The One - No one said it would be easy (12 page)

“Oh, let’s just get it over with,” I thought. The Croatian basketball pro with the Mediterranean look had an impressive covering of thick body hair. He looked in fact like a pelty black monster. Eek. I prefer a smooth boyish torso with smooth, soft skin. Never in my life had I set eyes on anything remotely like the grinning shaggy carpet lying next to me now. Shit that’s gross! I’m in bed with a bloody grizzly bear! Help! In-between the black hair covering his legs, a plump thick cock peered out. It wasn’t particularly long but made up for it in thickness. Without being even the slightest bit bashful he grabbed the thing and started to toss off like crazy, ogling me and feeling me up, drooling.

Well. Here’s the thing. Normally it really turns me on if the guy next to me gives himself a hand job. I really do find that sexy, so much so that often I like to encourage a bit of DIY. But now, with this hairy monster next to me, it felt downright impertinent the way he was engrossed in working his prick over. The monster was now in full swing, whispering dirty French-English nothings in my ear. I was too exhausted to even attempt to try and understand what he was talking about. I just let him get on with it. He seemed to prefer doggie-style because he grabbed me, turned me around and adjusted my position to suit himself. Lucky for me: at least I didn’t have to watch while a panting fur-covered klutz belabored me from the front. Then he got going. Amazingly, his thick compact cock didn’t feel that bad inside of me. There it was again, that same phenomenon: this pelty guy disgusted me more than he turned me on, and yet, this disgust and the fact that he was screwing me so crudely from behind had something so animalistic that I couldn’t help but feel extremely horny all of a sudden. “Shit,” I thought yet again. “What the hell gaping abyss is opening up here?” But frankly, who cared now – if all he wanted to do was fuck me, then I didn’t want anything other than to be fucked. I was pulling out all the stops, was aroused as hell and horny like a cat in heat. I moved rhythmically and thuddingly up and down under him, grabbed him, as much as ever possible in this position, and used my groans and whispered fuck-me talk to make him ram into me harder and harder. Presumably what I really wanted was to punish myself. We sweated like pigs, everything reeked of sex and the monster kept pushing me down into the pillows. Though in the throes of ecstasy, I managed to discourage him from wielding his video camera. Apparently I could still scrape up enough common sense to vehemently forbid it. I came quite crassly and ferociously, and Mister Basketball followed suit. “Shit,” I thought again. “Shit that was hot!” And: shit we didn’t use a condom, when I felt his sauce trickle down between my legs. And: shit that guy is gross, when he sank into the pillows next to me. His black pelt was completely gunked up, and my back was covered in it. “At least it’s over with,” I thought.

Unfortunately, Number Twelve was extremely potent and, a few minutes later, wanted another go. I really couldn’t face it again, I’d had more than enough of a no-good thing. I can’t remember how I managed to keep him off me, but in any way, he got off, miffed like a puppy when you don’t want to play with him anymore, and he went another round of jacking off, while glaring at me reproachfully with his goggle-eyes that seemed even more goggly to me now. I slept lousily. I wanted to be far away from this place and this guy, and even though I’d just had a wild orgasm, I was overcome by intense disillusionment. I was absolutely appalled that I’d felt even the slightest bit horny, had let this guy anywhere near me, had done it yet again without a condom, and actually had had an orgasm, and a bloody good one at that. I felt like crying. Why do you always have to screw everything up, I asked myself. I also asked myself whether I felt better now, considering that this whole thing had been some attempt at wreaking vengeance on my boyfriend for neglecting me. Of course not. I felt completely miserable. Which was no more than I deserved.

The next morning, Number Twelve wanted to go at it again. Since by then I was pissed off as hell with him and everything else, I couldn’t care less whether my pitiless refusal meant that the poor guy’s balls were about to explode. He could always jack off again – not my problem. The journey home seemed to take forever. I couldn’t wait to get back to the familiar frustrations of my everyday French life, the attempted escape from which had been the whole point of this bizarre experience. Number Twelve wanted to play couples and hold hands, but I turned into an ice princess and punished him with my icy stare. Should have thought of that much earlier. When I finally got home I had a hell of a job trying to get rid of the pelty creature. I immersed myself into a hot bath and scrubbed myself from head to toe. Sadly, I couldn’t scrub my conscience clean. Then the panic came: I’d stopped taking the pill and we screwed without a condom. Then more panic: I suddenly imagined all the terrible things that could have happened. I’d been out with a guy I was no match for physically, a professional athlete, and nobody knew where I’d been last night because I had told nobody where I was going. His big square head and his staring goggle-eyes suddenly seemed extremely suspect, wasn’t that what serial killers looked like? I kept immersing myself completely in the hot water until my lungs shrieked for air and forced me to resurface. I thought that maybe a lack of oxygen would contribute to erasing all memory of yesterday and last night, and would lay my panic to rest.

