Vampires in the Afternoon, Zombies in the Evening

Amazing picture of Sasha Pivovarova for Vogue, found here.

In which Alice watches John sing and swoons, twice. There’s also some sex in unfamiliar places. 

He was worried about me, about how down I felt last week, so he spent the rest of the week with me. He wore the same shirt to work for three days in a row. We laundered it. It was hard to say goodbye on Saturday, even though it was only for a couple of hours. He went home to pick up more stuff and I went to see one of my friends at a gallery in Hipsterville before reuniting with John in Boring Place that evening. As soon as I said hello to her, my phone rang, and another one of my friends, my posh friend, said: ‘Listen, is your boyfriend down Hipster Road?’ ‘Yes, yes, he is’ ‘Does he carry a bike on his shoulder?’, ‘Yes, he does! What are you doing in this neighbourhood?’ She’s been living in Big City for a few years, and it was the first time she’s adventured out in the treacherous waters of hipsterdom. It was a pleasure to see her. We chatted briefly, then I dashed off to see a show, where I sat down next to a lovely girl and we started arguing the merits of different productions. That was fun.

In the evening, I took the train back to Boring Place, where John’s band was going to play. It felt strange to go back there late in the afternoon, when, for years, I ran away from it. I used to live there until a few months ago. I think of that time as some sort of slumber or, at worst, purgatory. I knew John was going to be busy before the gig and I didn’t want to get there too early, so I stopped by my favourite bar, I found a quiet corner, and sat down with a glass of sweet wine and my book. That lifted my spirits.

John was waiting for me outside the venue, with an extra wristband and a big smile on his face. It felt like we hadn’t seen each other for ages. In a few minutes, his band were on stage. John kissed me hurriedly and told me not to ‘break the fourth wall’. He had a cold, but he sang beautifully, all the boys did, with a sound full and clear. Their bodies drew fantastic silhouettes on the shiny blue set, like characters from a fairy tale. John screamed and growled and held notes improbably long. His gestures were larger than life. I knew he knew I liked that and he smiled just for me. The boys were very pleased with themselves that evening. ‘One of the best gigs we’ve ever played’, they said. Back in the audience, John hugged me and I caught a whiff of musk.

When the second band started playing, John excused himself to go and buy a bottle of rum for his friends. I sensed the fun was going to be in the green room so I followed him there. The boys were silly and quite drunk, making a mess of the place, being little divas, throwing chips at each other and out on the street… until one of them sat at the piano and they started to jam.

I have to stop for a second here and remind you that, even though I like John’s current band (it grew on me), I loved his previous one, the almost famous Old Band. They made the kind of gut-wrenching music that inspires deep passions. The lyrics were clever. They were amazing live. In that band, John’s voice shone and dripped with sex-appeal. It was hard not to fall in love with them. About half of the members of the Old Band are in the new band. Their old fans still follow them around, although they disbanded a few years ago. Anyway, there’s a song of theirs I love which might have helped me fall in love in John. I’m still obsessed with it. I’m trying to engineer an Old Band reunion  just so I could hear it live. Given how important the Old Band became for me, it’s kind of surprising that John only mentioned it after we’d seen each other a few times. Any other boy would have played the band card before. Not him, and that’s one of the many reasons I love him. That reminds me of a conversation I had with Deena at the end of that weekend, in which I told her how much I’m still surprised as I discover new things about John. ‘As long as they’re good surprises’, she said. ‘Well, he did tell me all his secrets in the beginning’. ‘So there was no other way to go but up. Interesting strategy’.

The boys started playing some covers, until one of them said, sheepishly, ‘How about we play some of the old songs?’. I could not believe my luck. I stood by the piano, grinning, wide-eyed. They started MY song, but, when it was time to sing it, my very tipsy boyfriend could not remember the lyrics. He felt bad. I told him it didn’t matter, I still had fun.

After the show, we went to a club and we danced and we kissed and he sang to me and danced around me, until, rendered silly by drunkenness, he put his hands up my skirt again and again, annoyingly. The last thing I wanted was for his friends or mine to see up my skirt. He pushed me against the wall. I pushed him back.

He whispered filth in my ear. I want to lick your titties. I want to fuck you. But most of all, I want to lick your dirty pussy, he said. He appeased me with more dancing and silliness. I was fine, until, at the end of the night, he started complaining about his looks. I had run out of patience a while ago. ‘God, you’re such a girl! How many times should I tell you I love your body and wouldn’t change anything about it, you silly goose?’ ‘No, I hate it, hate it’, he said, punching his chest. ‘For fuck’s sake, John, cut it out’, I snapped. ‘If I could go home right now, I would’. ‘Then why don’t you?’, he said, without thinking or meaning it. Tempers rose. It was my turn to be a little drama queen. I turned on my heels and walked to the train station, being determined to wait for the sunrise and the first trains there, with a book. He came after me, convinced I was being unreasonable. He insisted to stay with me, no matter what, whether I wanted to go back home or sleep at his friends’. I decided I’d rather sleep in a bed after all. He had no recollection of his offensive behaviour, so I rolled my eyes and decided it wasn’t worth a big fight. The whole episode lasted about ten minutes. We kissed. We made out. ‘I hate you’, I said, punching his shoulder.  ’I hate you too’.

We walked through a park at night to reach his friends’ house. We crossed a bridge. He jokingly threatened to throw me in the weir. ‘I’m not afraid of you’, I said. He pushed me against the rail and lifted my skirt and put a hand down my panties… I only objected because it was too light and there was a CCTV camera pointed at the bridge. I grabbed his hand and pulled him to a darker corner. He pulled down my panties and rubbed against me, but his cock wasn’t hard enough. We enjoyed the thrill and I can’t wait to make it happen, have sex in a park, soon enough. We left, hand in hand, stopping to kiss deeply. He took my fingers and pressed them against his bum. ‘Sometimes I feel so gay’, he said. He has no recollection of that either.

