The One - No one said it would be easy (16 page)

Downloadable ring tones must be the most superfluous and embarrassing thing on the planet and companies like jamba & co. should be relocated to Jupiter. And this guy had his on-and-off girlfriend saved on his mobile with photo AND fitting lovey-dovey mushy ring tone. How uncool is that?! I immediately grasped the precariousness of the situation but I let him sweat and stammer. I wasn’t going to switch to sympathetic now. I was hacked off as hell. Hacked off by the guy and hacked off by me who should have known better and still carried on. Number Fifteen stared at me with a glare that said more than a thousand words. He would have loved to say: “Get away from me, bitch, piss off, I’ll drown you in holy water and smother you with anointed cloths.” But he didn’t have the balls. Instead he kept murmuring “I can’t, I can’t.” I caught my breath, threw the car door open, got out and smashed it shut again. In my own car I let rip like a fishwife and screamed with rage, rage at this shithead of a guy and rage at me for being such an idiot.

I hardly ever thought of Number Fifteen afterwards. Luckily it never came out. On reflection, I am glad nothing happened. This twazzock didn’t deserve to screw me.

Number Sixteen: Hopelessly addicted

Oh God. Number Sixteen. A real heartbreaker. Every woman has a number like Number Sixteen in he
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. Number Sixteen belongs to the type of guy who puts you under their spell – you succumb, you surrender completely. The type of guy who turns you into someone you’re not. You mutate into a kind of love wreck. You don’t recognize yourself. You are incarcerated in your padded cell of the heart, you fight and you kick and you scream but you can’t get out. You know he’s no good for you. You know nothing good will come of it. You know you’re headed for heartbreak. You know it will hurt. And even though you know all this quite clearly, you throw yourself, into the abyss of the heart that opens before you. Fully consciously. Heart and body and soul.   

It was only a matter of time before the demise of the rickety house of cards that was my relationship with Number Ten. I didn’t have the guts or the decency to raze it to the ground myself. Instead, I stood and watched it crash. Number Sixteen was both trigger and cause at the same time. I met him in my new job. He was so damn handsome. Tall, lots of dark tousled hair, blue eyes, a firm masculine body, not fat – no not at all! – but nicely compact and sturdy, like a proper he-man who, if he was that way inclined, could pick you up with one hand and throw you against the wall. He looked like a mixture of Buzz Lightyear and the snooty prince from Shrek with the long flowing hair.

Number Sixteen was utterly charismatic. He was very conscious of his effect on the ladies. He exuded boyish innocence coupled with some kind of perverted forbidden sex appeal. You could practically smell that the only thing on his mind at any one time was fucking. Number Sixteen was a stallion. Honestly – no shit! Sounds like pornography. And it is. The guy was porn personified. Number Sixteen looked at every woman, truly every single one, and it always felt a bit scary because you imagined that, while he was having some innocuous conversation with the woman, he was imagining shoving her against the edge of the table and screwing her hard from behind. Number Sixteen was preceded by a seedy reputation: he’ll do it with anyone! He’ll screw anything with a heartbeat! All these oh-God-isn’t-this-guy-terrible platitudes, recited with a wide-eyed goodie-goodie girlie demeanor. The hottest rumors were that he’d let some guy suck his cock (which I would definitely want to do if I were gay) and that he’d screwed some big fat opera singer in the ass. Whaaat? Reaaally? Awesome!   

Naturally, I was on record as considering Number Sixteen the pits. This put me in agreement with all of my female colleagues who were also on record as considering him a total shit. But off the record, all of us drooled and panted at the sheer thought of him. We were all dying to be his next victim. Then again, I for one hadn’t really planned on joining the ranks of his numerous sex kittens. But as it happened, that’s just what did happen. I had to spend time working with him on a particular project. As Number Sixteen seemed to find this just as boring as I did, we started being silly like primary school kids, and then we started to flirt. Then Number Sixteen suddenly said, straight out: “Do you think your boyfriend would mind if I’d borrow you for a bit?” I wanted to be outraged – how impertinent, who does he think he is, he’s even worse than his reputation, and I should have got up and waltzed out of there immediately like an insulted diva. But I wasn’t outraged or insulted. Instead I just had to smile, I couldn’t help it, the corners of my mouth extended to wide-mouth frog dimensions all by themselves. If he really is such a daredevil then that’s exactly what I’m in the mood for right now, I thought, with my already contaminated brain full of dirty imaginings. Just this one sentence uttered by him electrified a part of me, the low part below the waist, that hadn’t been electrified for quite some time. So I replied, just as cockily: “How about we don’t ask him. He’s away for a few days anyway. So, what are you doing tonight?”

And just like that, Number Sixteen and I had a date. That same evening. I guess we both had “fuck me” stenciled on our foreheads. We met up in a dim little empty bar. He was very attentive, paid me lots of compliments and was quite the gentleman. But at the same time, there was this randiness, this filthy dirty low-down beastliness about him. There should be an official ban on this mixture of gentleman and filthy beast, because it poses a real danger to poor little girlies, resulting in the same effect as KO drops secretly added to your drink. Bonggg, whoosh, crash-bang, there goes innocence, heart and brain. He smelled so good. My longing for him increased with every moment I lolled about with him in a cozy corner at that bar. Sounds kind of bombastic but that’s exactly how it was. I had such a craving for this guy, I could hardly contain myself.

