund was being emphatically refused as we passed.
Ingrid exchanged nods with the clerk and started up the stairs. By the second step, the bottom of her thong panties came into view and I lost interest in my naive countrymen’s plight. I stayed four steps behind her, my eyes riveted to her glorious rolling globes of ivory all the way to her third-floor room. By the time she had the key in the lock, I was hard as a rock. I tried to ease my excitement with thoughts of other things, with limited success because by then, with Ingrid so close to me, my sense of smell was coming in to play. I could see a light patina of perspiration on the slopes of her breasts that conspired with the scent she was wearing to add a new dimension to my lust.
The room was no better than I expected it to be, containing a double bed with a down comforter, a wooden table and chair, a sink and carpets stained with substances I didn’t want to think about. But the tawdriness of the room faded from my mind as Ingrid began to undress. I sat on the edge of the bed watching as she untucked her blouse and undid the bottom two buttons. She left the garment on, swaying slightly so that it would swing open and closed, providing glimpses of her full breasts and the roseate nipples that capped them.
The darling girl then turned her back to me. I groaned as she began to tug at her skirt, inching it down over her hips while still hiding her perfect rear from my hungry gaze. The skirt dropped to the floor around her feet, taking her panties with it. She stepped out of the fabric and turned to face me. She was still swaying from side to side, humming softly, the blouse flapping and her fingers lightly stroking the almost invisible golden down above her pussy, winking in invitation each time she moved.
“Ach liebchen,” she murmured, looking down at the visible evidence of the effect of her performance. “I see you have a problem. Ingrid will fix it.”
She shrugged the blouse from her shoulders as she did a graceful pirouette before me, displaying one of the most perfectly formed asses I’ve ever seen. Then she sank to her knees before me, giving me my first real view of her proud bosom. As she unzipped my jeans, I reached down and squeezed the luscious swinging orbs, holding them in my hands from the bottom, squeezing the yielding flesh in my fingers, confirming their realness. No surgical enhancement here!
“Oh my!” she exclaimed as my tortured organ sprang free from its prison to smack her on the cheek. I had been so horny since I’d first seen Ingrid that I was leaking, and I saw a drop of pre-come glistening on her cheek in the light of the room’s one bedside lamp. She suddenly dropped her head and engulfed me to the root. I don’t know from where or when she’d palmed it, but when I looked down to see her moist lips pursed around the base of my cockhead, it was securely encased in a transparent condom.
The pleasure was so intense, her oral technique so exquisite, that I pulled her from my cock and drew her back to lie on the bed beside me. She sensed I was about to take control and lay down, sensuously writhing, gently squeezing and caressing my balls as I ran my hands over her superb form. Her magnificent ass made for a wonderfully erotic invitation to the full-breasted, broad-hipped Nordic beauty whose innermost depths I was about to explore.
Her finger snaked between my legs to press against my asshole just as I did the same to hers, pressing one finger of my left hand between her buttocks, the pad of it against the warmth of her pucker. I had my lips firmly glued to the vast, rosy expanses of her nipples, moving from one to the other, burying my head in her lush melons. My right hand was busy between her parted thighs, the middle finger running up and down her furrow to linger at the juncture of her thighs and finally tempt her clit to come out and say hello.
Ingrid again gripped my scrotum then inched playfully up my shaft to squeeze the throbbing cockhead, cupping her palm around it and squeezing again. She knew she’d brought me to the money point. She raised herself so her swaying breasts were like pink-frosted vanilla ice cream cones. I raised my head for a lick every time one went by.
“Na, Susser,” she whispered, looking into my eyes. “How do you want me?”
Visions of her delicious rear view popped into my mind, making the question easy to answer. I circled around behind her. A gentle nudge to the back of her thighs signaled my desire. Ingrid rose up on her hands and knees, her magnificent buttocks slightly parted to reveal the pink rosebud between them, guiding my eyes to the moist crease of her womanhood below.
Ingrid reached back between her legs and grasped my shaft firmly, confirming that we were still protected. Then I plunged forward through the gates of paradise with a motion that unleashed the pent-up lust of my St. Pauli evening. My stomach hit Ingrid’s rump with a smack I’m sure the desk clerk heard, and the sight of her splayed shaking ass cheeks drove me to the brink of orgasm. It also oddly put my mind in control of my gonads, my only thought being how I could prolong the intense sensations caused by the tight grasp of her wet, silky pussy around my burning organ. I bent over and kissed her back, reached around to cup the full weight of her hanging breasts, the nipples now rock-hard against my palms.
I tried to slow down, to make the moment last for as long as possible. But she started to milk me, moving in small circles back and forth while contracting her vaginal muscles around my screaming hard-on so exquisitely as to almost make me scream. I held out as long as I could, but all too soon I was pounding my body against that frantically gyrating posterior like a missile locked on target. My balls tightened and my strokes reached a fevered pace. Sensing the moment was nigh, Ingrid redoubled her internal muscle massage as I threw my head back, driving myself into her again and again until I had released every drop of come from my body.
Often with working girls good-byes are perfunctory and embarrassing. After a few minutes of recovery time, I was dressed and at the door. Ingrid was rinsing herself off in the sink “I have to be fresh to go back to work,” she said . When she heard the doorknob rattle, she put the washcloth down and walked to the door in all her naked glory. “Will you tell your friends you had a good time in St. Pauli?” she asked, grabbing my hands and pressing them one last time to her chest.
“I won’t be able to recommend it fully,” I replied, “because I know you’ll probably be gone from here by the time they get a chance to visit.” She leaned forward and kissed my forehead as she closed the door behind me.
I wound up in the hotel bar talking with the man who had originally told me about the escort-service ads in the hotel’s tourist literature. He told me about a new wrinkle to Hamburg’s sex scene: Men interested in quick, anonymous sex need only call a certain phone number and they’ll be directed to that night’s forum for “Sex at the Car Park.” Maybe I’ll get back to Hamburg before Ingrid leaves after all. A writer’s research is never done.
What is it that makes French girls so attractive? Their love of lingerie and oral sex? That’s a good start. An entire nation of women who feel it’s their patriotic duty, like a debt to hundreds of years of French culture, to give great head and look good doing it.
This is no exaggeration. They’re something like French patriots, true believers in what many believe to be the national art form.
I have no idea how it began, but I do know that the French are hedonists. Just look at the decadence of a simple meal: It’s almost impossible to eat lunch in France without consuming a bottle of wine with your four courses and ending up just this side of unconscious. Christ, didn’t they fight a revolution about this? Everything French is about pleasing the senses there’s a reason why Paris is the fashion capital of the world and why every French woman seems to have been trained in the arts of seduction and fellatio. It’s a nice way to be.
That French is the “language of love” is no myth, either. I guarantee it. Armed with only a little high school French and a guide book, I took a trip to the land of champagne and Impressionism. I still wonder why–or how–I ever left.
P rigueux is in the southwest of France, not far from Toulouse. It is a land of hills and castles and country inns. It’s only a few hours from Paris, my ultimate destination, but light years away in attitude and style. You still see merchants using horse-drawn carts to make deliveries, and the locals make their own wine.
I arrived looking like any American on vacation, with a backpack and sandals, smoking Marlboros and sporting Ray Bans that cost about eighty bucks in Cleveland but are worth five times that in France–and are a much bigger status symbol.
I walked into a local inn through a lobby that served as a pub and restaurant and inquired for a room in broken French. The old man at the counter looked at me suspiciously but took my passport and let me sign for a room before ringing the bell to get someone to show me upstairs.
The young woman who materialized looked like she belonged in one of those cheap paperback novels that take place in Europe and are supposed to be “romantic” but are really all about bodices and heaving bosoms and fucking everything in sight. She was wearing a white peasant shirt that just covered her nipples–I could see them through the sheer material–and exposed the tops of her pure white breasts. She was like the heroine in a foreign movie. I wanted to suck her.
She took the key from the old man with a polite “Oui, Papa,” and led me upstairs. Goddamn it, the old man was her father, I thought. He cleared his throat and gave me a look that said he just may have already killed a few Americans for getting the wrong idea about his daughter. I smiled at her when she gave me the key and watched as she disappeared downstairs. I wanted to bang her right there but didn’t want to die in P rigueux. I cleaned up and headed into the center of town. There were sure to be more women like her, sans Papa.
The bar was like any other small pub in southern Europe, filled with blue smoke from strong Gitanes and Gauloises cigarettes young people playing billiards and talking too loud and old men at the periphery, drinking themselves into a wine and brandy stupor. I ordered a bottle of Pelforth beer. Even though they’re famous for wine, there’s a lot to be said for French beer. I strongly recommend it.
It was easy to strike up a conversation, because everyone in a small town like this is fascinated with Americans. I shared some of my American smokes and conversed in English and French.
Things were going well. Did I know Bruce Springsteen? He’s an American, so surely I must know him, n’est pas? He is very loved in France. I laughed with them and drank some more, but there’s always one asshole who’s got something to prove.
This time he was an ugly, unshaven brute and he got right in my face.
“Fucking Americans, poisoning the world with your shit fast food. Fucking McDonald’s asshole. You should leave here, yankee shit.”
I tried to turn my back as gently as possible, but he grabbed my shoulder and continued spitting with drunken anger. “I am fucking you,” he bellowed. They really do talk like that. “Give me your Marlboro. We don’t need your shit.”
It was almost impossible to avoid a fight, and that’s when she stepped in between us.
“Pourquoi tu te comportes comme un neanderthal? Tu es comme l’ivre dans un mauvais film.”
“Why,” she asked him, “do you behave like a caveman? You’re like the drunk in a bad movie.” She turned around and took me with her, basically saving me from getting my ass kicked. She was petite but tough, with perky breasts that threatened to poke through her silk blouse. She had her hair cut short, pixie style, and she had big blue eyes and big red lips. She was young, gorgeous and in charge.