We reached his friends’ house close to four in the morning and were surprised to find them awake and engaged in a serious conversation. So serious, in fact, that their fists were itching and had to take it outside. Mind you, these guys have known each other for half their lives and they never fight. It was the rum, John later said. John rushed after them outside and did his best to prevent a disaster. When they came back in, more than an hour later, he surprised me with his tact, calmly explaining their perspective, finding analogies, and refusing to take sides. He has skills. I’ve witnessed many arguments and attempts at reconciliation, but nothing as smooth. I wondered how he could be so poised and clever after drinking so fucking much.

It was morning by the time we went to bed in his friends’ guest room. Off went our clothes. His rubbed his cock against me. I asked him to go down on me first. We fucked. He pinned me down and pulled my hair before we orgasmed, getting off on the pretence of overpowering me. That was hot. We fell asleep with our limbs entangled improbably. His cock was still inside me and he stole all the pillows. I woke up early, as soon as the sun started shining through the curtains. I didn’t feel like going back to sleep, so I stroked and tickled his his face until he woke up with a smile. ‘What do you want?’, he asked, knowing exactly what the answer was. We sixtynined. He buried his face between my buttocks. He licked my bumhole, his cock growing hard. He entered me from behind while I grabbed the headboard, until we grew tired and agreed he wouldn’t come. Still horny, he straddled me and pushed his cock in my mouth, while I played with my pussy. We fucked again and, some time later, I spooned him with one arm, having one hand between my legs. I could see his face and his cock from over his shoulder. His hand moved feverishly. So did mine. That was hot. He knelt in front of me while I lay down, with my legs spread for him, showing me how he liked to touch himself. He gave up before I did. I put my head in his lap and held his cock in my mouth while I made myself come. He finally came too and his come tasted of beer. We hugged and we chatted and joked around for a while, holding together for dear life, until I said: ‘You know what I would like? I would like you to fuck me from behind, standing, and then I want to have your semen trickle down my legs’. So we did.

I’m not sure what we were talking about later. We were trying to get ready for breakfast, or, rather, brunch, when I mentioned how much he enjoyed pulling my hair last night. ‘Oh yeah, did you like that too?’, he asked, grabbing his cock. He pushed me face down on the bed again, with a hand between my legs. His cock found me easily and slipped in. He pulled my hair and bit my neck while he pinned me down. It felt amazing. We came together. ‘I wish I could scream’, I said, when I finally caught my breath.

We walked in the sunshine with wobbly knees, hand in hand. ‘So, why did we have that big fight last night?’, he asked me. I told him about his attempt to disrobe me on the dance floor. ‘It was a bit rapey’, I said. ‘But I didn’t rape you last night, did I?’  ’No, you did not’, I said, in a voice so warm that it surprised me. We wondered what passersby would make of our exchange.

Going back to Big City, we went to a picnic in the changing weather and he came back to mine again, even though he hadn’t planned to. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other, again.

I had to pee really badly. ‘Do you want to pee on me?’, he asked. He had told me about his fantasy of going down on me while I pee, of receiving the hot baptism of this thing from inside me. ‘Can you go if I watch you?’ ‘Oh yes, I can’, I said, directing him to the shower. I lifted a leg up high, making room for him to kneel in front of me. He moaned and writhed and closed his eyes in pleasure. I stopped the stream a few times. He then joined me in the world’s smallest shower and I washed him thoroughly. We ended up in bed again, his cock in my mouth, my bumhole in his. I could see his asshole opening up just a tad, rhythmically, begging to be buggered. I spit on  a finger and rested it on his bumhole. A few minutes later, I slid it in, while he licked and sucked and moved his head up and down between my legs, alternating between my pussy and my bum. I pushed my finger back and forth while he breathed faster and faster. I knew he wanted more, so I took out my bottle of lube and a deliciously shaped dildo with a slightly bulbous head. I warmed the glass in my pussy, while he continued to lick it, and then pushed it up his bumhole and moved it around. I could tell how much he loved it. I continued to suck on his cock while fucking him and then he asked if he could fuck me. Oh, fuck he did, while I contorted myself to reach the dildo inside him and moved it in and out. ‘That was amazing’, he said, blissed out. ‘That was an amazing orgasm’. I smiled.

The following weekend, we travelled to Boring Place again. We went to a show that afternoon, a modern interpretation of an old tale with amazing direction and an unexpected vampire plot. We decided to spend the night there after agreeing it was kind of hot to fuck in other people’s beds. There were no arguments this time. We danced. We kissed. We joked around. We were there again because his band was headlining a local festival. We watched a few other bands before. ‘Don’t they look like zombies?’, I asked, during a set that lacked expressiveness. ‘Look at their faces’, I pointed. They were incredibly apathetic. ‘Vampires in the afternoon, zombies in the evening’, he said.

We walked on the street, holding hands. It was cloudy. He put on his shades and said it was for my own protection, with him being a rock star and all. I giggled. ‘Can you please sing me a song?’, I asked. ‘What song?’ ‘A Pulp song – Underwear?’ ‘Oh, not Pulp again’, he rolled his eyes, but started doing his best Jarvis impression, the lowered voice, the shrugs, the pointing. ‘Your Jarvis is too sleazy!’, I complained when I could stop giggling. ‘But Jarvis IS sleazy, have you listened to The Professional?’ I loved my song. I laughed and laughed so hard my tummy hurt and we stumbled into the venue exhausted from laughter.

His friends were biting the nails because of the long wait. The venue was smaller and the sound was ropier than last time. It took them some time to get into it, but they nailed a few songs. In between the songs, people chanted requests, a song of their old band. Jacqueline was there. ‘He’s so cute, no? And he is passionate. I like passionate. If I was straight…’, she said. I smiled. Connor made fun of me because, as he said, I was swooning. ‘And swooning is socially unacceptable in our circles?’ ‘Quite right’, he confirmed. Their fans continued with their request between songs. They hadn’t rehearsed their Old Band songs in a while, so, to my surprise, they decided to play one for the encore. It was a treat. The energy was amazing. All the people in the room bounced up and down with big grins on their faces, knowing they witnessed something special. A treat. I was glowing after the gig, even though they still hadn’t played MY song.

