The One - No one said it would be easy (11 page)

Everything about him was big. Big head, big arms, big upper body, big butt, big legs. He wasn’t particularly well-toned but he wasn’t flabby either. He was simply massive and solid. Equally massive was his cock. He definitely owned the most enormous specimen I’d ever seen to date. A gigantic affair, enormous all around, width and length. It was flesh-pink in color. And – to top it all – it was adorned with prominent veins like the ones on those ugly plastic models at the dildo shop. I’d always assumed those weren’t copied from real life. Hey, maybe he was a cock model for vibrators? In porn vernacular, an exhibit like the one sported by Number Eleven would presumably be referred to as Bulging Truncheon. Or maybe Giant Shlong. I’d been of the opinion that I had pretty much been up and down the scale of cock sizes, but you learn something new every day! His giant equipment didn’t put me off, I was certainly aroused enough to take up the challenge. Still, I guess I must have looked a trifle nonplussed when Goliath was released from the confinement of Number Eleven’s underpants. We tried the classic he-on-top-of-me position first. His missile found the way in unguided, he just slipped in, I was extremely aroused and accordingly sopping wet between my legs.
But even so, the massive guy on top and inside of me practically took my breath away. His weight on me and his giant shaft inside of me made me feel as though I was in an experiment: (s)extreme endurance testing – how long until a woman is pounded flat and screwed through? It’s a mystery to me how women in porn movies manage, with not one but several massive guys with massive equipment messing about with them at the same time. In addition, Number Eleven was pretty ferocious, he thrashed about like crazy, moved and gyrated, up and down and back and forth. I don’t know how other women feel about this, but I find all this rubbing and thrashing and thrusting at humping-rabbit speed totally off-putting. I hate it! How are you supposed to concentrate on the state of your own arousal and your own orgasm, if the guy inside of you seems to think he’s in training for an Olympic thrashing contest? Soft, slow in and out is a hundred times more sexy, because that’s when you can actually feel everything, feel every centimeter of his cock, feel how he touches you and what these touches unleash in you. That’s what I call savoring. Sometimes it’s enough if he just stays there inside of me, all the way in, and doesn’t move anymore at all, and I can just concentrate on feeling him in there. I’ve had some major orgasms this way.

With Number Eleven working me over at full throttle and with little sensitivity, I realized very quickly that where wood is chopped, splinters must fall. So to speak. I simply wasn’t used to accommodating something of that size. After a very short time, things became highly uncomfortable for me. Having him move about in me was no longer arousing, it burnt and chafed. “Unreal!” I thought. “I’m actually screwed sore. That’s never happened to me before.” I just wanted it to finish now. In order to be able to have at least some influence on his thrusting and my own increasingly painful response, I got on top of him. I’d long given up on my own orgasm, there’s no way that’ll happen now. I was no longer turned on, I just wanted it to be over. Whilst moving carefully up and down on him, I grabbed his balls behind me with one hand. He groaned and begged me to stop, because that was so hot it would make him come immediately. Bingo! Of course I didn’t stop – that was exactly what I wanted to hear! Release! A few more up-and-downs, a few more ball-strokes, and, at long last, he came. He said “phew that was great” and sank back into the pillows. Exhausted, I sank down beside him. I said nothing.

And so you lie there. Sore, non-climaxed and somewhat embarrassed because it just hadn’t been worth it. And you look at this guy and you realize that you don’t even like him, and that the thrilling tension that built up between you has completely evaporated and the only thing that’s left is cold disillusionment and his spilled soup between your legs. Was that really necessary? The little angel reappears from its hide-out and starts giving it loads, bashing your conscience. I couldn’t get myself to send him packing. Instead, I allowed him to fall asleep next to me. Dawn was breaking, and the lighter it got, the more I felt guilty towards my boyfriend, and the worse I felt about still having this guy in my bed. Why couldn’t I just have gone home and to bed, alone, like a good girl?