I let her push me out of the bar. I would let her do whatever she wanted.
“He is such an asshole,” she said in a sexy French accent. “He starts a fight with everyone.” I caught her giving me the ol’ once-over. “Where are you from?”
“I’m from New York,” I replied, suavely as I could.
“Such a big city,” she smiled. “This is a very small town. A very lonely town. Would you like to stay with me tonight?”
“Oui, oui,” I answered in my best French.
We climbed a hill and passed through the gates of an old stone wall before reaching her house. It was like going back in time. Catherine, however, was a modern sort of girl.
The second we were in the door she spun around and French-kissed me so passionately that I was gasping for air. Her tongue filled my mouth and her hands held my head while she pressed her body against mine. I could feel her nipples turn hard against my chest and I pressed my cock against her crotch.
In a flash she had peeled her shirt off to reveal a black lace bra. Her pink nipples pushed through the fine material and I couldn’t help putting my hands on her tits and squeezing them gently as we continued kissing.
When her hands found my prick she cupped and fondled my erection, peeling my pants off as she ran her tongue over my neck and down my chest. Soon she found the tip of my cock with her tongue. She was down on her knees by then, her nimble fingers stroking my balls as she began to perform the national specialty.
Catherine sucked my cock slowly, without rushing but without hesitation. Her lips worked gently over my shaft as her fingers climbed under my tight balls, pushing more and more of my cock into her mouth. She knew how to use her tongue to bring me close to coming without putting me over the edge–she seemed to have a finely honed instinct of how far she could push me while still keeping me on the edge of ejaculation for what seemed like forever. My knees started to weaken and I was almost completely out of breath.
When she took her mouth off my cock I could see a white droplet of precome had collected on her lower lip. I watched her lick it off, enjoying the salty taste of my sex until she brought me over to her couch to fuck me properly.
Oh sure, she could have sucked me off, but when I saw her golden bush and the pinkest pussy I had ever imagined I was glad she’d saved the best for last.
I was lying on my back and felt every centimeter of her white thighs squeeze my hips as she lowered her wet pussy over my cock. I could hear her lips part as she took me deep into her gorgeous French twat. It was almost as if she was speaking French with her pussy. Inside her it was hot and moist and slippery, and she rode me slowly as she rubbed her clit and licked her fingers. It was obvious she loved the taste of sex.
I held onto her black lace bra while she fucked me, each stroke bringing me closer to exploding inside of her. She put her fingers in my mouth so I could taste her pussy.
“Baise moi plus fort!” She was practically screaming and it sounded good.
Finally she reached behind her and stroked my balls as she fucked the come out of me. I came in a slow gush and she seemed to suck up every drop with her steaming slit, but just to make sure she licked my cock clean, sucking on my balls so nicely that I nearly came again on her face. Finally I had to beg her to stop. I was shaking and dizzy from the best sex I had ever had.
“Voil ,” she said softly. “I make you happy?”
“Mmmm,” I answered, unable to remember the word in French.
“I am so lonely here in my little town. You would like to stay a few days with me here?”
That sounded good to me. All I had to do was go back to the inn and get my stuff and I would be back, ready to keep her company. This made her very happy. And it made me happy too.
I walked back down the hill, smoking one of my Marlboros, thinking about my stupid luck and feeling proud to be an American. I wondered if we helped them out in the war just to get head from their women.
By the time I got to the inn the lights were off. I would have to ring the bell and wake up the old man–or so I thought. Just as I was about to knock on the door I heard her voice.
“Am ricain?” There she was, just as I had left her. Blood flowed into my cock. I couldn’t help it.
“I am waiting for you. It gets so lonely in this little town.”
She took me by the hand and led me around back into the barn. We sat down together on a pile of hay, where she kissed me gently on the mouth before pulling off her shirt to reveal beautifully round, large breasts.
“Tu sais comment elles sont, les filles Fran aises? Je vais te montrer.”
She asked if I knew about French girls. Well, I was learning. I stuck my face between her tits and let her squeeze them against my head. I wanted to do the same thing with my dick, which by then was harder than ever. We quickly got undressed and I began to tit-fuck her, the top of my cock just reaching her lips. Apparently, though, that was a little too much of a tease for her, because she grabbed hold of my cock by the shaft and hungrily began to suck me.
She was a little less experienced than Catherine had been, but there was no stopping her. I thrust my dick into her mouth again and again, fucking her face as she moaned and brought me closer to orgasm.
Where Catherine’s sucking technique was refined and controlled, this girl just sucked and sucked. When I came it was in torrents, several huge blasts that practically paralyzed me. She swallowed it all as she continued to jerk every drop into her eager mouth. I fell back onto the hay, out of breath for the second time in an hour.
“Cigarette Am ricain?” she asked sweetly. Reaching for my coat, I gave her one. She took me back to the inn, waiting to get away from the dry hay before lighting it. She took a drag off the cigarette the likes of which I had never seen–I could imagine the Marlboro man busting a nut if he saw her smoke.
“Au revoir, mon cheri. Tomorrow I will see you?”
I nodded and went upstairs, collected my things, left a hundred francs next to the bed–more than enough for a room I never slept in–and headed up the hill back to Catherine. It was amazing I could even walk.
As it turns out, Catherine was a lonely girl. Every day she woke me up with her mouth on my cock, sucking me beautifully, sometimes letting me come in her mouth, sometimes fucking me. She seemed to like both equally.
We spent the days hiking around the castles and walking around the wall that surrounded her “lonely” town, stopping to drink wine and eat wonderful lunches of goose liver and strong cheese on crusty baguettes. The wall was from medieval times and looked like something from a storybook. But I was beginning to understand why she was so lonely. Nothing ever happened there. It was barely a dot on the map.
The whole time I thought about sneaking down the hill for another romp in the hay with the big-breasted country girl, but the whole town already knew who I was: the American staying with Catherine. In a town of a few hundred that was big news, and I didn’t want to take any chances of running into the old man. Well-fucked and full of good ol’ American confidence, I decided to head for Paris.
Catherine gave me a ride me to Toulouse to catch my train and gave me a wet kiss good-bye. She was beautiful and looked so sad to see me go, but we both knew that it was time for me to move on. She would be lonely, she said, and told me to call her from Paris. It felt good to put some ground under my feet. The lonely little town was beginning to climb on me.
The bar car on the SNFC the French national rail road–it probably means “blowjob express” is an excellent place to watch the countryside fly by, meet people, and naturally, have a drink. I ordered a Kronenbourg.
The cold beer went down easily while I thought about my two French lovers who had done the same. I wondered what delights Paris had to offer.
“You’re American,” I heard.
It was a New York accent and it sounded good to my ears after wrestling with frog talk for the last few days. What’s more, she looked good.
She was wearing a miniskirt made from faded blue jeans, real tight around
the hips, and an equally faded Aerosmith tank top. She had long red hair, blue eyes and a pouty bottom lip that gave me ideas. I bought her a beer.
“It’s nice to meet an American girl for a change,” I offered after introducing myself. Her name was Mary Jane and she was a grad student from New York University taking a train trip across Europe between semesters.
“Oh yeah,” she came back, with some of that attitude I’d heard New Yorkers were famous for. “I’ll bet you got real tired of having your dick sucked by pretty-smelling French girls in frilly silk underwear.”
I almost dropped my beer. Instead I guzzled it and called for another. I was beginning to get a buzz. She was definitely on her way.
“Well,” I said, “there’s not a whole lot of bad I can say about French girls.”
“I’m sick of these French bitches who think they invented the blowjob. I can give head as good as any of these French cocksuckers.”
I let that go by, but just for a minute.
“Really?”
“You bet.” She smiled when she said it. I sat closer to her. “C’mon,” she said, “I’ll show you.”
I couldn’t believe how easy this was. There must be something in the air. What a great country!
She took me by the hand and we ducked into the bathroom at the end of the car. She sat on top of the toilet and I stood in front of her while she went to work on me.
Almost immediately I could detect a difference in technique. The French girls were masterful, but Mary Jane was in control. She was totally confident in her skills as she sized up my erection, stroked the crown of my cock, and took all six and a half inches into the back of her throat.
Her lips brushed against my balls and her tongue worked my cock with enough force to build some powerful friction. She was more aggressive than the French girls. I think she seriously thought she was representing the USA in an international suck-off, and she was determined to win.
She held the base of my cock in her hand and pulled me halfway out, squeezing me gently with her wet lips before deep-throating me again. I felt her tongue and lips on every inch of every stroke as she began to pump my
cock in and out of her pouty American mouth in rhythm with the train. The whole time I supported myself against the bathroom wall so I wouldn’t fall over as the train clacked its way across the countryside.
With each stroke she built up the pace. I was going to come and I was going to come fast and hard. I looked down at her to see that she had her skirt pulled up and her hand buried in her panties. She was shaking with the train’s vibration as she fingered her twat and rubbed her clit. I hoped she would come with me.
My dick was dripping wet with her saliva as she sucked the come out of me with a final squeeze of her lips. The tiny room was filled with the sweet smell of her pussy and I watched her clench her eyes shut as she began to come with my cock in her mouth. I couldn’t hold on, I just let go, a blast of love juice I didn’t think I had left shooting off into the back of her throat while she guzzled it down.
A few minutes later we were back at the bar, this time sharing a bottle of champagne which, even in France, is not cheap. But it was okay, because we were celebrating: Thanks to her efforts, the Americans, I told her, had won the main event.
It seemed like the right thing to say. C’est la vie.
