The Not So Invisible Woman (17 page)

One evening, while I was grinding on his dick, Christopher reached into his toy chest and pulled out a pair of adjustable nipple clamps. I knew what they were, having seen plenty of them at fetish fairs I'd attended in the past. I'd never tried them, though; they just didn't appeal to me. My nipples aren't that sensitive, but if a guy wants to squeeze them, I'd rather he did it the old-fashioned way, with his fingers.

'Those look interesting,' I said. At that moment, while the endorphins were kicking around, I thought, What the hell.

'Don't worry, Suzanne. This is the beginner model. I wouldn't dare put the ones I use on you.'

He put a clamp on each of my nipples and slowly tightened the screws. It hurt. After a few minutes my nipples went numb, because the blood had stopped flowing to the tips. Christopher tugged on the chain linking the two clamps. That really hurt. Then he carried on fucking me, occasionally pausing to gently tweak the chain. The idea was that the pain-pleasure sensors would get confused and send a surge of endorphins through my body. I never quite got there. It just hurt all the time, not so much that I screamed, not that I even wanted to scream, but the clamps hurt in a way I wasn't used to. I didn't find the experience particularly interesting, although grinding on his cock felt pretty good. But then, grinding on any man's cock feels pretty good to me.

Despite the pain, the clamps did have one surprising effect on me: every time Christopher yanked on the chain, my pussy tightened around his cock. So as a science experiment, it was interesting. But as a party trick to repeat, I wasn't so sure.

We were still fucking when Christopher once again reached into the drawer and pulled out two crocodile clips, tiny nipple clips with sharp teeth that dig into the skin and take nipple play to a level I didn't even want to think about. Just looking at them made me feel ill.

Christopher instructed me on how to apply the clamps to his nipples. I put a clamp on his right nipple and watched the teeth dig into the flesh. His face tensed up.

'That has got to really hurt,' I said. 'That has really got to hurt.'

'Only for a moment, darling,' he said. 'I've been doing this for a while, remember.'

I said nothing more. I just carried on grinding.

'I'm a bit of a pain slut, if you haven't noticed,' Christopher added.

I'll say, I thought.

I felt Christopher's cock get harder inside me as I applied the second clamp. I felt like a newbie, recoiling as I watched him take the pain. But Christopher seemed to really enjoy it, and I enjoyed learning something new, I guess. The lesson was that pain just wasn't my thing.

That evening I rode Christopher for three hours, grinding on his cock and playing with his nipples, holding back my orgasm. Sometimes when you don't have a big cock inside you, it can take a while. Eventually I came. Christopher had incredible stamina, never once going soft, even though most of the time I barely moved whilst on top of him. That position, or the lack of stimulus, tends to shrink the cocks of a lot of guys I've been with.

I came to look forward to our evenings together. Christopher lived close by, so it was easy to pop over for a quickie, or a three-hour longie, as was usually the case. But then my kids returned from spending a few weeks abroad with their father, and I went back to my bimonthly sex schedule. When the first of my kids-free weekends approached, I rang Christopher to see if he was free for another longie.

'Weekends are absolutely dreadful for me,' he said. 'I usually go down to the country to spend time with my family.'

Family? I didn't know what family he was referring to. Emma had implied Christopher was totally available. Now I got the feeling he had a secret life – secret from me, anyway.

'Oh,' I said.

'But I'm free during the week.'

'But I'm not. I've got two kids.' I explained that I only did the weekend-date thing.

'Well, I'm around in the evenings, Suzanne,' Christopher countered. 'We could see each other then.'

He clearly wasn't hearing what I was saying. 'Christopher,' I said, 'I have
homework
on weeknights. Just let me know when you'll be in town on a weekend.'

The following week Christopher called me at work. 'Want to meet me for lunch? I want to take you shopping.'

I thought Jimmy Choos. I thought sexy lingerie from Agent Provocateur. I didn't think a field trip to a BDSM supermarket.

'Meet me at ninety Holloway Road.'

The only interesting place I knew on the Holloway Road was House of Harlot, a high-end shop selling designer fetishwear. Instead, I found myself at the front door of Fettered Pleasures. It was a shop I must have passed a hundred times but never noticed. The building was nondescript. There were no window displays. In fact, the windows had grilles over them. I had to press a buzzer to get through the front door.

Christopher was already inside when I got buzzed in. He was standing by the front counter, next to the cock rings and poppers.

The place was a cornucopia of every possible piece of equipment a person could punish another person with. There were dozens of floggers, paddles, whips, and birches on one wall, running down the length of the store. Glass cabinets were filled with cock-and-ball torture devices, cock cages, massive dildos and catheters. I saw steel butt plugs and electro-stim devices. There were carousels of gimp masks. Full-rubber suits, corsets, leatherwear and adult-size baby clothes hung from racks in the middle of the room.