John just asked me if I’m free this weekend and said he had a surprise for me. Is it THAT song, I wonder?

Lipstick, the Fetish Party, and the Art of Multitasking

Kate Moss by Annie Leibovitz. Photo from here.

In which Alice and John go to a fetish party, John works his gender-bending charms, and we spend the rest of the weekend having all sorts of perverted sex. We also say ‘that’s hot’ a lot.

I got us tickets for the most stylish fetish party in town. John has been wanting to go to that party for years. As it happens, so did Joseph and Sheeba. They were there with their groups of friends. The boys had met before. They measured one another through layers of mascara and attempted bromance. John, who never ceases to amaze me, thinks Joseph is nice. I’ve never heard him say anything mean about people I know. He tends to err on the side of awesome until proven asshole (and so do I). It’s one of the many things I like about him.

In my room, John put on fishnets and one of my corsets, barely held together on his slim, strong torso by ties at the back. With his tailcoat, rhinestones, bow tie, and feather boa, he looked princely and effete. I remembered how ages ago he told me he was going to watch Cabaret before our first dress-up party. He wanted the part of the compère as a kid. How curious, I thought. How wonderful. I tried on a few outfits and settled on a fairly standard choice: red stockings, dizzying high platforms, an underboob corset, red tape on my nipples, a layer of lace, and a shiny black skirt that clung to my bum like film. It took us a long time to get ready, getting distracted by boobs and flesh. Deena snapped some pictures of us before we left. Even with my platforms, I looked diminutive next to John, my tall, strong, dark, and handsome.

The venue was a portal to dream world. I’d never seen so many beautiful people together. Silent films were projected on walls. Rooms were enveloped in soft coloured lighting and smoke. Laser patterns played on flesh like snowflakes and the music thumped with a sexy mix of techno and cabaret. We’d been there before, but it felt very different this time. John sat on a sofa and I made him close his eyes. I painted his eyelids smoky and his lips bright red. He was beautiful.

We danced and we kissed. We people watched and bowed and exchanged compliments with glamorous people in rubber and masks. I was looking forward to seeing one of the singers, so we sat at a table up front. The singer swaggered on stage, locked eyes with John and smiled. He had neon-coloured hair, dark nailpolish, a corset. He looked like a sexy Victorian spectre of indeterminate gender and bottomless sex-appeal. I grinned as soon as I recognised this song:

How d’you do, I
See you’ve met my
Faithful handyman.

The spectral singer continued to deliver his performance to John. He winked and smiled when he changed the lyrics to:

I’ve been making a man
With BROWN hair and a tan
And he’s good for relieving my… …tension.

I giggled and giggled and kissed John on the cheek when I had to leave him alone for a moment. ‘Are you kidding? Don’t go’, he said, ‘You’re the only thing that stands between me and buggery’. He was fine in the end, although he had to resist the advances of another enthusiastic crosdresser and the smouldering eyes of the singer, who, in Victorian fashion, bared his ankle for him.

We danced and drank and people watched some more. We walked through the couples’ room that played low, heavy, significant music. It felt so Eyes Wide Shut. People flogged, sucked and fucked each other, surrounded by voyeurs. I felt still and distant from it all. I hadn’t expected an orgy. On the dancefloor, a tiny redhead with delicate features was held by a handsome and jaded man, with a hand round her neck, while another one fingered her intently. She was in a trance, her tiny mouth open, red hair flowing on her back. I looked and smiled, thinking about how erotic I was going to think this was later on, but feeling only mildly aroused. The men exchanged positions and then left, holding hands with the girl. In front of me, two Russian models swayed to the music, all sinewy limbs and jutting hipbones. The tall one was in charge. She sneaked her hand down the shorter one’s skintight trousers and left it there while holding her gaze. The shorter girl melted around her hand. I looked and smiled and only later realised how much I had wanted to join them. The tall one reminded me of an actress. Maybe it was her.

We witnessed more debauchery. We sat down on a bench in a dark, quiet corner. A blond girl was getting thoroughly fucked on stage, a few meters from us. I couldn’t make out her expression, but her gestures felt way too studied, too pornified. Instead of looking at her partner, she looked at us, looking for a reaction. Her mouth formed an o and she was going through the motions, the standardised motions of a spectacle, for us. John and I were unimpressed. ‘Have you seen those two guys sixtynining?’, he asked. ‘Gay guys don’t seem to have a problem having sex in public, they don’t seem to care who’s around. It’s the straights who feel like they have to put on a show’. The bench was getting crowded. A drunk couple stumbled onto John’s shoulder, looking for something solid to anchor the girl’s naked bum while they fucked. They started fucking on John’s shoulder, while we chuckled and looked at each other in disbelief. John was of course very English about it and pretended it wasn’t happening. Luckily, it didn’t last very long. ‘Did you feel violated?’ ‘Only a bit’, he said.