I sat looking vacantly out the window of the office I shared with half a dozen of my fellow workers. Landing a job in the export office of a large fashion house had seemed to represent a watershed moment in my otherwise dull and uneventful life. After answering an advertisement looking for a “savvy, smart young
woman interested in going places,” I had been miraculously chosen from what I had imagined to be thousands of candidates. I had realized soon enough, however, that this was definitely one of those jobs which sounded far more glamorous on paper than it turned out to be in real life. Initially intrigued by mental pictures of partying with the “beautiful people” and hanging out with superstar models, I quickly found that the gritty reality of the fashion industry, at least on my level, was a very different story. There is no better way to feel like a social loser than when stuck on the fringes of the glamorous life with your face pressed up against the glass, as it were. What results is a sense of total alienation and massive amounts of time spent moping and wondering why you are so uncool.
Which was pretty much what I was doing on that cold December day, as I watched the snow pile up on the cars below. Notwithstanding the outer semblances of a glam career, I was actually stuck in a mundane job, punching numbers into a computer all day long, while it seemed to me that everyone else spend their busy days designing clothes, organizing press conferences and booking models for the spring or fall collections.
As I contemplated once again how I had ended up in such a miserable situation, Nancy, my high-strung, neurotic employer, waltzed into the room. As she made a beeline for my desk, a mental buzzer, similar to a ship’s fire alarm, immediately went off in my head. Something was up, and somehow it involved me.
My boss is the kind of person who has the uncanny ability of speaking to you without ever actually looking at you. And when she does look at you, she is really looking down at you, in a “those-shoes-are-so-last-year-and-gosh-you-are-so-unattractive-how-did-we-ever-let-you-in-here” kind of way. Her eyes, thanks to a facelift performed by an overzealous surgeon, had a perpetually shocked look, sort of like a deer caught in headlights–a decidedly eerie and off-putting vision, especially at nine in the morning. Her sudden interest in me, and the unusual silence in the room, quickly woke me from my little reverie and made me pay attention as this enigmatic yet tyrannical creature explained the situation while pronouncing my upcoming fate.
In very slow, clear sentences, so that she could get across to her ass-kissing intern audience that even a dope like me could be made, with a little effort, to understand plain English, she dropped the bomb. It seemed that a major order for silk fabric from Southeast Asia had never arrived, and somebody had to go immediately to Thailand to sort things out–to Bangkok, to be exact. She further emphasized that since the entire spring collection depended on the missing fabric, this task was of the utmost importance.
Now most people might mistakenly assume that assigning me this vital mission was some sort of promotion or sign of trust but I wasn’t fooled. I would never have been a candidate for such an important expedition had this not been the week of “The Shows,” a time when absolutely nobody could afford to leave–that is, nobody but a completely expendable cog like me, a shamefully underpaid employee who brought her lunch from home every day, and spent most of her time buried in accounting books while everybody else was parading about in Prada and Gucci, complaining about the quality of the champagne at the latest launch party.
While managing to insinuate that perhaps the fault for this mixup was mine, and that I had better get things cleared up as quickly as possible, Nancy begrudgingly pointed me over to the office which would take care of all my travel details. Relying heavily on my innate acting skills, I managed to convey the idea that it was a great inconvenience for me to be dragged away from my wonderful accounting books and fascinating duties. On the inside, of course, I felt like jumping up in the air and dancing an Irish jig. Finally, the chance to get away from this bleak prison of invoice hell and do something fun and crazy! Of course, there was also that fabric order to straighten out. Right, as though that were a priority for me.
In honor of my upcoming trip to foreign climes, where nobody would know of my lowly status, I decided to get a complete makeover before leaving. I quickly exchanged my thick glasses for contact lenses, my whitish pallor for a tanning salon tan and my drab office clothing for a miniskirt and high-heeled sandals. Exactly one week later, about to board my plane, I almost didn’t recognize the hot babe looking back at me from the mirror in the departures lounge. A little slutty, but what the hell, sluts do have more fun. Or was that blondes? And just for the record, tank tops do make your breasts look bigger. How about that for fashion savvy?
On the plane, the silent mantra I whispered was: “Bangkok. . . bang kok. . . bang cock.” It was pretty obvious in which direction my mind was going. Buddhist enlightenment? Not exactly. And no more wasting my big breasts and long legs on that stupid, matchstick-thin, ego-bashing environment back home. No more celery and carrots either I planned on gorging myself on sweet and sour Thai noodles, crunchy spring rolls and tiger beer, and dedicating all my time to massages, steam baths, thick white towels, pools on top of hotels and of course physical gratification. Especially since I wouldn’t be picking up the bill.
And so three beers, two Adam Sandler movies–definitely one too many–and eighteen hours later, with only a short stopover in London, my plane landed at the Don Muang International Airport in Bangkok at six-thirty in the morning, local time. There was a minibus from my hotel waiting for me, and since at this early hour there wasn’t too much traffic it only took twenty minutes to get to the Amari Atrium Hotel, my home for the next four days. The concierge at the desk handed me a list of possible guided tours, with the strong admonition not to eat the small meatballs from local stands, nor to drink the tap water.
As I looked at the inviting white duvet and fluffy pillows on my bed, I promptly forgot about the perils of jet lag and decided to lie down for just a little nap. Twelve hours later I woke up completely disoriented. It was now seven in the evening, and dark outside. Damn, my first day in Thailand was already gone, the offices were all closed, and to make matters decidedly worse, I realized with horror that I had somehow left my work agenda on the plane. I now had no idea how to get in touch with any of the people I was supposedly here to meet, and only vaguely remembered the company name being something like Thai Silk, Incorporated.
After quickly consulting a phone book I made the bleak discovery that there were about thirty entries with similar names silk being after all Thailand’s most popular export item. The only solution was to call my office on Monday, which would immediately reveal my complete lack of professionalism. Oh well, I philosophized, there was no point in dwelling on the negative. It was Saturday night and I was on my own in Bangkok.
Famous for being a party town that never sleeps, Bangkok is one of the most colorful and chaotic cities in Thailand a tropical country situated smack in the center of Southeast Asia, between the Indian Ocean and the China Sea. Full of dramatic contrasts, Thailand is a Buddhist nation with a very cosmopolitan capital that has been strongly influenced by tourism and industrial development. Before exploring the streets and unravelling the mysteries Bangkok had to offer, I definitely needed to eat, since the last thing I remembered consuming was a Thai-flavored pretzel on the plane.
I walked out of the cool, air-conditioned hotel into the incredibly warm, humid night and flagged down a tuk tuk–basically an open carriage pulled by a moped–the town’s most popular mode of transportation, but recommendable only after rush hours because of the terrible smog. I headed straight for the upscale area, where the big hotel restaurants are, since I didn’t want to risk getting a case of traveler’s tummy just yet.
At an outdoor patio where a light, cool breeze was blowing I ordered a huge platter of steamed tiger prawns and a bowl of Hu chalam shark fin soup with a spicy seafood salad called Yam thalay on the side. Everything was delicious, but I was still hungry, so I ordered a small Kaeng khiaw wan, a tasty green curry with coconut and basil. I washed everything down with some cold bia, the local beer.
After such a sumptuous meal, I was finally ready for whatever the night held in store. I didn’t have to wait too long to find out what it was, because at the table next to mine, watching me admiringly as I took huge gulps of beer not too ladylike, I’m afraid, but those prawns were rather spicy was a very attractive-looking man, evidently a fellow American. He kept smiling at me flirtatiously, so after my second beer I decided to take matters into my own hands and meet head-on that most unexpected of pleasures, “the friendly face in a foreign place.”
He watched with an anticipatory grin as I got up from my table, and smiled even more widely at the sight of the short skirt which barely covered my ass. As I sat down, he put out his hand to introduce himself, and just happened to lightly graze my right breast.
“Hi, I’m Brian, from Chicago, and congratulations on the great tits!”
Well, he certainly knew how to cut to the chase. After some more of the usual pleasantries, he asked me to join him for a local specialty, a dessert of Kluay buat chi bananas in coconut milk . He was really hunky, with smoky blue eyes and a casual, inviting smile. As I rubbed my high-heeled sandal against his leg I asked him whether he had any plans for the night, slyly adding that I had none and would greatly enjoy his company. When he reached his hand under the table and took off my sandal, guiding my foot from his leg to his crotch, I got the feeling we were on the same wavelength.
As we munched on our fried bananas and my toes pressed up against his cock, Brian told me that he worked for the Southeast Asian branch of a telephone company, and that after only a few months he was thoroughly enjoying the laid-back lifestyle of Bangkok. But as my foot started rubbing more vigorously, his head tilted slightly upwards and he admitted with a faint smile that he did at times feel a little homesick. It turned out that he lived in a company-subsidized apartment right around the corner from where we were. It was no surprise when he asked me to come up and see the view of the city from his place. I’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t. After settling both our bills, we walked into the humid air holding hands.
As soon as we arrived at his apartment he led me out onto the wraparound balcony to admire Bangkok’s night lights. As I gazed out toward the skyscrapers and rooftop swimming pools, Brian moved up behind me and gingerly licked my neck while slipping both hands under my top so he could cover my breasts and fondle my nipples. He then lifted my skirt and, unzipping his pants, pressed his cock deeply between my ass cheeks. Ah, Bangkok by night, just as it was meant to be seen –with a hand on your breast and a hard cock up your ass.
I turned my head as far as I could, trying to reach his lips with mine. He bent forward so that our mouths met, but it was an awkward kiss in that position. I turned around in his arms and pressed myself against him as we kissed properly and passionately. I felt his erection now against my stomach, and when the kiss ended I slid slowly down to my knees, hearing him gasp softly as I took his stiff cock into my mouth.