Oh, there it is again: 20/20 hindsight. Apparently, my sudden aversion to Number Eleven wasn’t sufficient to quell his awakening morning-lust. He tried a repeat performance in spoon position but I escaped by stating I had to have a shower first. I practically fled into the shower to escape the giant cock. But it didn’t work. A few moments later, there he was, in all his incomprehensible hugeness, his missile fully out and in place for the next assault. In daylight, it looked even more threatening, more flesh-pink, more ginormous in width and length. I was too tired to send him away. I’d invited this screw-fest and this guy into my life and I’d just have to get through it. Number Eleven and I did it under the shower. Under-the-shower sex, incidentally, works best if the lady stands braced against a wall, holds on to something and sticks her butt out. That way, the gentleman can penetrate her comfortably from behind and they are both fairly safe from slipping and sliding. Number Eleven was in full humping-rabbit mode again and I just let it happen, hoping it would be over quickly. I was really sore already and this wasn’t helping any. Looking back, I really wonder why I didn’t just send him home and what possessed me to let him do it again. I didn’t even care about him, we would never see each other again. Somehow, I just didn’t dare. How stupid! It was like the good girl resurfacing just at the wrong time.
My last memory of Number Eleven is how we did it under the shower, or rather, how he utilized me to do it to himself under the shower. I acted as though I was involved, but I wasn’t. I have no recollection of how I managed to get shot of him in the end, and how we parted. Number Eleven and I never contacted each other again after that night. But since Number Eleven I know what it means to be unable to walk after sex. I managed to successfully suppress my guilty feelings towards Number Ten. And of course I never told him about it.

Number Twelve: Fascination with a monste
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Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! When I think about Number Twelve, it makes my guts tense up, I am embarrassed, I wish the ground would open up and swallow me, I want to hide, I want to scream, I want to forget and I want to slap myself. Number Twelve was a complete nonsense, a total waste of time and even dangerous. And I was simply naive and so stupid it could make your eyes water! When Number Twelve happened, my boyfriend (Number Ten) and I were both studying abroad for a few months. Sadly, there were several thousand kilometers between us. My boyfriend was at a stylish media college in hip and sunny Los Angeles, and me, I’d ended up in stupid France, in ever-grey and dismal Bordeaux. I disliked the French and their stupid country, everything sucked, I didn’t enjoy the local university, had no money, somehow didn’t meet any nice new people, couldn’t understand what made the French tick and felt nothing but terribly lost, lonely and out of place. I didn’t experience even the slightest whiff of this much-touted a-year-abroad-is-sooo-wonderful stuff, I just felt like shit. And instead of making every effort to change this, I withdrew more and more and concentrated on horribly missing my boyfriend. Who absolutely loved it in sunny California, had endless fun, spent every day experiencing exciting new things with exciting new cool stylish people, a party a day, never a dull moment. I missed him unbelievably and bombarded him with I-miss-you-so-much letters and emails. Sadly, not a lot came back from him. His emails and letters were rather rare, the content rather brief. While I described and celebrated my love for him on page after page, his reply, if it came at all, was maybe five lines every few days. “I miss you too” was about as good as it got.

Booting the computer and checking the emails became a daily ordeal. The wild expectation and hope of having received a few more lines from him, and then, after clicking “new messages” and watching the download bar reach one hundred percent, praying that the five new mails contain one from him – and the knife through the heart when it all falls to pieces. The bitter disillusionment, the painful disappointment when you find out that all five new mails are just fucking advertising crap mails. And not one single message from him. So you click “new messages” again. Just in case. It can’t be that there’s nothing from him again! And you click “new messages” once more. Nothing. Just your mail program’s friendly status indicator “You have no new messages”. You just want to yell at your computer: “Shut the fuck up you stupid bloody thing, yes damn it I know nobody loves me, nobody writes to me, you don’t have to keep rubbing my nose in it!” Similar symptoms occurred when walking to the letterbox. Looking into its empty metal space was equal to being kicked in the stomach, every time.

Speaking on the phone with my part-time Californian was just as disillusioning. I bravely pretended to enjoy my life in stupid old Bordeaux and kept inventing stories of wonderful experiences, just to be able to hold my own against all his tales from Hollywood (rented an XL limo, party on the beach, party in some penthouse...). I thought that, if he heard what a good time I was having, he’d be most impressed by my cool lifestyle. At least I had the presence of mind to not sob down the phone at him! After each phone call I felt worse than before and had this dreadful tight feeling in my stomach that comes from smashing the receiver down after a stupid phone call with your beloved, and wanting to kick the wall in.

The thing is, in my life, tragedies of the heart tend to necessitate a special kind of release. There I was, a lonely, lost and unhappy girl far from home. My boyfriend didn’t love me anymore and was whooping it up in L.A. without me, at least that’s what I thought. Like so many girls in their early twenties, I was so insecure about myself that I was dependent on outside validation. And since Number Ten was so preoccupied with his own stuff that he fairly neglected to look after the withering little flower that was our love, I would have to find the required validation elsewhere. Which is how I justified the thing with Number Twelve. Number Twelve, as it turned out, was based on nothing but a combination of frustration, defiance, vengeance and nonsense, without rhyme or reason. Did it make me feel more happy, more contented, more balanced? No – just even more frustrated.  