John was pretty high and drunk. I was just happy. Before we went home, we had another wander round the venue, holding hands. In the couples’ room, there were people watching. There was a girl bouncing up and down a man’s shaft. There was another one, kneeling down in her white undies to give a man a blow job. John said he wanted to kiss her bum. There were an elegant boy and girl wearing lattice masks, taking turns to flog each other. We walked out of the couples room slowly and John lowered his shoulders to take my face in his hands and kiss me long. I propped myself against the the wall and we kissed and kissed and kissed, his soft lips and tongue dancing slowly with mine. ‘I still want to go down on you’, he said. ‘OK then’. There’s something about him that always makes me say yes to things I hadn’t planned or considered before. You want to bum me? Sure. You want to see me pee? Sure. I’m not sure why that is, whether it is the urgency of his desires, or the fact that our bodies and minds seem to work as one. We walked back to the dance hall, trying to find a quiet corner. We couldn’t, so we went back to the couples’ room. I slipped out of my corset and panties, keeping my shiny skirt on, scrunched around my hips. I leaned back on the table, opened my legs for John and closed my eyes. A man touched my arm. I said ‘no’. John buried his face between my legs. He licked me and rubbed his face against my pussy and made me achingly wet. I longed to be fucked. I came in quick succession, pulled up my panties, and opened my eyes to see John kneeling in front of me, looking me in the eyes with a Mona Lisa smile. Later he told me he felt strangely proud. He was so beautiful, with lipstick and eyeshadow and girl juices smeared all over his face. He helped me up and we kissed again. I pinned him against the wall, with a hand on his crotch. He slid a hand underneath my skirt. I buried my face in his shoulder and could hardly muffle my screams. He moaned in my ear and bit my neck and worked pizzicato on my pussy. I buckled and died a little. My pussy was hot and dripping wet.

It was bright light outside. On the bus, he whispered in my ear what he wanted to do to me. He wanted to lick my bumhole. He wanted to fuck me. He wanted to be fucked by me. At home, in my bathroom, he knelt in front of me while I peed and put his hand in the hot stream for a moment. ‘That’s hot’.

My new glass dildos were spread on the bed. ‘Let me watch you while you use one for me’, he asked. ‘Oh, that’s so hot’, he said, frowning with pleasure, grabbing his cock while I spread my legs for him, opening my pussy lips with my fingers to let the bulbous head of the dildo in. He lifted my foot to his mouth and sucked on my toes and licked the sole of my foot as he jerked off. His eyes darted from my pussy to my face. My fingers circled my clit and gently inched the dildo inside. ‘I want you to fuck me’, I said. ‘I want you to fuck ME’, he replied, and, because I’m the best girlfriend ever, I pushed a large fat buttplug up his ass and moved it round in circles. He writhed under my touch and bit his lip. ‘Harder, harder’. I pressed it in and out with my fist. ’Wait, I have an idea’, I said. He sighed when I took it out and circled his bumhole with my fingers. I chose a curved slim dildo from my array and pushed it up his bum. Its coldness took him by surprise, but he welcomed it in and sighed desperately under my touch. I lay down underneath him and directed his cock to my mouth. I had a slim buttplug in, a thick dildo inside me, an index on my clit. The other hand was wrapped round the dildo I stuck up John’s sexy bum and it moved it frantically up and down. I pushed and sucked until he could take it no longer and asked me to turn on all fours. He filled me up with his long, throbbing cock, and he came in waves, almost sobbing. We grinned at each other, satisfied. He counted my multitasking ways, impressed. ‘Wow, you’re the best. Do you think we win at sex?’ ‘I think we do’.

We woke up sweaty, embraced. He removed the covers to show me his boner. His long cock pointed at me. He touched it as if to make sure everything was all right, then moved his long deft fingers between my thighs. I turned on one side and he slipped inside me effortlessly. We stayed intertwined for hours, taking small breaks just to catch our breath or to drink some water. He took his cock out for a break and pushed one of his fingers inside, then a second one, stretching my pussy, making me feel really full. My walls tightened around his knuckles. He finger-fucked me until I begged him to stop. With a mischievous grin on his face, he straddled me and pushed his cock between my tits. He held them together with one hand to make a tunnel for his cock, and then he cornered me and pushed his cock up my throat, facefucking me, making me gag. He jerked off for a minute and gagged me some more, then pulled out to come all over my tits and my tummy, his tummy, my hips, like a selfish brat. He felt a bit guilty about it, but I loved it. I smiled back reassuringly, ‘you naughty bastard, it’s my turn now’. I made him lie on his back while I put my hand between my legs and worked my clit to a swollen mess of pleasure while I took his cock in my mouth and just held it there for a while, moving it sideways with my tongue. His cock grew in my mouth as I tensed my muscles and moaned and kicked around in anticipation of the impeding earthquake.

And then we showered and went out to eat gourmet hamburgers and watch ballet. We held hands and he was lovely and reassuring while I pouted and sniffled for unrelated troubles. He kissed my forehead and held me tight.

Back at home again, on the sofa. I’m not sure how we started joking about him sucking cocks, probably because I requested a threesome for my birthday. He took his cock out and I started to demonstrate how to suck it, stopping to give directions. We giggled like mad. I lay on top of him on the sofa, our history filled sofa, breathing hard. I whispered:

You know, yesterday, if you kissed or made out or went down on someone else, it wouldn’t have been a problem. In fact, when you took your time to come back from the bar, I thought you might have kissed someone… and I got very aroused.

I did, he lied.

Do you know what I would like?, I continued. I would like to suck on your cock after you’d been in another woman. What would you like?

Mmm, he said, rubbing his cock, I would like to fuck you… while you suck on somebody else’s cock.

I would like to watch you go down on another woman.

I would like to go down on another woman… while she goes down on you.

I would like to be fucked by you and suck a guy’s cock while the two of you make out and we form a happy triangle.

I would like you to punish me in public and make me do rude things, he said.

Uhhhh, what rude things? You want to know what I think about when I get myself off sometimes? I would like you to lick lots of pussies and not be allowed to come and be incredibly aroused and then I’ll make you suck some guy’s cock and the only release you’d have would be from having a cock inside you and then I would fuck you while you’re being fucked and you’d have the best orgasm ever.