'This is what we need,' Christopher said.

I couldn't believe the range of products there, and now I wondered which merchandise he was referring to.

Christopher pointed to a rack of elbow-length rubber gloves that came in every colour of the rainbow.

'I like these lilac ones,' I said, secretly adding to myself, for the washing-up.

Then I noticed a small acrylic butt plug in one of the glass cases. That, I could handle. I felt it better to point Christopher in the direction of stuff I liked. If he was going to take me shopping, at least it should be for something I'd actually use. I've always liked sticking small objects in my ass, and I didn't own anything in acrylic. The only toys I had at home were silicon, and I rather fancied the hard clean lines of the acrylic models.

'It's settled then,' said Christopher. 'A butt plug for you, and some rubber gloves you can use on me. The lilac ones?'

'Great,' I said.

As we walked out the door, Christopher handed me the package. 'Here you go,' he said, smiling.

'No, you keep it. For the next time I see you.'

But by the time we'd left that shop, I'd already decided I wasn't going to see him again. I knew what the rubber gloves were for, and I realised I had no desire to stick my fist up his ass. Or anyone else's. Despite thinking of myself as the girl who would try anything at least once, I realised there are some places where I just don't want to go.

Holiday romances always seem to happen to other people, never to me. Or almost never.

When I was in my twenties, I met a beefy Italian on the Greek island of Skiathos. It was my first grown-up trip abroad, so it seemed natural that I'd meet a handsome guy with a foreign accent in an exotic faraway place and speak the international language of love – in bed. But he turned out to be a premature ejaculator. His cock would get hard, and just as he was ready to enter me, he'd come. It was a frustrating relationship that lasted only slightly longer than it took him to climax. So Julio didn't quite count as a holiday romance.

Neither did the guys I'd slept with on business trips to America. I often had great luck mixing business with pleasure, but on solo holidays, all I got were sunburns and hangovers and maxed-out credit cards. As far as I was concerned, when it came to holiday humps, my tally remained at nil.

That's why, after booking a week's holiday in Raleigh, North Carolina, I set up ten internet dates. I figured the odds were good that at least two would come through. I figured I had nothing to lose by putting an ad' out there.

Craigslist had come through for me before on business trips, but it wasn't always so easy. Typically, the guys I followed up with were married or busy or both. It's easy for a man to say 'It'll be great to see you,' when the woman he's writing to is three thousand miles away. But when the mileage, like a cock in cold water, shrinks, the truth comes out.

I knew my brother Harry and his wife didn't get out much. Lisa was working towards a psychology degree and studied every night. Harry liked to hang out with his stepson and watch the basketball on the television. I knew my sons, who would accompany me during their Easter holidays, would be happy to park on the sofa next to them, even if it wasn't Arsenal throwing the ball around. I had to come up with my own entertainment, and that was a real challenge in a town where the annual high was being invited to the Cheesecake Factory restaurant's anniversary party in the Crabtree Valley Mall.

I wanted a tour guide, a good ol' American boy who'd share his own personal highlights with me. I got on Craigslist and posted an ad under the 'Casual Encounters' w-4-m section: 'London media chick, 46, 34DD, blonde with blue eyes, visiting Raleigh for a week. Looking for a VWE, handsome guy, 38–50, to show me the town and have some fun.'

Within a day I had ten hopefuls. One guy invited me to a swingers' party, but the 'hey, baby' come-on was a cliché turn-off. I just wanted a normal date, with one person. Another guy asked if I was into bondage, which was a downer after my kinkathons with Christopher. One respondent was 28 years old – too young. Others, I decided after viewing their pictures, were either too fat or too bland. I began to suspect my holiday losing streak was destined to remain unbroken.

Then another 24 hours went by. Amidst the nos was one yes: a response from a 37 year old guy who described himself as a part-time fireman. He said he wanted to show me his eight-inch hose.

I wanted him to show it to me, too, and, after seeing the pic, I thought, You're on, sergeant.

He looked like a lumberjack – muscles, moustache, big grin, plaid shirt – right out of the 1970s commercials for Swanson's Hungry Man frozen dinners. Stuck in a time warp, perhaps, but attractive enough for one date. Plus, I knew I might never again get the opportunity to fuck an icon, the great American fireman.

His name was Tom. We arranged to have dinner together a few days after I arrived.

'As long as it's not the Cheesecake Factory,' I wrote. Tom promised he'd come up with something more creative.

'Do you mind watching the kids?' I asked my sister-in-law and brother. 'I have a date tonight.'

Lisa stared at me in disbelief. 'What do you mean, you have a date?'