I loved the feeling of his hardness throbbing between my lips. I ran my tongue back and forth against the underside, and then began to suck slowly, taking him as deep as I could. After a minute he warned me that he was coming, but I didn’t stop until I felt his come spurting into my throat. I wasn’t worried–I was sure there would be plenty more where that came from.
But I was kind of surprised when he whispered that he would love to shave my twat, if I agreed. This was a first, but a strangely delectable one. So we walked back to his bedroom and, tucking the front part of my skirt up into the waistband and whipping off my thong, I perched on the edge of his huge bed and waited impatiently for him to start. After gingerly spreading shaving cream all over my eager little bush, he started in with the razor. Soon enough I was feeling like a freshly sheared lamb, and as he patted me dry with a little cloth I found myself getting hornier by the minute, and was dying for much more.
Understanding that I was about to explode with desire, Brian put the razor and shaving cream can on the night table and, still kneeling at my crotch, inserted his tongue deep inside me as he held on tightly to my waist. Pausing just long enough to murmur how he adored the smell of shaving cream mixed with pussy juice, he licked passionately in and out of my hole. Under this stimulation it didn’t take long for my cunt to melt into a long series of powerful spasms which almost knocked me off the bed with their violence.
Before my orgasm had come to an end, Brian quickly replaced his tongue with something more substantial: his large, pulsing prick. Taking my feet in his hands and lifting them far above my head, he drove so deep inside me that I could feel his balls up against the crack of my ass. The sensation was so unbelievably pleasurable that in a moment I forgot about everything else–my breasts, my nipples, the silk industry–and all I could manage to focus on was that crack, which was willing his cock to go even further. After some more deep thrusts we both fell into a helpless heap on the bed. This was definitely the quickest, most intense orgasm I had ever experienced, and with a relative stranger no less, in Bangkok–a city which was already living up to its name.
Whispering that he had another little treat especially for my freshly shaved cunt, Brian pulled out a vibrating dildo and laid it on top of my belly. In no time at all I had pushed it inside me, and as I rhythmically moved it in and out while lying on my back, he pushed up my tank top so that my breasts were out in the open air. He took his time enjoying their fullness, alternating between licking and sucking them and twisting the nipples between his thumb and his forefinger.
Eventually he moved up to straddle my neck, and as my hands maneuvered the dildo in my pussy, my mouth once again enjoyed his large cock. It was a feast of sensations, the strong vibrations in my cunt and the lovely hardness of his thick shaft down my throat. Pretty soon I was swallowing more of his salty come, and simultaneously driving the dildo home, bringing on a long, intense orgasm.
Afterwards, as we soaped each other off under the powerful spray of the shower, I wasn’t feeling a bit exhausted, only invigorated. Perhaps it was the jet lag or the exotic surroundings or the stimulating company, but I was definitely ready for another round. Judging from the throbbing pole which saluted me from a myriad of soapy suds, so was he.
This time I took the initiative, wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his upper body, first positioning his cock inside what was by now a very familiar place. In no time at all I was moaning and writhing against his body. I couldn’t have hoped for a better way to end my first night in mystical Southeast Asia: banging some serious cock in Bangkok.
The next morning I woke up in Brian’s bed, unbelievably hungry so after dressing we headed towards the Chao Phraya River and boarded the Chao Phraya Express ferry, which is actually the best and most inexpensive way to see Bangkok. Riding along the river we passed many small boats loaded with fruit, rice and vegetables, and after four stops we got off right in front of the famous and luxurious Oriental Hotel, founded in 1876 by two Danish captains, and home to authors like Somerset Maugham back in the swinging twenties.
After a sumptuous buffet breakfast on the riverside patio of the Oriental, we headed on foot to Chinatown so that I could buy incense, spices and some tiger balm. Brian joked that he could rub some on my freshly shaven twat that evening. I squeezed his hand and said, “Promise?” From his quick nod, I could tell that this evening would be even steamier than the first one, if possible.
Under a sudden light downpour we made our way toward the Phakurat Market, a sort of Indian bazaar which claims to be the Bombay of Thailand. While Brian held the umbrella I couldn’t resist putting my hand down his pants and giving his balls a friendly squeeze. I continued giving him a vigorous morning handjob as I savored the many tastes, colors and smells of the Chak Phet market. But as I passed by the multi-colored silk fabrics, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there was some other reason I was here in Bangkok besides raunchy sex and shopping. What could it be?
Suddenly the horrible face of Nancy, my boss, appeared in my mind like a scary hallucination, kind of like that scene from the Wizard of Oz where the evil witch appears on the broomstick, laughing. Suddenly my palms got a little sweaty and my stomach a little queasy. Better stop for some noodles and bia–lots of bia.
In the end, the only fashion-related business I actually did was to buy myself an electric-blue silk dress with a matching jacket, which at the first fitting, strangely enough, made me look like the Michelin man, eliciting barely contained giggles from the mostly Indian assistants. Luckily, by the third and last fitting the suit had greatly improved. Yet somehow I didn’t think my boss would be impressed. After clothing, our next stop was jewelry, since this was the land of rubies and from there, a small detour to the infamous Pat Pong district. Once the raunchiest red-light zone in all of Southeast Asia, it was now the perfect place to buy fake Rolexes and Louis Vuitton bags.
Brian and I did end up succumbing to an invitation to step inside one of the club entrances for “something truly wonderful,” because, like Oscar Wilde, I can resist everything but temptation–especially when accompanied by a gorgeous and willing man. True to its reputation, a sexual tryst Pat Pong style is the most unforgettable experience around, though by Monday morning, with a massive hangover, the details were a little hazy. In fact, the only really clear thought I had in my head was the notion that I should quit my job and move to Thailand. Perhaps I could sell dumplings at the side of the road, because suddenly even that activity seemed more bearable than what waited for me back home.
The truth is, I don’t know whether Pat Pong was to be blamed–or rather, to be thanked–for my Buddhist-like enlightenment, but my short stay in Thailand finally made me acknowledge a truth that I had been avoiding for too long: life is too short to do something you hate while working for people you loathe. The time had finally come to spread some tiger balm on my bruised ego and get out the Help Wanted pages.
The women are astonishing goddesses with indigo hair, big, dark eyes and pouting lips that carry the weight of hundreds of years of Spanish history. The people are warm and friendly, the food is that of gods and lately money is cheap, something like one hundred fifty pesetas to a gringo peso an American dollar . It used to be it was about one hundred pesetas to a buck, roughly a one-to-one rate of exchange. With the current devaluation of the peseta, it’s almost like going there and stealing a twenty-dollar meal can be bought for about thirteen bucks. But believe me, I didn’t stick around Barcelona to speculate on the currency.
No matter how many movies you watch or how many olive-skinned, brown-eyed models you’ve seen in magazines, nothing can prepare you for the natural beauty of a real live Spanish woman. Everything about them radiates a soft sensuality that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the world. Certainly not in Europe sure there are gorgeous, sophisticated women in Paris and drop-dead, buxom blonde vixens in Germany and Scandinavia, but none of them glow like the women of Spain.
But then Spain is not really Europe. In many ways it’s closer to Africa. In parts of Spain you can practically smell the Sahara mixing with the intoxicating scent of olive groves and vineyards. For sure you can feel a sense of visceral freedom drifting up from the untamed continent to the south. The Spanish bring this feeling to everything they do, but especially the most sensual of their art forms: eating and making love.
I was in Barcelona on spring vacation with a few pals, trying to soak up some culture, away from the blue-collar bullshit we had in Philadelphia. And after a week of art museums and tapas, I didn’t miss the Liberty Bell or cheesesteak sandwiches one bit. The only thing I was missing from my week in Spain was a taste of the women. The week was up and it was time to go home, but since I had nothing to do there except pay rent I had no girlfriend and no problem taking another week off from my job as a messenger for a local radio station , I decided to stick around. I thought maybe if I lost my posse and flew solo for a few days I might go home with a Spanish wife.
I’d made a few friends there, and when they heard that I wanted to hang around, they asked me stay with them. The Spanish really are a warm, welcoming people, and they were delighted I loved their country so much. The first night of my second week was the one that would change my fortune.
My new friends and hosts, Pablo and Pedro, were a couple of party-happy college students. I think they considered themselves great Spanish intellectuals, but they were always drinking and chasing girls. They invited me to a gallery for an art opening, sort of an underground showing of politically inspired paintings by young artists. There promised to be lots of women and lots of wine. “Wear a dark shirt,” Pablo told me. “One that won’t look bad when you spill wine on it, because you will, and you don’t want to be embarrassed when you’re talking to a woman.”
He was right, of course, on both counts. Her name was Blanca and I had spilled wine on my shirt. It was impossible not to–every time my glass was empty someone filled it up and there were so many people jammed into the gallery that I was constantly being bumped into. It was only a spectacular save that stopped me from drenching Blanca with a glass of deep red Rioja. “Pretty good,” she said to me in pretty good English. “You must be used to these openings.”
“My first time,” I told her.
She smiled. “You know enough to wear a dark shirt, though.”
We got to talking and I think she was as charmed by my English and bad Spanish as I was charmed by her accent. She was roughly my age, about twenty-eight, and she had the classic looks of a Spanish princess: long black hair, dark eyes with impossibly long lashes. And like so many Spanish women, she was dressed with impeccable style that showed off her best features: a leather miniskirt, tights and the ankle-high boots that Spaniards love. A loose, almost see-through silk blouse hinted at the beautiful breasts it barely concealed.
As the opening began to wind down, I suggested we go for a drink. She took me by the hand and led me out. “We have to be careful where we go. I don’t want my boyfriend or any of his friends to see us, but I really like you. I always wanted to meet someone from Philadelphia. Ever since I saw the movie.”
Whatever, I thought.