He jerked off again, while I played with my pink glass dildo, pushing it in and out. ‘I want to feel you inside me’, I said, after a minute, and his cock felt so good, so hot, so smooth, so fleshy, after the coldness of the glass. I closed my eyes, savouring the contrast and pushed him out to go through it again. ‘Oh my fucking god’. He made me sit on his face again to lick my asshole and lick my pussy and made me suck his cock. I made him sit on the sofa and straddled him and stroked his hair and kissed his face and we fucked again, tenderly. My pussy clenched around him and we came. I then rested my head on his shoulder and remembered how we kissed on that very sofa what feels like many years ago, how I rested on his shoulder while we watched arthouse movies and talked about Jarvis and Bowie and pretended we didn’t love each other. We love each other now, so fucking much.

Are We Dreaming?

Photo by Paolo Roversi, found here.

I woke up in his arms.

Do you remember what you dreamed last night?

No. Do you?

I dreamed that we were in the Science Museum at night and there were people drinking and dancing, there were DJs, and I was wearing a tail and we were looking for this guy… , he continued, in his sing-songy storytelling voice he puts on to make me smile. Wait, that really happened (It did). Our lives must be so cool if we can’t tell the difference between dream and reality.

I snuggled up, keeping my eyes tightly shut.

You look so cute, he said, you look like a tired Mexican child.

Thanks, I sniggled.

The day before, an elegant old lady complimented me on my hair, at least I think she did.

I love your hair, she said. How do you cope with it?

Thank you… Umm, can you please say that again?

How do you cope with it?

‘One day at a time’, John said I should have said. I didn’t.

Postcard from Wonderland – Best of Alice

Instead of good morning:

Alice: How are you, my little rake?

John: How are you, my little strumpet?

I’ve lost my sense of taste because of my cold (sexy, I know), but, other than that, I’m determined to enjoy the fin de semaine and go to a dress-up party tonight and a fetish party tomorrow.

On an unrelated note, I’ve been thinking about what writing means to me, and, after toying with the idea of abandoning this blog, I decided against it. I get antsy when I don’t write. Plus, I like to be able to go back and remember fine details, little things that were said, different sensations. Reading about my past reinforces the stories I tell about myself and strengthens my connection with John.

To celebrate  our love story, I’d like you to turn your attention to a few posts you might have missed, all snapshots of sorts. Here they are:

An Almost Perfect Day

Weekend, Backwards (probably my favourite, because I tried my hand at telling the story Memento-style)

Return to Metropolis

and, if you feel romantically inclined:

A Valentine’s Day’s Story

That’s all. Thanks for reading.

The Return of The Repressed

I was on a night bus with Deena when the conversation meandered towards one of my exes. I was telling Dee about this girl I kind of think is cool, but, every time we try to get together, things are a bit awkward. It’s as if we’re determined to make an effort to be friends, but, deep down, we don’t like each other that much. And then I remembered how once, at my birthday dinner, this girl and my ex flirted shamelessly across the table. I imagine she still feels a bit guilty about it. I was quite all right with it at the time, because I knew my relationship was doomed, but I still thought it was rude. It’s bad manners to do this so openly just to get a little validation. Whenever one of my friends’ love interests tries something like that with me, I remove myself from the situation. I care a lot, maybe stupidly, about ‘bros before hoes’ and I’d never do anything to hurt another girl… not in her presence, anyway.

Plus, she’s not as pretty as I am. I remember how throughout the relationship with my ex I was entirely mystified when he pointed to me how attractive he found this girl or another, girls I thought hideous. He was attracted to anyone with big hair, heavy make-up, and with lots of bare skin. For a long time, he thought it was ok to point these girls to me because I like girls as well, but I didn’t like those girls. I like a bit of subtlety, I like classical beauty, I like high cheekbones, androgyny. It was as if he had no aesthetic criteria whatsoever and drooled over any pair of boobs and legs he saw. If they were pretty, I’d understand. Hell, I might have joined him in his praises. As someone who’s always been told how pretty she is and whose identity still revolves a great deal around her looks, it was painful for me to feel constantly judged and found less attractive than these, to me, clearly unattractive girls.

I was explaining this to Deena when she stopped me. ‘You know, I’ve always thought your ex was gay’. ‘Well, he wasn’t really, he claimed he was bi, but he had a lot of shame around his attraction to guys. That was a big secret. He sometimes met with guys from hookup websites, but I’m not sure what went on. I didn’t think that was a big deal. And he also told me that when he was a teenager he was exclusively into guys, but then something happened when he turned sixteen, something he never revealed to me, something that put him off guys’. ‘Did you believe him?’, she said. ‘He told me he had a dream that made him understand he preferred girls, but he never told me what it was’. ‘He probably had a negative experience with a guy’, my wise friend said. ‘Yes, but what does that mean? Oh, I get it, he is probably still attracted to guys and he genuinely doesn’t understand when a girl is attractive, but he feels the need to overcompensate for his insecurity, for his perceived lack of manliness, by constantly playing up his attraction to heavily made-up girls…’ ‘Right’, she said, ‘these girls are advertising their sexuality, so he is acting according to cultural norms that tell him what ‘real men’ find attractive’.

I could not believe my newly formed thought. ‘So, there was nothing wrong with me during all this time? He just can’t tell when girls are beautiful?’ ‘Pretty much. Of course there was nothing wrong with you’. ‘And … and… all his desire to sleep around with a thousand different girls was an expression of the same insecurity? If he sleeps around with lots of girls, then no one can accuse him of being gay’. ‘Yes, you got it’. It might sound like nothing, but this revelation means a lot to me. After more than a year of constantly hearing that ‘all men are like that’, and ‘all men want that’, I came to expect the worst from all the guys in my life. I came to suspect that everyone, even John, who adores me, is always just a moment away from cheating on me, that he, like this ex, is in actual pain from not being able to sleep with half the city. ‘Oh my god, Deena, you have no idea how much this conversation helped me… I can finally let that asshole go.’ ‘Let’s hope that one day he can accept his sexuality’. ‘Yes, he will be so much happier when he does’.