I met Number Twelve during one of those overseas-Erasmus-students-flocking-together meetings in a grubby boozer in Bordeaux. Within seconds, my practiced eye had identified him as the only halfway acceptable guy amongst all the boring, scruffy and yucky new-age-ish freaks. He had a Mediterranean look, was very tall, with the body of an athlete, thick dark hair and an attractive, striking face. So OK, his head was rather on the big side and sometimes he looked distinctly goggle-eyed, but he was still the only halfway cool and laid-back amongst all those weirdo students. The more I observed him, the more I liked him. Striking up a conversation with him was easy and uncomplicated, and Number Twelve eventually revealed that he was a former member of the national basketball team of Croatia. I was impressed. Naturally, this shot his point of attractiveness way up on my how-do-I-rate-this-guy scale. Number Twelve acquired an automatic fifty point boost. Frankly, women are every bit as basic as men. Men fancy big breasts and women go mad about athletes. Should the athletes in question be even halfway successful, we’ll be drooling just like guys faced with ample bosoms. I don’t quite get what Mother Nature had in mind here. Are we girlies maybe subconsciously searching for a sporty, singing, jumping kangaroo to propel our offspring safely across the prehistoric steppes?    

Now that I was suddenly interested in Number Twelve, he, just as suddenly, seemed to have gone off me. After our little conversation he turned away and started talking with other people. Wonderful. But by now I was hooked – I was dead set on getting to know him. Which turned out to be impossible, because after a short while he said good-bye and buggered off. This meant I had to drag my sorry butt to every one of those deadly boring Erasmus meetings in the hopes of running into him again. I was in dire need of a bit of excitement and variety to alleviate the loneliness and frustration of my French life. And guess what – it paid off, Number Twelve suddenly reappeared. This time I outdid myself because I couldn’t risk letting him slip away from me again. I flirted like crazy, smiled my high-octane smile and practically sizzled with charm. And it worked a treat. He was hooked. He asked for my phone number, and could we maybe go out sometime? Sure we could! When he suggested a daytrip to an island near Bordeaux, I was delighted. At long last, I’d be experiencing something exciting! That’s what I thought, still sulky and envious of my boyfriend. In my imagination, I was already ringing him up and recounting my cool island hopping adventures with my cool new friends.
  

Number Twelve and I arranged to meet a few days later to turn our wine-fuelled island-hopping plans into reality. I used my credit card to pull money I didn’t have from the hole in the wall to be able to afford this trip. I was hopelessly broke already and had to make 20 euros last a week, that’s how bad my finances were back then, but right at that moment I didn’t give a damn. I just wanted to take part in something nice for a change. And it wouldn’t be any fun without any cash in my pocket. When I saw Number Twelve standing at our meeting place, I just thought, “Shit!” – I didn’t like him at all anymore. He seemed really gormless somehow, like a klutz, his head was enormous, his dark goggle-eyes glared at me with a stare that was both scary and naïve at the same time. And as though that wasn’t enough already, he’d smothered himself with a terrible sickly-sweet perfume that threatened to turn my stomach. All of me shrieked, “alarm, get the hell out of here, this is going to be a disaster!” but I was so fixated on leaving my dull, boring and frustrating everyday French existence behind, I wouldn’t permit myself to bail. And all so I would finally have an exciting tale to tell my boyfriend! And so I now had this lummox on my hands. My propensity for superfluous affairs of the heart continued in all its glory.
By the time we were on the ferry that was taking us to our island, Number Twelve was already acting extremely familiar. We were sitting side by side and, just as though we’d known each other for umpteen years, he lowered his head like it was the most natural thing in the world, and, like a little kid, sank down onto my lap. All the while watching me provocatively with those dumb brown goggle-eyes in his huge head, like a little puppy who knows perfectly well that he’s just messed up, but wants to check with his human just how far he can go. Instead of letting him know that I was not the slightest bit amused, I said nothing. Out of my depth with the situation, I sat there smiling like a silly moorhen and just let it all wash over me. Incidentally, women always smile when in truth they feel awful. Then he started on the slushy stuff, and he gave it loads: “You are so beautiful, blablabla.” Yes I know I said I was in need of reassurance, but this whole situation suddenly appeared so absurd and so idiotic that I was tempted to jump into the Atlantic. After a brief deliberation with myself, it was clear that I had two options: panic – not the best of ideas when you’re on a tiny boat with a virtual stranger, heading out towards a remote island in the Atlantic, where the ferry back to the mainland wouldn’t depart until late evening. Or, pull myself together, try to make the best of it and treat the whole thing as a game from the “Adventures” section. Which was how I’d planned it to start with, more or less. And so I decided on the second option and, to seal the decision, I took the bull by the horns (so to speak) and kissed him. Number Twelve was somewhat stunned, but in a good way, and wholeheartedly joined in. The kiss-attack was meant to defuse the strange tension between us. It was quite an OK kiss, marred only by his overpowering perfume and scratchy stubbly beard. But what the heck – just part your lips and get on with it!  