Number Sixteen didn’t dither about too much either, after all we weren’t here for the hell of it! He wasn’t just a man who didn’t mince his words, he didn’t mince his deeds either. He wanted to kiss me, he said. Was that OK? Oh yes please! At long last, please please please kiss me, absolutely, don’t wait – crazy thoughts chasing each other through my indecent brain. I didn’t even try to say anything, why hesitate at the entrance to paradise? I just moved my face towards him and then we kissed. I still melt even now when I remember that kiss. It was kiss-paradise, the heaven-on-earth version of kisses. Number Sixteen’s kisses tasted so good. Number Sixteen is the best kisser on the planet, by a long shot. If there was a casting show for kisses (“Kissing Idol”?) I would secretly enroll him. And he would be the undisputed winner. By a mile. His scent was fantastic. His skin was so wonderful to the touch, smooth and firm. His lips and his tongue were perfectly formed and they felt wonderful, soft and firm and a little fleshy, and they moved just the way I liked it: slow but determined. Then, while kissing, he grabbed my hair with his hands, yes, just like in the movies, hurrah! The kiss drove me even more wild. Warning thoughts wagging a moralistic finger had no chance. I was beyond salvation now. I was lost. Hopelessly.

Of course we knew that we wouldn’t just keep to kissing. We had ordered the full menu, we weren’t likely to drop knife and fork after the appetizer. After all, we’d only just started! We were a long way from satisfied and replete. There was no need to speak, it was clear what would come next. We paid for our drinks and meandered home to his place, holding hands, stopping every so often to lean against some house for some heavy petting and making out. The moment we were inside his house we went at it. There we stood, in the middle of his tiny one-room apartment, petting like crazy while slowly removing all articles of clothing from each other. My gaze wandered around the dimly lit little room – randy or not, womanish curiosity wanted to go on a voyage of discovery. Whoa! There were one or two things to discover!

The wall was covered with huge cardboard women, comic-strip fashion with big breasts and much too much make-up on their faces. Then a giant pixilated image of the giant top of a penis being worked over by a giant mouth with a giant tongue. In the shelf I discovered a remarkable sculpture made from bronze or copper or some such metal. The sculpture was a life-like copy of the wide-open female genital region, depicting the part between hip and cut-off thigh, ample thighs spread wide apart, and full view of the promised land in all its glory, complete with folds, labia, clitoris. Come to think of it, I even saw a hand resting sideways on one of the labia. The guy owns a pussy-sculpture! How bizarre is that?! And a freshly blown penis on the wall. Decoration mirrors intention, I thought. And even though I was horny as anything, I found his private little porn gallery a trifle disconcerting. Brief panic attack: I saw myself tied to the bed and Number Sixteen looming over me with a diabolical grin on his face and a sharpened knife in his hand.    

Luckily, there was no sharpening of knives – Number Sixteen did nothing to turn my horror vision into reality – only his cock kind of sharpened itself on me. Incredibly, the sex fiend was actually really gentle and affectionate, albeit at the same time decisive and demanding. He had a very beautiful body and a perfect build, not too thin, not too fat. I liked his cock very much too, no big nasty surprises there, but unfortunately he’d been circumcised. Shit that looked like hard work. Circumcised cocks are a veritable ordeal. I took heart and his cock in my hands, it was hard and thick and full. I grabbed it hard and closed both my hands around it. I had such an urge to squeeze hard because I knew, this gentleman can take it, he was hardy (so to speak) and not too sensitive and holding his thick cock tightly in my hands just felt so hot and powerful. Number Sixteen did very well with his exploration of my body. He found his way excellently around my promised land, his touches were deliberate and gentle and designed to drive me into a lustful frenzy.

And it worked – I squirmed and twisted beneath him, groaned and pushed against his hand with all my might, a hand that slowly and elaborately moved on and in me. Unbelievably hot. And then Number Sixteen proclaimed his fondness for the female backside by turning me onto my belly and starting to meddle with me from behind. Slowly and softly he slid along the – I don’t want to say crack because that sounds awful, but what else to call it? Groove? Furrow? Anyway, he slowly slid his hand and finger along the path between the two butt cheeks (doesn’t sound much better). In any event, it felt great. He really got into it and it seemed to excite him, because his breathing got faster too. I was moving up and down, pressing my face into the pillows and whimpering softly because it felt so good.   