Return to Metropolis

Photo via squa.re

Sunday afternoon. I just did the walk of shame from John’s house in my Metropolis outfit, surely entertaining the people on the train. I left home on Friday, when Dee and I went to a dress-up party downtown. She just broke up with her sort of boyfriend and I’ve been worrying about her. She allows herself to be taken over by violent sadness and I can’t bear to see her like that. I insisted she join us to the party and it turned out that getting hit on by a sleuth of gentlemen while wearing a dress made of silver foil and baking trays was just what she needed to cheer up. John met us there around midnight, and, when he arrived, I was getting in a bit of a weird mood. I wasn’t sure how to divide my attention between the two of them. I was annoyed with John for being late, but I was pleased with his costume. He looked pretty and coy wrapped in fairy lights underneath his long coat. He entertained us by placing himself in front of the guys who tried to talk to us girls and then unbuttoning his coat with a jump to reveal the flickering lights. ‘You’re a flasher!’, they exclaimed, fist-bumping him and nodding vigorously. Despite his antics, I was quietly pouting when we reached the dance floor and wasn’t sure how to lift my spirits. The theme of the party was SF and people had fantastic costumes. Chest-emerging aliens, home-made tentacles, UFO-shaped hats, and a tall guy with a freaky mannequin head sticking out of his backpack, looming over the dance floor with vile look on its face, bobbing up and down. His empty eyes were surrounded by green UV paint and seemed to have a life of their own. I wrinkled my nose and pushed it away from me, when John bent to whisper in my ear: ‘That reminds me of Thérèse Raquin‘. I knew what he meant. In the novel, a disillusioned wife and her lover kill the husband and then they’re followed by his spectre whatever they do. I burst into laughter and laughed and laughed and shook my head at John, and that did it, that was the turning point of the night, when my mood changed, I stopped worrying and started to have fun. ‘Yes, I see how it does, but, John, this is the nerdiest thing I’ve EVER heard on a dance floor!’ ‘It’s not the nerdiest thing I’ve said’, he shrugged. And we danced and we talked and we pointed at pretty people with crazy costumes. Deena got tired before we did and left. We stayed till the party was over and we walked to John’s house in the crisp bright morning, our frozen fingers interlaced. We considered getting coffee. John sang to me:

Now if you can stand,
I would like to take you by the hand, yeah,
and go for a walk,
past people as they go to work.

Oh, let’s get out of this place,
before they tell us that we’ve just died.
Move, move quick, you’ve gotta move.
Come on it’s through, come on it’s time.
Oh look at you, you,
you’re looking so confused,
just what did you lose?

If you can make an
order could you get me one?
Two sugars would be great,
cos I’m fading fast,
and it’s nearly dawn.

He told me how he used to go to the real Bar Italia as a kid, after clubbing, and he felt like he was so cool. He looked at me biting his lip and kept telling me how pretty I was. He pushed me against fences and walls and took my face in his hands to kiss it. I smiled. I was tired and peaceful when we reached his place. My mind was empty of thoughts and I felt very still as we sat on his sofa with tea mugs in our hands and watched his flatmate in the kitchen. He was making coffee, slowly, lazily. ‘Doesn’t it feel like we’re watching a play?’, I asked. We’ve been watching way too much Pinter and Beckett. ‘If it’s a play, there’s not much happening’.  ’Yes, it’s very Pinteresque‘, I said, throwing in our new catchword. Back in John’s room, I waited for him to take off my clothes, one by one. First he pulled off my silver gloves, he unzipped my silver boots and he kissed my toes, then he unlaced my underboob corset, and then I turned around to let him unzip my dress. I was left on his bed shining, in my glittery eyeshadow and glittery nailpolish and lace undergarments. We kissed like there was no tomorrow and had lots of sex. He moved me around like a silvery sex doll and I loved it. I fell asleep in his arms. Whenever I moved, he kissed my neck and my shoulders, with his eyes closed. We woke up in the sunshine, we talked and we cuddled, we listened to music, we made plans for breakfast, and then we checked the time. It was six thirty. We slept through Saturday, so we took off our clothes again and sat on his bed, looking at the ceiling, listening to Regina Spector. I melted under his touch and I tried to explain how much I liked it. ‘It’s like… you touch me with such intent. Can I say that? It’s like you’re totally present in your touch. It’s like when someone looks you in the eyes and you feel like they really see you. I feel like you really see me when you touch me like that’. ‘It’s fortunate, because I love touching you’. I sniffed his manly smells and kissed his chest and rested my head on his shoulder until it was time to go to sleep again. Sunday came. We reluctantly said goodbye, feeling a sudden disorientation at each other’s absence and texting sweet nothings as soon as we were moments away. He made me a CD with the songs of his almost famous band, so, as I write this, I’m listening to his voice, screaming, whispering. I love it so. Maybe it’s just the old hormones, but we both have the feeling that this is it. We can’t imagine being with anyone else. He often talks about settling down, getting married, having my babies, while I act all cool. ‘My little girlfriend!’, I said, pouncing on him. ‘You’re the girl in this relationship!’ ‘No, I’m not!’ ‘What do you expect, you want me to propose to you?’. ‘No, it’s too early, we should wait for another year or two and if we’re more in love by then, which I think we will, we’ll be sure that we want to spend our lives together’. ‘You know, the idea of rushing to get married rather appeals to me. It’s foolish, it’s romantic…’, I said. ‘I’d rather wait’, he said, seriously. ‘We still fight a lot and I want to make sure you’re not really annoying’. ‘Joooohn!!’, I pouted. ‘Come here’, he said and took me in his arms. ‘Mine’, I said, pointing at him, then I sank my teeth in his shoulder.

If You Had a Beard, That Could Have Been You

John was walking me to the train station, when he launched into one of his stories.

I was walking to the station with Enzo the photographer the other day, and there’s this new Lavazza advert there, you’ll see it, with a stylish Italian couple hugging, like that, and they’re both holding espresso cups. You know, the kind of  pointless glamour shot, and he said, ‘If you had a beer, that could have been you and Alice!’.