'I arranged it in London, through the web,' I said. 'Cute guy, a fireman. He's taking me to some Italian restaurant, the West Italian Cafe.'

'Oh, very nice.' Lisa sounded almost jealous. 'It's one of the nicest places in Raleigh. Enjoy.'

'I better. In the past five years, I've been to ten different countries and scored a total of zero times,' I said. 'I think it's time for a change, don't you?

Lisa laughed. My brother rolled his eyes.

I dressed in my tried-and-tested dinner-date outfit, which I'd brought from London just for the occasion – a sleeveless Miss Sixty denim dress, deep V-neck, knee length, and tight, set off by high-heeled sandals. The dress accented my cleavage and curves, whilst the heels elongated my calves and drew attention to my slim ankles. It was an outfit designed to arouse a man's interest. I painted my toenails fire-truck red in Tom's honour.

I arrived at the restaurant early, having budgeted extra time in case I had trouble finding the place. I waited outside, quite aware that, standing on a street corner in fuck-me heels and a flashy dress, I looked like a hooker. Men passed by, flashing me a look that said, 'I'd pay for it.' Good, that meant I'd dressed right. I had learned since my divorce that if a woman wants to get laid, she should dress like a woman who gets paid.

Ten minutes after the target hour, a man pulled up in an SUV and poked his head out the window. 'Hi!' he said. It was Tom, smiling. He looked exactly like his picture. That made me happy. Too many guys turn up either looking so different than their pic that they're unrecognisable, or acting too keen, too smiley, or too shy – the troika of turn-offs.

Our table wasn't ready, so we went to the bar. The West Italian Cafe had been fitted out of an old warehouse – the exposed-brick, open-plan look I'd seen in restaurants from Hoxton to TriBeCa to Fisherman's Wharf. Not exactly original but chic enough, as were the people around us, I noticed. It was the after-work crowd of women in little black dresses and men in blue blazers. I clashed, but then so did Tom. He was wearing a check shirt and chinos.

'So, this is Raleigh' said Tom, picking up his wine glass. 'What would you like to do after we eat?'

We'd not even begun dinner and already he was thinking of dessert.

Fucking came to mind, but instead I played it conservative. 'Do you know any good jazz clubs?'

'Afraid not,' said Tom. 'I like jazz, honey, I really, really do. But I have never heard any live jazz 'round these parts. That's New Orleans. Y'all in Raleigh now.'

That was that. I felt a pang of disappointment. But I figured that if we had to skip the jazz, then maybe going straight to the pudding wouldn't be the worst thing.

'Maybe we should ask someone,' said Tom. He turned to the woman with big blonde hair in a big black dress sitting next to us. 'Excuse me, ma'am. Do you happen to know where we might hear some jazz?'

'Jazz,' she said. 'Hmm. Let me think.' She thought for a minute, then mentioned two places known for playing music, one of which, the Blue Martini, sounded familiar to Tom.

'The Blue Martini it is, then,' I said, excited that I would be hearing some live music after four days of North Carolina AOR.

We moved to the dining room. I picked through my seafood platter, and Tom tucked into his spaghetti carbonara. More wine arrived with dinner, and I was glad for the alcohol, as Tom wasn't a big talker when there was food in front of him. I knew a few glasses of wine would help us both.

Wow, I thought, this is like a proper date.

Aside from my four-hour lunch with Christopher, it was rare that any of my dates involved food. I'd learned, after placing a few ads on Swinging Heaven specifying 'adult fun and dinner', that although I might see some meat on those dates, I should not expect a meal.

But at least when I had an appetite I did something to sate it. The businessmen at the next table looked starved; they kept glancing over at me, or rather at my cleavage. Were breasts so rarely displayed in Raleigh? Tom was a gentleman. He tried not to look at my breasts too often.

'So, do you find dates on Craigslist often?' I asked. I knew it wasn't the greatest conversation prompt, but it was about the only thing I knew we had in common.

'No, not often,' he said. 'But I'm living with my sister at the moment, until I buy a place, so it's a bit difficult to take women home anyway. If you know what I mean.'

I knew what he meant. And I found it odd that a man in his late thirties didn't have his own place. Odd, too, that a man who didn't have his own place would want to take an equally homeless visitor out for dinner.

'Too bad I'm staying at my brother's,' I said. 'That place is out of the question, too.'

Tom bit on his lip. I wondered how we'd get to the pudding.

After leaving the restaurant we drove straight to the Blue Martini, but we arrived just as the band was packing up for the night. It was only 9.30.

'Sorry, hon,' Tom said. 'Looks like we got ourselves here just in time to be too late.' He asked if there was anything else I wanted to do.