She took me to a dark basement bar that was playing The Cure at a deafening volume. We drank beer and spoke into each other’s ears so we could hear better. Her breath was hot and every once in a while I could feel her lips brush the side of my face. Her hand was on my knee. I gave her a kiss and she responded by taking my face in her hands and slowly working her tongue into my mouth.
“I can’t be with you tonight, cari o,” she said softly into my ear, cutting through the music with a pure, wet voice. “But tomorrow I will show you the city. And everything else.” We made a date to meet in the morning. I met her in front of the Gaudi cathedral, which looks like a giant Catholic birthday cake. It’s really cool.
Sure enough she showed me around Barcelona, up and down the central drag Las Ramblas and to tapas restaurants buried in medieval alleyways where we ate chorizo and drank ca as, cold beer in short glasses. We held hands and kissed the whole time. I suggested we go back to where I was staying, but she said she knew Pablo and Pedro and we would have to find a motel. That wasn’t hard to do in Barcelona, but she told me to pretend that we were married. After all, Spain is a Catholic country and a lot of folks are still rooted in Franco-era morality. Luckily for me, Blanca was not one of them.
The moment we got into the room she put her arms around my neck and gave a kiss so deep and sexy that my knees buckled. I swear she had an exotic taste to her that I still get high on whenever I remember her. “I knew I wanted you when I saw you in the galleria,” she told me as she peeled off my shirt. I watched her remove her clothes to reveal the kind of lacy lingerie that Americans always imagine when they think of European women.
I kissed her breasts through her black silk bra and worked my mouth onto her nipples, pulling her bra down a bit but leaving it on so I’d have something to hang on to when I fucked her from behind. I was harder than I’d ever been in Pennsylvania–Blanca was far sexier than any American woman and she had a way of stroking my cock so perfectly while her tongue ran over my neck and onto my chest that I could feel my balls fill with what was going to be a giant blast of come. In another moment she had my cock in her mouth. I practically collapsed as her tongue coaxed me to orgasm. But it was not time yet. I had to know how she tasted. Her bush was coal-black and her pussy tasted rich and delicious, like wine and olive oil. She moaned in Spanish as I licked and nibbled her clit. I had no idea what she was saying, but every word was like a reward for a good job eating her out and bringing her closer to coming with my face between her tan thighs.
When she came she shook like castanets in the hands of a skilled Flamenco dancer. We were both covered in sweat and she was out of breath. I understood the next thing she said as “Fuck me,” and I was not wrong. I turned her over and slid my hard cock into her pussy. She was tight and took me inside slowly, soaking me with her sweet, natural lube. I grabbed her bra and fucked her like I was riding her to town. She moaned and whined the whole time and it was like music to my ears. When she reached back and grabbed my balls, rubbing me with her red-tipped fingers, I came like a tidal wave, burying my cock into her until all I could do was hang on for the ride.
We were both soon out of breath, and we collapsed together on the motel bed. She had to get home to her boyfriend, but we made another date to meet in front of the cathedral again the next day. It was one o’clock in the morning, which is when night begins in Spain. Dinner is usually around ten, and Spanish meals go on seemingly forever, with typically four courses plus liqueur and coffee. They take eating very seriously. So one o’clock was party time, and I knew which bar to find Pablo and Pedro. I was sworn to secrecy about my tryst with Blanca, so when Pablo introduced me to Anna with a nod and a wink, I couldn’t admit that I still had the taste of pussy in my mouth and wasn’t looking to get laid. But ain’t it always like that? When it rains, it pours.
Anna wore a Harley-Davidson tank top and leather pants the Spanish are proud of their leather everyone wears boots and leather jackets . She had a red streak dyed in her long black hair that looked more exotic than punk. She was covered in silver jewelry. Apparently, a short-term American lover is kind of a status symbol in some places not Philly, unfortunately , and Anna was determined to have me. She was twenty-two years old and used to getting her way.
By time we got back to Pablo and Pedro’s place, it was four o’clock. We sat on the couch and smoked some hashish, right off the boat from Morocco. I was pretty out of it by then, so I put my head on her lap and closed my eyes. Anna had a better idea. She put her head in my lap and unzipped my fly. My prick popped right up and she took me into her mouth, deftly using her fingers to get my pants down around my knees. She barely came up for air, only taking a moment or two to take her lips off my prick to lick my balls while she stroked me to a stone-hard erection.
Her boots were off, and I swear I could hear her tight leather pants as she peeled them off. Next came her red G-string, revealing a soft black bush that had been trimmed into almost a heart shape. I kicked off my pants and, still sitting up on the couch, let her straddle me, taking my cock deep into her wet cunt. She balanced herself on the balls of her feet and slowly rode me up and down. With a headful of fresh Moroccan hashish I felt like I was in a sex dream, and I responded almost automatically to her every move. Our tongues and lips stayed together as she clutched my chest and fucked me to ecstasy, occasionally moaning in Spanish.
She got off me slowly and sat back on the floor, spreading her legs wide for me to come in. I sort of fell forward off the couch and slid my hard, wet cock into her super-hot pussy. She wrapped her legs around me and thrust her hips back for every stroke I gave her. In a minute we were fucking like animals. No more slow groove I was fucking her as hard as I could. Her squeals got louder and wilder until they no longer sounded like Spanish but more like some sort of jungle cat.
The room was shaking as we fucked on the floor. I was worried that we might wake up Pablo and Pedro, but I realized that in a country like Spain, where machismo rules the day, the best thing I could do was fuck her hard enough to put a hole in their floor. I did my best, and though I didn’t break anything, I swear I never heard a woman scream like Anna did when she came. It was a banshee wail that raised the roof but there was no doubt she was happy. The sound of her voice put me over the edge and I came hard, shaking and sweaty as she pulled me into her as deep as possible. I think I fell asleep right there on the floor.
Normally I would’ve slept until noon, but I had a date with Blanca at ten
o’clock in the morning. She was insistent that if she couldn’t spend the whole night with me we should get an early start. I made some excuse to Anna who made me promise that I’d meet her at one o’clock in the same bar and took off for the cathedral. My mind was numb but I was happy. My dick was singing a little song.
Blanca took me to the Museo de Arte Moderna to see an exhibition of Spain’s two most celebrated native painters, Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dali. Everything was painted in a weird perspective and a lot of stuff was just sort of crazy, like clocks growing on trees and naked women made of triangles. The problem with looking at all this crazy stuff when you haven’t slept and all you’ve been doing is drinking and fucking is that portraits of dudes with both eyes on the same side of their head begin to make sense. What I mean is, I understood it, or at least I understood that Picasso was probably doing a lot of drinking and fucking and not a whole lot of sleeping to come up with that style. It was scary. I tried to explain to Blanca what I was thinking but it was useless my Spanish just wasn’t good enough. She was smart enough, though, to realize that our time would be better spent in bed than in an art museum.
This time we found what they call a pensi n, which is like a hostel. It’s not as nice as a real motel–it’s more like a dorm room with the bathroom down the hall–but it only cost about twenty bucks American. I guess she felt after the first night we didn’t have to play games and we could just get a cheap room to fuck in. I almost passed out when I hit the bed, but Blanca was having none of it. She pulled off my shoes and then my pants. I was tired but my cock sprung straight up in the air. She took me in her mouth and started giving me the greatest blowjob I’ve ever had. She wrapped the fingers of one hand around my shaft and slipped her other hand under my balls while she sucked up and down on my cock. I just laid back, eyes closed, and listened to her moan. Her lips buzzed around the crown of my dick and I hung onto the bed, ready to come in her mouth.
But she slowly pulled her mouth off of me, licking my shaft and then my balls. I swear I was shaking, ready for her to finish. She gave my cock a final wet kiss, running her tongue around the very top before licking a drop of come with a big smile. A wave of pleasure ripped through my body and I almost lost my breath, but she still didn’t let me come. It was one of the best moments of my life.
She stood on the bed and pulled her panties down from under her skirt and over her boots. I was staring straight up at her cunt, the pink lips barely parting her black bush. Slowly, she straddled me, taking my hard cock straight up into her Spanish twat. I tightened my grip on the bed as she fucked me, holding on to my chest for support.
She seemed to be in another world as we fucked–her eyes were closed and she was speaking Spanish words I’d never heard before. It’s so sexy to be fucked by a girl speaking Spanish. There’s nothing like it. I was practically dead but Blanca was giving it all she had. She turned around and began to fuck me with her ankles by the side of my head, backing her pussy over my rod and holding on to my ankles for leverage. The new angle changed everything. I thought I’d been as close to peaking as I could stand while she was sucking my cock, but then I could feel her pussy like I had never felt one before. With each stroke I was rubbing her clit with my entire dick, driving us both to orgasm.
I was giving her what she wanted, thrusting forward. No longer was I going to lie still and be fucked. Her sex was making me insane and I felt possessed–I had to give her the fucking of her life. Holding her hips I fucked her as fast as I could, her pussy taking every inch of my cock while I watched her ass move back and forth, just lightly grazing my balls.
When she began to come she froze for a second, like she was having a heart attack, and then reached back and grabbed my balls so I could come with her. Together we were frozen in time. I convulsed as I came hard in her pussy. I could feel her juices, hot and sweet-smelling, dripping over my cock and tickling my balls. I took a deep breath as she rolled off me and kissed me on the ear.
We slept for a couple of hours before she suggested we have some food. I was hungry and I wanted a cold beer, but I also realized I had nothing left to say to her. That last great fuck took all the words, or at least the desire to talk, right out of me.
She held my hand while we ate pepitos de ternera, basically steak sandwiches with onions, and I thought about the steak sandwiches back home. At home they chopped up the meat and fried the onions here they just sort of slapped the meat on the roll and threw on some raw onions. I realized it was time to go.