However, he then proceeded to attempt to dig his face in-between my butt cheeks, and that I found irritating. I’m completely torn on this subject. I know how extremely sensitive one’s backside is, but more than a little touching and stroking – no chance! No putting anything in, no licking anything. I have enough problems when someone wants to lick my front end, so certainly the back end was a total no-go area. With all due respect for his courage and uninhibited abandon – and he wasn’t a brute about it or anything, no, he remained the perfect gentleman and treated my backside with nothing but respect – but the idea of someone sticking their nose and tongue up my butt is simply unbearable to me. I would be beyond embarrassed. In a way I’d like to try it, and I’m sure I’m missing out on all sorts of sexual ecstasies, but I simply can’t. End of story. I pulled Number Sixteen up from his backside-licking-position, He then whispered into my ear: “May I sleep with you?” Which was kind of superfluous and a bit silly; it was entirely clear where we were headed, seeing as we were rolling around his heaps of cushions stark naked and most highly aroused. All the same, it just made me melt some more: how sweet was that?!
Generally speaking, the first time with a new bed-companion tends to almost always take place in the missionary position. You can’t really go wrong with that. Number Sixteen, though, preferred the doggy-style position. Since I was already on my belly and he seemed to be quite taken by my butt, he got going in me from the back. I mean, the from-the-back-into-the-front-end variation. Not the from-the-back-into-the-backside variation, I wasn’t anywhere near permitting that. I was surprised, as doggy-style hadn’t really been my thing to date. Yes you do it, because it always looks so excellently wicked in the movies and it’s quite nice to play at being a porn queen every so often. But I never really enjoyed it much, it wasn’t intensive enough, the guy was miles away, it was uncomfortable and it never made me come.

But with Number Sixteen, things were all together different. They were in fact brilliant. He was so wonderful, it felt as though our bodies, our primary sexual organs, had been carved like a puzzle for just this position. He moved slowly and deliberately, and I wasn’t kneeling in front of him on all fours but rather I was lying with my butt in the air, so he could go at it to his heart’s content.  He was so close on top of me, braced on one arm, the other one wrapped around me from the back and variously gripping my breasts, my belly, my face and my hair. We kissed kind of sideways, almost devouring each other with our mouths wide open, entirely disinhibited, gasping for air. It drove me to distraction. All the while he whispered groaningly into my ear how hot this was, how awesome it felt. Sex talk often tends to be more of an embarrassment than a turn-on, but with him everything was totally different. It just drove me even more wild. And for the first time in my sexually active life I didn’t express my lustfulness just by moaning but kept asking him to “fuck me!” again and again, softly and urgently. I’ve never been a fan of dirty talking – in case this is considered dirty talking – but I just couldn’t help myself. I kept having to repeat it, again and again, which made both of us move even harder and more urgently, I’d started to touch myself between my legs to help matters along by purposefully belaboring just the right places, and we both came almost simultaneously and with utter abandonment. WOW! What an unbelievably hot screw, I thought somewhere within the confines of my fogged-out brain. It was fantastic, magical, absolutely awesome! I was lying underneath him, my hair completely messed up and stuck together, I was a FFS – a freshly fucked squirrel. He was still lying on top of me, sweating like mad. There and then, I gave him the “best-sex-in-a-lifetime” award.

The great big mega-drama started that night. Silly fool that I was, I told myself that the thing with Number Sixteen was nothing more than a little treat, a little in-between nibble, a consciously savored bit on the side, which I’d soon be bored with, at which point I’d get shot of him and soon everything would be back to normal. I fancied that I had everything well under control, just like a smoker who boasts “I can stop any time I choose!” Like the hell I could! I was already sunk. Hopelessly lost. It was too late. I was mercilessly being dragged under by the maelstrom of the great drama of love. The thing with Number Sixteen didn’t end that night, of course. We embarked on a steamy affair. Whenever I could manage it, I was with him and we screwed each other senseless. The sex was most especially awesome after smoking pot. It was like sex-intoxication. The bed was our sex-cloud and we discharged in it without inhibition, like a sex-thunderstorm. The other really awesome thing was me watching when he did it to himself. I so got off on this, how this guy worked his big cock with his big fist and how he looked at me while he was doing it, and groaned and kissed me yearningly. While he did that, I lay next to him and rubbed against his leg until I came – not a lot of effort on my part!
Of course I was always very cool and pretended to be disinterested in anything other than the unbelievably good sex we had. Yesyesyes, of course! I was a terrible actress, the show I put on for myself was complete crap. By then I’d already fallen in love – hopelessly, full blast and head over heels. And of course I was fully aware that I was headed for the worst heart-quake of all times, magnitude 12 on the Richter scale. But like an alcoholic who tries to cover up the smell of booze with several pints of mouthwash, I kept covering up any ugly premonitions with a thick layer of stubbornness, naivety and self-delusionment. I played the cool hussy because I knew that he wasn’t remotely interested in relationship stuff. And irony of ironies, what do you know, as long as I was the cool, inaccessible sex goddess, Number Sixteen made the most enormous effort. He really wanted to conquer me completely. His hunting instinct hadn’t been satisfied yet. I wasn’t a hundred percent slain yet. Number Sixteen started to ask questions about my boyfriend, saying that he wanted to see more of me, and at some stage he said something like “I love you”. Wow, I was impressed. The womanizer wanted ME?