'What about a strip club?' I was half joking, but at least those places could be counted on to stay open late and keep the liquor flowing. 'I've never been to an American strip club before, but most of the American movies I've seen lately, and every episode of
The Sopranos,
seems to feature one. I'd feel deprived if I left without experiencing this bit of Americana.'

Tom tried not to look surprised by my request – or too knowledgeable.

'Well . . .' he began.

'Well?'

He hesitated before speaking. 'There's the Golden Rose.'

'OK.'

Silence for a moment. 'That's the mid-range place,' he continued. 'The Dollhouse is more downmarket. And then there's the Foxy Lady.'

'Which one is the closest?'

'Golden Rose.'

'Done.'

We jumped in the SUV and drove to the Golden Rose. I was excited. I was also nervous. I assumed there would be no girls there, aside from the working girls.

The Golden Rose was in a lonely one-storey building in the middle of a car park, set opposite a shopping mall and a furniture salesroom. All the spaces were taken, so Tom drove over to the furniture store and parked.

I stepped out of the car and into a puddle. 'Shit,' I muttered.

'What?'

'It's all muddy here. Great parking space, Tom.'

'Sorry, Suzanne, honey. I'll make it up to ya.'

I hobbled over to the club. We walked through the door and into a small reception area. A middle-aged Southern woman was sitting behind a window. She looked at me and my tits, then at Tom.

'Are you a member?' she asked him.

'No, ma'am.'

'Then it's twenty dollars for you. She gets in free,' she said, pushing a piece of paper towards Tom. 'Fill in this form.'

While he bought a 'temporary membership' that somehow satisfied North Carolina's no-sin laws, I checked out a poster on a wall announcing the special appearance that night by a Playboy Playmate named Tiffany or Angel or Kylie. I could hear whoops and hollers coming from inside the club. It sounded like an American Western, and a busy night.

Now an official member of the Golden Rose, Tom took my arm and escorted me into a cavernous room filled with small round tables and black-and-white cushioned chairs. It was very dark in there, as the main illumination came from the small spotlights that directed everyone's focus to the stage. From what I could see, which was not much, I was the only female punter there, although my eyes caught the sparkles on the outfits of about a dozen strippers scattered about the room. They were in various stages of undress, wandering to and fro, sitting on customers' laps or giving 'private dances' in the rear. The men in the room were as young as 25 and no older than 50, many of them wearing baseball caps. No suits. These guys all looked as if they'd have been home cracking a Bud and watching the Sports Network had they not dropped in for a peek at Tiffany/Angel/Kylie.

I giggled nervously.

Tom and I sat at a table in the back. Immediately a very cute, very slim waitress wobbled over in super-high fuck-me heels to take our order. She was wearing an incredibly short red skirt and a matching crop top, and had to scream to be heard above Missy Elliott's 'Get Ur Freak On'.

'What?' she said. 'Excuse me?'

No wonder the focus was on the stage. Who could talk? Guess I wasn't going to hear Tom's autobiography.

I was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I just couldn't stop smiling, partly thanks to nerves and feeling so outnumbered and partly because I found the whole environment so amusing. It was something of a cliché, just like it's depicted in the movies and on TV, just as I'd imagined it would be – the off-duty blue-collar workers, slouching in their chairs, drinking beer, watching the girls, whooping it up.

I like looking at beautiful girls, especially girls who have curves, big breasts and long slim legs and who want to be watched. I'd tried the girl-on-girl action during college and, though it doesn't really turn me on any more, I still get vicarious thrills from looking at sexy women. And so did Tom. He was happy to look at the display models, cute or not, and perhaps just as happy not to have to talk. The music pounded, the girls wiggled, Tom and I laughed.

I was happy about the way the night was turning out. A visit to a strip club ranked high on my list of tourist experiences. As for Tom, it must have been his lucky day, too. I doubted many girls asked the local boys to take them to a place full of gorgeous girls, at least not on the first date.

We watched dancers writhe in mock ecstasy as they made love to the poles fixed to the stage. Some looked like they might actually be enjoying their job, but on the whole I sensed an utter lack of interest, as if, given the choice and the same amount of money, the girls would just as soon work behind the till at Sainsbury's.

About twenty minutes after we ordered them, our drinks arrived: a bloody Mary for me, a Budweiser for Tom. We'd so enjoyed the action, we hadn't even noticed our drinks hadn't come.

The girls were a real mixed bag. Some were very thin and looked like they'd surpassed mere anorexia and bottomed out with a bad drug habit. Others had big hips and round bottoms and looked like Amazons in comparison. A tiny black girl in a microscopic bikini walked around the room serving shots from a holster. She had the body of a ten-year-old boy, but the world-weary look of a veteran streetwalker, indifferent to the lecherous stares of the guys in the room.