Once we reached the island, we went looking for the nearest beach. Where we continued what we’d started on the ferry. We made out like crazy and proceeded to heavy petting. Fascinated, I realized that I was caught in some weird state I hardly know how to describe. I didn’t actually find Number Twelve the slightest bit attractive anymore, and the more I was aware of this, the more disgusted I was of him. And yet I was making out with him, which was a turn-on in ways that were utterly absurd. I was stuck somewhere between lust and disgust. On the one hand, it really sucked how he disregarded all boundaries and just continued to explore my body as though it was his right. On the other hand, it was exactly that which made me feel so extremely turned on. He just took me. In the truest sense of the word. What made the whole thing even more thrilling was that there was no way out – I was stuck on an island, there was no escape. OK, I could have run off and sat by the harbor for a few hours, waiting for the ferry, ignoring him or making a scene, but that didn’t feel like a satisfactory alternative to me. And so I played the game. And now Number Twelve dug out a video camera and started to film us making out on the beach! I really panicked then – shit, I thought, he’ll show this to all his mates. But then I quickly reached a point where I didn’t seem to care about anything anymore. Luckily, YouTube and YouPorn hadn’t been invented back then. So what if he showed it to his Croatian team-mates, what did I care? And anyway, I was scheming to nick the tape at the earliest opportunity. And so Number Twelve and I spent the entire day on the beach, making out and philosophizing about God and his wife in a mixture of French and English. He told me about the wild orgies he and his team-mates had attended, and how all the girls were crazy about them. I guessed that was meant to impress me: I can have any woman I choose – be aware what a gem of a man you see before you! The day with Number Twelve was kind of peculiar. Not really real. Come on, I thought, you can get through this one weird day. And once you are nicely asleep in your own bed again tonight, you can put the whole thing out of your head and forget it, and that’ll be an end to it.

Like the hell it was! We got back to the harbor just in time to watch the evening ferry casting off. Oh great! Now I had to spend a night with this sex-and-video crazed sporting ace. The day had been so bizarre already that I managed to maintain my composure quite well. There wouldn’t have been any point in bleating hysterically. Pragmatic as I was, I had only two concerns: where can we sleep, and what the hell would I look like in the morning, without a change of clothes? I didn’t care about anything else anymore – it was all messed up beyond recognition anyway. Luckily I was carrying my survival make-up kit, I never leave home without it, it’s meant for just this kind of situation. Well at least that’s one good thing about this day – I can finally give my emergency beauty kit the attention and gratitude it deserves.

Number Twelve and I walked about, somewhat at a loss. The nearest hotel was fully booked and they gave us only two more phone numbers to try. It was getting dark and I could see us having to sleep on the beach. A terrible prospect. It was September, the nights were no longer snug and warm like in summer. Spoilt girlie that I was, I’d never found sleeping in a tent the slightest bit romantic. Luckily Number Twelve had a mobile, which was a rarity in those days. And we had more luck. One of the guesthouses answered the phone and they had a room! A room with a double bed. No matter. What did matter was that the room had a shower. No, not in an adjacent bathroom. The shower cabin was inside the room. Oh wonderful! At least the toilet was elsewhere. Number Twelve didn’t seem to mind, he dropped his clothes, cool as a cucumber, and went into the shower. To his great disappointment I didn’t join him in the tiny cubicle. I pretended to be entirely detached and disinterested. He tried to draw my attention by asking me to hand him the towel. I threw it at him, disdainfully. When it was my turn to take a shower, I threw him out of the room. He tried to protest but I insisted on my shower-privacy. Unfortunately and due to the entirely unplanned nature of this overnight stay on a remote island, I wasn’t carrying pajamas. And I really didn’t want to get back into the sweaty old stuff I’d worn all day. So I slipped under the blanket, naked. Thinking that the Croatian sporting ace would be a gentleman and leave me in peace. However, there was only one enormous couple-sized blanket. Meaning, just one blanket for two people. (What an idiotic invention! You want to be able to sleep in peace and not be subject to being sniffed and breathed at by another body with nothing at all wrapped around you for protection!) Number Twelve was waiting patiently by the door until I called him in. He grinned. He dropped the towel he had wrapped around his waist and, stark naked too, crawled under the blanket with me.