What, you mean, if they were holding beers instead of espresso cups?, I frowned, because I don’t like beer.

No, no, he said, ’If you had a beard, that could have been you and Alice!’ I can see what he means – the girl looks a bit like you, she has catty eyes and dark skin.

I saw the advert on the platform and smiled. Yes, I can see the resemblance, if you’re squinting, and if I was wearing really high heels, and if John had a beard, and if I had long hair, and dramatic makeup, and a pink dress… Enzo the Italian glamour photographer saying that John and I look like a glamorous couple – best thing I’ve heard all week. I preened and held my head up high, feeling like the queen of the platform.

Another Postcard

Photo of Malgosia Bela by Tim Walker

Things are good, really good. I’m busy and poor and the city is as fucking cold as it was around Christmas, but things are slowly moving in the direction I want. I put aside my plans for becoming a professional dominatrix – for now. When and if I ever do it, I want to do it for fun and not because I’m pressed for money, I want to be as selective as I wish, and to generally conduct the enterprise in a dignified manner. Otherwise it would, as I said before, eat my soul.

With the prodomming in mind, I’ve learned to do wonderful things to lucky people, things with floggers,  paddles, fire sticks, candle-wax, and Japanese rope. John and I haven’t been playing much, because I didn’t want the D/s dynamic in the bedroom to affect our power dynamics in real life. Especially in the beginning, he kind of liked me to be in charge – and that’s what I often like as well, but there are times when I want to feel taken care of, instead of taking care of him. He’s good at that. Because he’s so wonderfully tall, he wraps me in a shield of warmth when he hugs me. Now we slip in and out of our different roles with ease, we reached balance, which means that I’m ready to bring out the toys again. Let’s see if he is.

There are little things he does that make me feel very loved. He brings me little presents when he comes to see me. He remembers to pick up an extra copy of Time Out for me, without me asking for it. The other day, he just gave me the keys to his house, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and not a big deal whatsoever. ‘Are you sure?’, I asked. ‘Just take them’, he nodded and looked down, half embarrassed. ‘Thanks’.

We’re still going to plays, shows, and dress-up parties … maybe three or four days a week. I love it, but sometimes it’s tiring and I miss just getting naked with John. I’ve already promised myself to slow the fuck down, but I’m terrified of missing out on something awesome. It’s the old fear of dying without having done everything. One day, I will learn to accept this. Till then, I’m a lucky girl, because John is totally willing to keep up. Just like me, he takes pride in how busy we are.

When we do get naked, it’s mindblowing. The boy has skills and talents and intuition, and such hunger for me that it makes my knees buckle to just think about it, to think about his face when he enters me. That’s suck a cliché, but his cock IS throbbing, making me shiver from the inside. We still have sex till we’re sore, with the determination of angels who fell into bodies and just discovered how fun it is to be touched.

I was praising his cock one day, for how long, straight and perfectly formed it was, resting right in the middle of his tummy, an inch below his navel, flaring like a tulip at the top. ‘It’s not very thick though, is it?’, he asked. ‘No, no, it’s perfectly well-proportioned. I wouldn’t want it any thicker. And because you’re so tall, it’s not as easy to see how big it really is. Imagine it on the frame of someone shorter’, I said, thinking about James Deen. John is 7″ taller.’You know, I’ve seen a few cocks in my life, and some of them are really long and thin’. ‘Like a piccolo?’ ‘Like a piccolo. But yours is not like that at all’.

We were at his parents’ house for dinner when his mum put on ‘Graceland‘. ‘What instrument is that?’, asked his sister. ‘A piccolo’, John said. I frowned and leaned towards him – ‘We were talking about piccolos the other day, weren’t we?’ He nodded. ‘Why were we talking about piccolos?’, I whispered. He shot me a look and I got it… then we both started giggling like fools. ‘Aren’t you proud of me because I managed once more to not mention penises in conversation with your parents?’, I asked at the end of the night. ‘But that was close!’

Postcard from Wonderland

Photo by Tim Walker

John and I were talking about the theatre of the absurd, as one does, and I said something about Franco-Romanian writer George Ionesco.

You mean EUGENE Ionesco, right?

Oops, yes.

I like it when you make mistakes, he said. It makes me feel… compatible!

The Human Body is Full of Cock

A little warning, again. This serialised account is filthier than usual, so read at your own peril. In this story, both John and Alice get thoroughly fucked and they love it. 

A few days after these events (you can read Parts 1 and 2 of this account here and here), we went to a dress-up party. It’s a lovely venue, very much like a portal to a long-forgotten world, with its dusky lights and old building smells, feathered masks and glittery dancers.

I was PMS-ing and I was in a bit of a funny mood. See, the last time I’ve been to that venue, Albert and I had just started dating and we were still very much in love. That might have been the only time when we went out together to the city and ended up having fun. This was before his wondering eye became so painful for me to witness, before we started arguing all the time. I got caught thinking about the transience of love, how I loved Albert, no matter how briefly or how foolishly, how I loved Chris, how Albert was so into me back then. It only lasted for about three months before we were confronted with his demons.

John and I know each other for a year, but we’ve only been together for two months. What if we’re just one month away from falling out of love with each other? Silly, I know. When we sat down, I tried to tell him what was on my mind.  He was patient with me. ‘But I’m not Albert’, was his response, and he’s so fucking right, we’re so much better suited to each other.

What I didn’t tell him was that I was still thinking about a line from a play that we saw. What if, when you love someone, that is the only time when you truly see them for who they are, and not the other way around? People say that we fall in love with an idea, an illusion, and we only get to see people again for who they are when we break up. What if the guys I fell in love with, Chris and Albert, were really as wonderful as I thought they were in our honeymooning period, but, as I lost them, the thought of their wonderfulness is too much to bear, so I embrace the idea of my love for them as an illusion? When we broke up, or, more precisely, when I stopped loving them, I lost access to their well of wonderfulness, forever. That made me sad.