I had two girls in Spain and none in Philly, but I didn’t want to end up like that guy in the Picasso painting with both eyes on the same side of his head. Spain, and especially Spanish girls, can do that to you.
I will never forget the savory smell of Lisa as she bent down and reached across the table to serve our drinks. It was almost as intoxicating as the pints of Guinness we had been downing over the course of an evening in London’s theatre district. The West End, as this area is commonly known, is considered a trendy part of town with upright and well-heeled patrons. Bright red phone booths dot the street corners among quaint facades and fancy shops. Upscale pubs are everywhere, and we had chosen ours, Bottom’s End, at random. At ten o’clock the place was packed.
Lisa wore her dark blonde hair tied tightly back, highlighting her sparkling blue eyes. Her beauty, set off with a minimum of makeup, was striking. Her body was petite and slender, her ivory skin looked soft and supple and her firm, upright breasts were perfectly shaped behind a crisp white button down shirt. She had an “Oxford” look, and her laughter was easy. I was not alone in my fancy. In fact, we were five guys, all smitten by our sexy English waitress with her brisk accent. Naturally we set out to see who could ruffle her feathers. But she never missed a beat, and in the end she ruffled our feathers when she turned to my buddy Joe and remarked with her sharp British wit, “Your pecker is probably not as big as your mouth, now is it?” He turned beet-red. That was when I knew I wanted to meet her again. I liked her cocky, I-don’t-give-a-shit style.
At the time I was young and stupid, and willing to make a fool of myself to get laid. I was in my last semester of undergraduate school, studying literature abroad and feeling confident. Being a foreigner affords certain opportunities when it comes to flirting. You are either in demand, with an alluring mystique, or out of favor for all kinds of reasons. Luckily, in this case Lisa liked my American accent.
I went back to the pub the next day for lunch, this time alone and prepared to woo. My golden rule when it comes to winning the heart of a woman is to quickly bring a smile to her face, offer a surprise and hope for the best. This time I had two tickets to see a West End dance revue called Splash. The show had gotten great press, and I had heard Lisa say she liked dance. The pub was quiet, and she sat down with me for a few minutes. Once again her laughter was easy and her flirting masterful. But she politely declined my invite to the theatre, explaining to me that she was seeing someone. Hearing that usually stops me in my tracks, but this time I just came out with, “That’s okay. You can bring him if you’d like.”
She smiled, looked me in the eye and announced, “That is quite impossible.” She was firm in her refusal of my invitation, but finally invited me to meet her for a drink after the show at Legends, an after-hours pub where her mates liked to hang out. After telling me where it was, she added, “Come alone.”
English pubs have the oddest hours. They open in the late morning for lunch, close for a few hours, then re-open around four-thirty. Most London pubs close around eleven-thirty at night. These puritan hours do not seem to diminish the drunkenness factor the English seem to consume all the more because they have so few hours to drink in. Legends, however, opened at midnight. When I arrived the place was filling up with young twentysomethings, most of whom were smoking and drinking. I scanned the room to no avail for my little Lisa. Then, with some erotic anticipation, I took a place at the bar and ordered a drink.
After a few minutes of silent musing and sipping at my pint, a cute, classy blonde sat down next to me and ordered a double vodka martini. She wore silky black pants and a tight-fitting burgundy pullover that revealed the valley between her ample breasts. She had an air about her of both nonchalance and sexuality. As she pulled out her cigarette case, I met her with my lighter. Then, to my astonishment, she came out with, “Are you Jeffrey? My name is Jill. Lisa told me to look out for the cute, big-eyed, long-haired American. She can’t make it for an hour or so, and she asked me to–well–entertain you.”
And entertain me she did. After about two hours, several drinks and still no Lisa, we were generating that precious electricity that signals that sex is in the air. At least I thought so. So I invited her back to my apartment for a nightcap. She graciously declined. Then, being the slightly drunk fool that I was, I whispered in her ear, “I would love to gently lick your pussy until you are wet and swollen. I will do something so sexy, so naughty, you will sigh with pleasure”
Jill slapped my arm and told me I was disgusting, but she could not help but smile. After another round of drinks she suddenly turned to me and asked, “Did you mean what you said before?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
And with a glint in her eye, she whispered, “Let’s go.”
As we walked down the street arm and arm, Jill mentioned that her studio was nearby, and if I wanted we could go there. I wanted. We had barely got in the door when she sat me down on a chair, dropped to her knees and unzipped my pants. Within seconds my cock was rock-hard and she was sucking away with the gusto of a British porn star.
Jill seemed hungry for cock and consumed me with fast, deep strokes of her mouth. I took her hair in my hand and caressed her face. She looked up and smiled, her face flushed with passion. I lifted her shirt to reveal a sexy white lace bra. Her firm nipples protruded against the material, and as she continued her oral delight I removed the bra and began caressing her breasts. Soon she slid her hands down her pants and began to masturbate. When she told me to talk dirty to her I was only too happy to oblige. “You know you love to suck my cock,” I told her. “And when you finish doing that I’m gonna fuck your brains out!”
Jill cooed and sighed with delight, and I could see she was close to coming. I stood and scooped her up in my arms, and she wrapped her legs around my waist. With one hand I pulled aside her soaked panties, and with little effort I was able to slide my cock into her tight English pussy and fuck her standing up. She was light and easy to lift, and I fucked her slowly and deeply.
When I stopped and laid her down on the couch she was wild with lust. She melted into the couch as I planted my tongue on her clit and began to form the letters of the alphabet with it. A, B, C . . . slowly tracing each letter over her clit and around her cunt, as she wriggled and sighed. Finally I stood up, my cock bulging with desire, and began to stroke myself. Her eyes glistened and she again began to work her pussy, sinking two fingers deep inside. We watched each other with delight, until she suddenly turned, kneeling on the couch with her back to me. I moved in close and began to kiss her neck and caress her firm, beautifully shaped breasts. She took my hand and slipped it down to her wet pussy, letting me feel her masturbate. Then, to my surprise, she guided my cock to her ass, which was now hot and wet. I grabbed her hips with both hands and easily penetrated her tight English hole. Leaning back, I watched as she pushed at me, driving my shaft deeper and deeper into her narrow ass. I could see her pinching her nipples with one hand while masturbating with the other. Then she bent forward and told me to fuck her deep and hard. I took her in my arms and began to pump her wet ass with great passion. She loved it, crying out, “Delicious! Oh, yes . . . I love your cock!” Still stroking herself, she came with a shout of, “Oh God, yes!” It sent quivers through my cock, and I came like a cannon, firing my hot load into her dark chamber. We collapsed together on her spacious couch and fell asleep.
I don’t remember when we moved to her bedroom, but I do remember awakening to the door bell. It was eleven in the morning, and Jill was already up. I could hear her talking quietly with another woman. So I threw on my pants and shirt and sauntered into the living room. To my surprise, Lisa sat on a couch sipping coffee, with Jill nestled at her side. They were laughing and appeared quite at ease with each other. As I approached, Lisa stood and gave me a kiss on one cheek, saying, “I hope you’re not angry with me. I got held up last night. And now I must leave again.” Then, smiling, she added, “Did Jill treat you well?” But before I could answer, she was heading for the door.
As Jill poured me some coffee, she explained that we would be meeting Lisa for lunch in her garden apartment, if I had the time. Actually, I did not. I had classes, which I was already missing, but thinking, as usual, with my dick, I concluded that there was no way I was going to miss this lunch.
After chatting for a while, Jill suggested we take a shower, and she took me by the hand and led me to the bathroom. When we jumped in the shower she handed me some liquid lavender soap and asked me to wash her pussy. I knelt down running my hands along the contours of her firm, lithe body, her tight ass, long legs and succulent vagina. She lifted one leg and slipped a finger into her glistening cunt from behind. I had an instant hard-on as she slipped another finger in and began to finger-fuck herself. I planted my mouth on her clit, and as her hips began to gyrate with pleasure, I worked a finger into her tight little butthole and she sighed with pleasure. With a little sly smile on her face she turned around, bent over and spread her legs. I planted my cock deep inside her, and with long deep strokes fucked her from behind. When she sensed that I was about to come, she pulled out and planted her mouth on my cock, swallowing me whole. Within seconds I exploded in her mouth.
The morning quickly turned into afternoon, and as we walked to Lisa’s flat, Jill mentioned that I was in for a surprise. It seemed Lisa’s “garden apartment” was a bit of a secret. I found out what she meant as soon as we entered.
From the outside the building looked like any other upscale apartment house. But inside, the spacious two-bedroom flat blossomed with wood floors, high ceilings, colorful art and leather furniture. Lisa herself looked hot. She wore a white skirt and a sharp, crisp button-down shirt with no bra. After giving me a little tour of her apartment, she announced, “Now, my garden is the best thing about this place.” We walked through the kitchen and through a door leading to a small enclosed backyard. She had it set up simply, with comfortable furniture. But, to my surprise, at the far end, behind a row of shrubs, I could see another garden in the distance. Jill, Lisa and I passed through an arched trestle which revealed a space completely enclosed by vines, trees, and vegetation. The sun sprinkled through in a few places, but it was obviously quite private. Toward the far end of the garden were a few lounge chairs inside a gazebo. Lisa took me by the hand after showing me around, and we sat down in the gazebo. “This is my little secret garden,” Lisa explained. “Jill and I often spend time here.” And she gave Jill a kiss.
Jill made us all strawberry daiquiris as Lisa told me how she and Jill had met in a lingerie store. Lisa had been married for four years, but had left her husband for Jill. The apartment was her ex-husband’s gift. It seemed that Jill and Lisa had recently began talking about having a threesome, and as Lisa put it, “You just happened to show up, with your cute American accent.” I could not believe my ears. I told her my lucky stars must be shining, because this kind of thing never happened to me. Besides, she was the one with the sexy accent!
After about half an hour of drink and laughter, Jill crossed over to Lisa, who was lying on a lounge chair, and began to unbutton her shirt. As she did so, Lisa lifted her skirt a little, parting her legs to reveal a hint of trimmed pussy. Looking me straight in the eye, she said, “I hope you don’t mind, Jeffrey, but I rarely wear knickers these days.”
As Jill started to go down on her, Lisa beckoned to me. I went over and knelt down, and Lisa began to kiss me with pleasure as she placed my hand on her breasts. Her tits were petite and firm, fitting perfectly into my hand. Soon she whispered into my ear, “I want to suck your cock.” As I took off my pants to reveal my rigid pole, Jill stopped eating Lisa and they both fell to lick me, until Lisa said, “Me first.”
Jill took off her clothing and began to stroke herself as she watched. Lisa was sucking me on all fours when Jill placed two fingers of her free hand into her friend’s moist pussy. Lisa sighed and cooed and began to fuck me still more deeply with her mouth. Then she looked up and whispered to me, “I want to watch you fuck Jill.”
I was more than happy to oblige. I knew Jill loved to fuck doggie-style, so I moved behind her, took her hips in my hands and penetrated her hot, wet pussy. “Oh, yes!” Jill cried out, and began to pump her hips. Lisa spread her legs so Jill could eat her out. What a beautiful sight! With Jill’s little ass in the air, her tight pussy worked magic on my cock. When she begged me to put my finger in her ass, I was so turned on I seemed to grow inside her, and soon we were all moaning and groaning.
As Lisa and Jill came, I pulled out and shot my wad clear across Jill’s back onto Lisa breasts. We laughed and lay down together, panting heavily and smelling like sex. After a while we all went inside for a shower. I was shown to the guest bathroom, and the girls went off upstairs.
We met up in the kitchen a short while later, and Lisa proceeded to make a wonderful lunch of tomato soup and cucumber sandwiches. She could have made anything and I would have been in heaven. I think I would have dropped out of school had the girls invited me to move in with them. But that was not in the stars. After lunch, Lisa came out with the announcement that they were both leaving that night for a month’s holiday. Hearing that, I felt like someone had knocked the breath out of me. I had really been looking forward to seeing them again.
Jill said she had to go, since she had a lot of things to take care of that afternoon, and with a sumptuous kiss on my lips she was gone.
As I helped Lisa with the dishes, I asked her about her feelings toward men. “It’s just not the same for me anymore,” she said. “A woman’s touch is just so much more satisfying.” She went on to say that it had been so long since she’d had a man inside her, she wondered if she would even like it. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I saw a bit of an opening there. I quickly began to tell her how beautiful I thought she was, and how much I wanted to show her how sublime a man’s touch could feel. She laughed, saying, “You deserve an ‘A’ for effort.”
As I looked at her I thought I saw the kind of look that Jill had given me in the bar, when I had first suggested sex–a kind of longing, a curiosity behind the automatic rejection. I took her in my arms and began to kiss her around the eyes, along her ears and down her neck. She did not resist me at all, and when our lips met she began to heat up. She put one leg up on a chair as we kissed, as if inviting me to touch her pussy. My hand went beneath her skirt and I slid two fingers into her moist cunt, effortlessly finger-fucking her. Then I lifted her in my arms and laid her down on the couch. Her legs spread to my gentle caress, and I began to lap at her sweet- tasting pussy with long strokes of my tongue.
My cock was rock-solid, and when I unzipped my pants she pulled me toward her and began to suck me while she replaced my fingers in her pussy with her own. I enjoyed the ministrations of her mouth as long as I dared, and finally I whispered in her ear, “Would you like to feel my cock inside you?”
She smiled. “Yes,” she murmured. “But gently.”
I told her she could be in charge, and sat down on a chair. She mounted me easily, cautiously took me in and began to gently ride my cock. Her pussy was tight and firm. She fucked me slowly at first, as though finding her way through an old forgotten trail. But as her body took over her mind, she began to move harder and faster, until she seemed quite out of control. I could not believe this was the same prim-looking woman I had met in the pub the day before. Her beautiful firm breasts bounced in front of my face, and her nipples were rock-hard. The longer she fucked me the hotter she seemed to get, riding my cock like a sex-starved animal. When she came with a scream, the chair had moved practically from one side of the room to the other.
I lifted her up with my cock still inside her, and we cuddled spoon-fashion on the couch. After a while, she turned to me, gave me a little kiss and whispered, “You are better than most, but I still prefer a woman.”
After we were dressed she let me know it was time to go. Before leaving I told her I wanted to see her and Jill again. “You know where to find me,” was her reply. I told her I would be calling in a month, but as she kissed me good-bye she had a look in her eye that said she knew better. And she was right. When your stars shine like that, you shouldn’t push your luck. I never did call. The next week I met another girl, this time at school, and she managed to stay in my life for a whole month!
For many people Australia represents the last frontier, a place of opportunity ripe with untapped potential. Last November I decided to explore for myself the land “down under,” and accepted my sister’s invitation to visit her in Sydney, where she now resides with her husband and two-year-old child. While Canberra may be the official capital of Australia, Sydney is by far the city that provides the most fun-kind of like a party gateway to the Pacific. After all, how can you beat a San Francisco attitude paired up with Los Angeles-type weather? It is the most populous Australian city, and boasts many museums, galleries and street caf s. Great architecture, beautiful beaches and national parks also help make Sydney one of the most popular destinations in the Southern Hemisphere. And if it weren’t for the unfortunate fact that it’s about twenty-four hours by plane from either the United States or Europe, we’d probably all be living there. But then perhaps it’s that very feeling of delightful isolation of being a self-contained island, which helps maintain its charm and originality. Whatever the reason, and notwithstanding the distance–or the exorbitant prices of magazines and books, especially those that have to be imported from overseas–for the many people who visit, Australia turns out to be a Camelot, the final destination. As for me, I just planned on staying two weeks, long enough to get the gist of the place without getting too attached.
Before reaching my sister’s place in Sydney, I decided to take a small detour to Uluru, formerly called Ayer’s Rock, a huge monolith at the geographical heart of the continent and the most recognizable of all Australian landmarks. Often referred to as the Red Center, because of its signature color, which is famous for varying from deep red at sunrise and sunset to dark black after rain, it rises high above the flat desert and contains some of the most spectacular scenery in the world. This whole area is sacred to the Aboriginal people who have lived in this region for more than thirty thousand years, and whose ancient tradition of rock painting is a tribal ritual still practiced here. Much of this territory has now been returned to its Aboriginal owners, and they are actively involved in tourism. It was great to meet the people the land rightfully belongs to, to drive around the desert, sleep in a tent near the desert town of Alice Springs and experience, however briefly, life in the outback.
From Ayer’s Rock, with a brief stopover in the northern city of Cairns, I headed for some serious surf, turf and scuba diving lessons on Hamilton Island in Queensland. Here I spent three days exploring the wonders of the Great Barrier Reef, the largest reef system in the world, with more than two thousand islands and two thousand species of fish. Once threatened by human interference, the reef islands and coral cays are now supported by the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Authority. Under the water you get to see such species as manta rays and the friendly potato cod, and if you’re not careful you might even have an encounter with a great white shark. When I wasn’t busy learning how to scuba dive, I spent my time in a glass-bottomed boat where I could sunbathe, view the reef life and have some delicious seafood and beer.
But the fact is that as wonderful as the natural beauties of Australia are, it was Sydney that revealed itself as my true dream destination. Perhaps it was the luck of having my time there coincide with the Rugby World Cup finals, or the amazing weather, or the friendliness of the Aussies. Whatever the reason, this city left an indelible imprint on my mind and though I had never been a real fan of rugby, being there during the World Cup finals turned out to be a very fortunate coincidence.
My days in Sydney were very busy, especially after too many hours spent playing Legos and watching “Thomas the Tank Engine” videos with my little nephew made me realize that what I really needed was to get out on my own and do some serious exploring, if I was ever going to discover the natural wonders of the city. And I didn’t mean the clownfish at the Sydney Aquarium or the fake Aboriginal prints at the trendy, overpriced Paddington market. Perhaps these represent some of the must-see places for the first-time visitor, but I had other landmarks in mind. And so, armed with some strong sunscreen, a hat, sunglasses and cool Billabong surfing shorts, I headed for the beach, looking every inch the cool surfer chick, although actually I didn’t know the first thing about surfing.
My first stop was Bondi Beach, Australia’s most famous ocean beach, a veritable mecca for all surfers, sun worshippers and general partiers. After a thirty-minute bus ride from the center of town I was looking at a gorgeous beach with beautiful white sand and greenish-blue water. Decaf cappuccino in hand and beach towel under my arm, I headed toward the waterfront, where I proceeded to take off my flip flops and sarong dress. Seeing that there were many girls sunning topless, I figured, why not and promptly whipped off the top of my flower-print bikini prior to lying down on the towel in the sun. My body was starting to feel hot and tingly all over from the hot rays, and I was feeling completely relaxed, when the sun was suddenly blocked out by a set of gorgeous muscles forming themselves into a body.
“G’day,” this Aussie hunk murmured, and went on to say something else, but I wasn’t really listening. I could only think of two things: that I couldn’t believe they really said “g’day,” and that this guy had a great bod. Think of a less menacing Russell Crowe in The Gladiator. This was one very hot guy, with broad shoulders, beautiful dark hair and a luscious mouth. I felt myself go weak all over as lust invaded every pore of my body. Forget the Outback, the Red Center, the Barrier Reef–this was the natural wonder I was dreaming of! And stereotype though it may be, the good-looking, muscular Australian on the beach is a very pleasant stereotype indeed, and here it was right before my eyes, an incredibly built six and a half feet of dripping wet Aussie hunkdom with his surfboard still under his arm.