But then we started dancing again and the music was dancing through us. We didn’t kiss or make out because my bright red lipstick left smudges around his mouth. We smiled at each other and basked in the gaze of other revellers. He brushed the hair off my face and everything was fine again.

I held his hand on our way back home and I leaned on his shoulder just so. Finding our way back home is always an adventure, because we’re both terrible with directions, but this time we worked together beautifully. We were pleased.

We got home in the little hours. We sat on the bed and looked at ourselves in my large antique mirror, red, black and feathered. I took off my hat and my earrings, looking at his reflection. We kissed. We lingered for a second before our lips touched, breathing each other’s breath. I unbuttoned his shirt very slowly and licked his left nipple. And then the right one. He was deliciously salty. Lower down, on his hip bones, I traced long lines with my tongue, making my way down to his crotch.

I went down on him very slowly, licking his shaft, twisting my hands up and down. There was nothing else in the world but his spit-covered cock, gagging me. I could hear he was close to orgasm. ‘More, please’, he whispered. I shifted so he could finger me. His fingers sent circles of warmth and pleasure through my body, from my clit to my head.

I sat on his face with his cock deep in my throat, folded over his body, but, instead of licking my pussy, he went straight for my asshole, moaning, getting even more aroused. He put a finger up my bum with his face buried in my pussy. I was slow to realise that he wanted me to do the same so I spit on my finger and pushed it in. I usually wear gloves, so it felt much more intimate like that, flesh on hot flesh. It was moist and tender. It welcomed me in. He loved it. My face was full of spit and snot from deepthroating. We stopped for a second to breathe and kiss and he asked me if I had a buttplug or something. I had a buttplug or something and I pushed it slowly up his ass. John had his eyes closed, facing me, focused on his sensations. I put my thigh between his buttocks and pushed the buttplug further in, kissing him. He started breathing heavier, and pushed his butt against my thigh, moaning like a girl. He moved to all fours, with his butt in the air. I pushed the buttplug in rhythmically and then it was clear what was going to happen next. I fumbled a bit to put on the red rider and tighthly strapped it round my thighs and my waist. The red seven inches of rubber rested on my pubic bone, putting pressure on my clit. John lay on his back, looking me in the eyes. He was mine. I pressed forward and caressed his face as I went in. Moments later, he wrapped his legs around me and I fucked him like a girl. He turned around and I put my cock inside him again from behind. It felt so natural to fuck him, to move the way I would like to be fucked, to wave my hips forward and wait for him to react. A few minutes later, he begged me to stop. ‘I am blissed out’, he said. ‘If you want to, we can just go to sleep’. We rested a bit. ‘No, I want to fuck you first’, he said, feeling my dripping wet pussy. He climbed on top of me. ‘Are you wet enough?’, he joked. ‘Oh, listen to the sound your pussy is making’. The slapping sound was embarrassingly loud. ‘You like it?’ ‘Yeah’. ‘Harder?’ ‘Yes, harder. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me harder… Oh shit, oh shit, I’m coming’, he whispered and turned his face away in agony. He then came and came and came inside me. We fell asleep naked, embraced, his semen trickling down my thigh.

The moment he woke up next morning, he kissed me. ‘I love you. Last night was amazing. You know I wanted this for a long time’. And then, smiling coyly, ‘How do you feel about you making me your bitch?’ ‘Good! It was really hot!’ ‘It was, wasn’t it, he said’, stroking his cock.

He fucked me hard, looking me in the eyes as if he wanted to snatch my soul. He came inside me. We were resting, hugging. He told me he kept thinking about my asshole. He’d been thinking about it all our way home and he asked me when he was going to fuck me in there next. I said, ‘right now, if you want to’.

He wetted a finger and slipped it in. Moved it around a bit. I was still aroused from earlier.

He then put his cock inside my pussy, dipped it in our juices, and slid it up my ass. I asked him to stop at times and I fingered myself while he was in me, sliding wet fingers inside me to feel the thickness of his cock.  I lay on top of him, facing the ceiling, and asked him to finger me. He pushed his thumb inside my pussy and finger-fucked me thoroughly while his cock stayed still up my ass. We switched positions a few times. I took it all in and I loved it. ’Harder, harder’, I said and moved back towards him and then he came. I didn’t come this time, but I enjoyed the way my body opened up to him, the ways we wrapped around each other, the eye-fucking, the intensity of it all.

‘We should have filmed it’, he joked, ‘first time anal adventures for you and me’. ‘Yes, we should have. We’d make good porn’.

***

I’m still entertaining the idea of becoming a professional dominatrix and I need some new pictures for my site. I asked John if he would like to be in some pictures together, with him subbing. He said ok, but that he wanted to go to the gym first. Silly John, he has a beautiful body, but I said yes, of course. ‘Unless…’, he said, ‘unless I can find someone else to pose with you. Perhaps I can persuade my friend K.’. ‘But is he as good looking as you?’ ‘He is. He’s black.’ ‘I bet you’d look good together…’, I said. He continued:  ’Ivory and ebony. You can play us both like a kinky piano’. ‘What a lovely thought!’, I exclaimed, a little too enthusiastically. ‘You’re crazy, Alice!’, he shook his head at me.

I was going out and he walked me to the train station and then he stayed on the train with me for a few stops longer, just because it was hard to say goodbye. Our bodies were still pulled together by invisible forces and it felt painful to move apart.

A few hours later, I got back home and I called him to wish him goodnight. ‘How is your ass?’, I asked. ‘Oh, it hurts a lot…’, he joked, making me worry for  a second. ‘It’s fine. How is yours?’ ‘It’s perfect!’, I replied. I added, thoughtfully: ‘The human body is full of wonders’. He laughed: ‘The human body is full of cock’.