I eagerly sat up to speak to him, fascinated, among other things, by his Australian take on the English language, namely the open vowels and the dropping of the word “mate” into every other sentence. Pleasantly conscious that under his Persol sunglasses he was ogling my large breasts, which were now blatantly on display for anybody who happened to look in my direction, I listened rapturously to his description of Bondi waves as opposed to the rips and curls at Bronte beach and . . . well, whatever, who cares. Let’s face it, it’s not like I surfed or ever intended to. The only surfing I could see myself engaging in didn’t involve a board or a wave, of any type or dimension. True, I had seen Point Break. But the fact was that the only thing I remembered clearly about that surfer flick was Patrick Swayze’s biceps.
Anyway, the Bondi Beach guy introduced himself as Jack, a bartender by night and surfer by day, which immediately clarified why I suddenly felt like I was in an episode of “Sex in the City” meets “Baywatch.” Jack explained that these occupations left him plenty of time, between waves and drinks, to meet gorgeous babes on the beach. Especially, he added, the ones sunning themselves topless, as they usually turned out to be the most interesting.
The body, the directness, the Aussiness . . . it’s all good, I thought. With a wide American smile of my own, I asked him coyly if he would mind spreading some lotion on my back. He sat right behind me and spread some Banana Boat oil all over my back and shoulders. Then he inched his way around my torso and started covering my breasts as well, working his way around my nipples and whispering that it was just as important to protect the front of the body under the strong Australian sun. I didn’t really think it was necessary to tell him that I had already put the stuff on my breasts myself, since he was doing such a good job. After that he offered to help me protect my ass as well. How could I refuse such a kind proposal? I promptly lay down so that my butt cheeks were being kissed by the sun’s rays. And Jack explained how the best waves were on Curl Curl, and the strongest rips were on Coogee, and how bohemian life was on Byron Bay, his hands all the time lightly stroking my ass.
At this point I was very horny and remembering all too clearly that I hadn’t had sex in a very long time. Too long. It was time to improve my batting average. Suggesting we go in for a dip, I took his hand in mine and squeezed it a little, just so he could get the picture. We didn’t swim out too far, because after all I didn’t want one of those cute Bondi lifeguards trying to save us. In the water I quickly lowered his trunks and guided his cock into my hungry cunt. My breasts didn’t need any more fondling, but it was nice that one of his hands quickly covered them, the other one stroking my clitoris at the same time. The undercurrent was indeed strong, so to avoid being carried away I wrapped my legs around his waist and ran my hands through his dark curly hair. His green eyes mesmerized me as his tongue explored my salty mouth. Then his hands cupped my ass firmly, pushing his cock deeper and deeper, until he was pounding me in the silence of the big blue Pacific Ocean. After coming in a whirlwind of water spray, I kept his cock nestled deep inside me, and made him laugh when I whispered against his neck, “So Australians really are friendly. And I thought it was just a rumor to get people over here!”
After my Bondi rendezvous, I got the chance to discover just how friendly the Aussies were for the duration of my stay. It didn’t hurt that because of the Rugby World Cup they were even friendlier than usual, and out to show everyone a damn good time. Explaining that tickets for that night’s semifinal featuring the Australian Wallabies against the New Zealand All Blacks were completely sold out, Jack proposed we go and see the match on the giant television screen opposite the steps of the Opera House instead. I immediately agreed, since it would be an event in itself to see the game from such a famous landmark.
So that night, with the admiring approval of my sister and brother-in-law, since in their eyes I was “doing things the Aussie way–independently,” I made my way to Circular Quay, where the Opera House reigns supreme. It was here in 1788 that the First Fleet landed its human freight of convicts, soldiers and officials, and the British colony of New South Wales was established. Crowds still gather here for the most important events, and open-door caf s overlook the ferries pulling in and out of Sydney Harbour. Famed for looking like no other monument in the world, the Opera House, which shelters a complex of theatres and concert halls beneath its famous white shells, is an architectural feat which took fourteen years to accomplish. Today the building represents Sydney’s most popular tourist attraction and one of the world’s greatest performing centers.
Placed right in front of the steps was a huge screen on which the match would be projected. Together with hundreds of other diehard fans, Jack and I made our way over to help cheer on the Australian Wallabies. With the gorgeous backdrop of the harbour and the water surrounding us, it made for a unique setting. When considering a visit to the Opera House I had thought that perhaps I would see something along the likes of La Boheme, but this was something altogether different, and totally memorable–a free open-air screening of a make-or-break rugby match, with cold glasses of beer and huge hot dogs. The night was so pleasantly warm that it was hard to imagine that back home it was already November. After barking out their notoriously scary warrior chant, the New Zealand team took control of the game, but in the end, in a complete upset, the home team managed to win. The match had been very close and had kept everyone on the edge of his seat, so when the winning point was scored by the Wallabies, thousands of fans began chanting a heartfelt rendition of their anthem, “Waltzing Matilda,” and with the million stars shining up in the sky, it was truly a night to remember.
Giddy with the victory and the beer, we walked over to the new Sydney hot spot of Woolloomoolloo Finger wharf, with its ritzy apartments overlooking the water. Here we stopped at the ultra-trendy K-bar for some delicious Tasmanian prawns and cold Hunter Valley chardonnay. It must be said that Australian wines are just amazing, and their seafood is scrumptious. After the prawns we indulged in rock oysters, lobster and fresh-water crayfish. Afterwards, with mixed-berry ice cream cones in hand, we joined some friends of Jack’s who were in the mood to celebrate the big unexpected win. Everywhere around us people were dressed in rugby jersies, wearing yellow and green wigs, shouting, “Go, Wallabies!” and waving little flags. The very festive mood was enhanced by the lighting of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which, built in 1932, links the the city center on the south side with the residential north side, a passage which previously could only be made by ferries. Referred to as the “Coathanger,” it took eight years to complete, and now over one hundred fifty thousand vehicles cross it every day.
On the spur of the moment, Jack decided we should all go to the Manly Wharf Hotel for some drinks, even though it meant taking the ferry and not really knowing how we would get back, since the service stops at midnight. Actually the twenty-minute ride turned out to be very romantic, and the stroll along the seaside resort of Manly very pleasant. At the trendy hotel, with gin and tonics in hand, we met up with other friends, and soon I had further evidence of how the Australians got their reputation for laid-back camaraderie. After downing a drink or two, Jack and I were soon all tangled up in each other and making our way down to the beach.
Behind some rocks, with the moon lighting our bodies, we started fucking again. This time I lowered his pants and gave him a long, hard blowjob. Jack later told me he enjoyed this as much as he’d enjoyed the rugby game, which I considered quite a compliment, though I must say I enjoyed it too. As his fingers tangled in my hair he gladly shoved his cock down my throat, pleasantly surprised at how deeply my little mouth could take him in. My lips held on tight, riding the entire length of his shaft while my fingernails traced patterns up and down it. Even after taking most of his come in my mouth, I pulled away so he could spray the remainder of his musky semen all over my face. I felt intoxicated by his manhood, and when he turned me around I leaned against the rocks and reached around to pull his hands under my skirt. From the gasp that came from him I could tell that he was happily surprised at my decision to wear no panties, and his middle finger easily slipped deep inside my already very wet cunt. He jiggled the tip around a little, making my legs all shaky, while his other hand reached inside my bra to play with my nipples. Then he quickly whipped off my shirt and skirt so that I was now completely naked in the moonlight, except for my bra, which was soon lifted up around my neck. I was too drunk on champagne and pleasure to really care if anybody could see us, though I imagine that some passerby might have enjoyed an eyeful.
Jack’s finger was deep inside me again, but now I was getting too weak to stand any more, so when he gently spread my legs I couldn’t help but fall to my knees. He rightly took this as a cue that my cunt was itching for a little more than his finger, and he started nudging the head of his dick against my inner walls. These came crumbling down as I opened wide to let his Aussie shaft deep inside. On all fours now, I gladly supported the weight of his body on my back as his cock rode back and forth, keeping time with the crashing rhythm of the nearby waves. His hands were covering both breasts now, twisting the nipples gingerly between finger and thumb. The feeling was so full and complete that I wanted it to go on forever. I tried to concentrate on the sounds of the ocean, but soon it was body over mind as I succumbed to what seemed like a whole series of uncontrollable orgasms. In a naked heap of sand and salty come I understood, maybe for the first time, the full extent of the term “down under.”
We were happy to get a ride back to the city in somebody’s Jeep Cherokee. Jack took me to his apartment, which was in Chinatown and had a great view of Darling Harbour. At this point it was almost dawn, so we stopped to pick up some “brekkie,” and bought the papers to read all about the great rugby victory. At a harborside caf , where the ferries were already pulling in and out, hauling all sorts of delicious fish to be auctioned off at the Sydney Fish Market, we sipped our “flat white” coffees and tried to re-accustom our eyes to the sunlight. Strangely enough, I didn’t even feel hung over.
After a glorious morning in Jack’s bed I made my way back to my sister’s. Before leaving town I did manage to get to the Australian Museum and the Taronga Zoo, but not even those wonders could compare with my unforgettable day and night as a Wallaby fan.
Back at home, all my friends predictably were dying to know if the Australian beaches were indeed beautiful, if the seafood was amazing, but mainly if the men were as gorgeous as they are reputed to be. Needless to say, I gave positive feedback on all counts. But what they couldn’t quite figure out was my sudden passion for rugby. Go Wallabies!
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