I rang my boyfriend and was relieved to hear his voice, so relieved that I burst into tears. I didn’t tell him anything about my oh so cool adventure that was supposed to impress him. I felt nothing but ashamed now. Women regret things they’ve done and men regret things they haven’t done. A few days later I went to the pharmacy and bought a pregnancy test. I was too terrified in case something had happened. To my great relief, there was no “Surprise! Baby!” pink indicator. And purchasing a pregnancy test still is a pretty unpleasant and embarrassing business when you desperately hope not to be pregnant. Buying condoms isn’t much better. You pretend to be cool and unperturbed and oh so self-confident and in the know, but all the same, perspiration is showing in your armpits as you place the colorful items on the cash desk. So much for our sexually educated generation. Some things will always be embarrassing.

Number Twelve tried a few more times to persuade me to go out with him again. Unfortunately he had my phone number. I managed to fob him off until in the end he gave up. I was extremely pleased to be finally shot of him. Scarily, I caught myself, during moments of deepest darkness, imagining another wild sexual encounter with the pelty monster. You try and unravel the human pleasure principle. It is frightening!

Number Thirteen: Shattered teen dream  

After my unnecessary and unsuccessful adventure with Number Twelve, I’d had quite enough of being naughty. I remained faithful to my boyfriend for eight whole months. Wow! Number Ten and I slowly got used to the distance between L.A. and Bordeaux and the fact that, of necessity, our relationship would have to be somewhat on the backburner for the duration. Plus, the end of our time of separation was coming closer and we were looking forward to being back together in good old Britishy in the not too distant future.

And then, one day, Number Thirteen popped up. I’d known Number Thirteen for many years. We’d attended the same school, though he was several classes up from me, and he was the hottest guy the school had ever seen. He looked amazing: dark curly hair, tall, athletic and wiry; he was laid-back, creative, smart, charming, funny, had a distinctive style and, needless to say, was an all-round sex god. Dream guy? Hell yeah! Absolute dream guy! Back then I was an ugly pubescent duckling and as such hadn’t a chance in hell to be even remotely noticed by him. And so I had to confine my deep admiration to the few break times when I saw him from afar. And by pure coincidence – real actual coincidence – I sometimes ran into Number Thirteen even after my school days were over, because we studied at the same university. As ever, I thought he was so damn hot! I didn’t come on to him though, because we kind of moved in the same student circles as – most inconveniently – his girlfriend and my boyfriend. Hands off: way too hot to handle!

Number Thirteen was friends with a university friend of mine, a guy who was taking part in the same study year in Bordeaux as me, which was disconcerting. That Number Thirteen actually came to visit this friend in Bordeaux was even more disconcerting. But most disconcerting of all was the fact that Number Thirteen, said friend and I spent a lot of time together and made best use of Bordeaux at night. Bordeaux started to be fun after all! We smoked pot like crazy. We ambled around town at night with our sunglasses on. We tried real absinth from Andorra and declared that absinth tastes like a soft warm kiss. It gives you a very nice dizzy and smooth feeling without the heavyness associated with other alcohol. Alcohol is like a block of cement. Absinth is soft, like a down-filled pillow. And all the time, my desire for Number Thirteen kept getting more intense. I mean – hello! When your teen dreamboat, the hottest guy on the face of the earth, is served to you on a silver platter, you simply have to make your move! And to hell with anything else!

And so I kept wondering how I could get Number Thirteen to come to my home alone, without our friend, who was of no interest to me in that respect. . There was nothing for it: I’d have to utilize the old pancake ruse. The old pancake ruse is a staple that works whenever you want to drag some guy home. Because sure enough, at some stage during our nightly forays, Number Thirteen declared he was ravenously hungry. And since guys are always ravenously hungry after consuming a lot of alcohol, this was the ideal moment for introducing the pancake scenario. You just need to make sure you always have a supply of eggs, flour, milk and sugar in the house. “Hungry” was my cue – and quite casually I mentioned that oh yeah, I was very hungry, too, and especially hungry for pancakes, real yummy home-made fresh pancakes, oooh yeah... And guess what, I just happened to have all the ingredients at home, so hey, why don’t we go to my place and I’ll make pancakes, yeah come on, wouldn’t that be great and sooo yummy! And all this in such a sweet-little-girlie voice that the intended pancake victim doesn’t really have any choice but to say yes.

Number Thirteen fell for it, hook, line and sinker. My detailed description of the imminent pan-baked delights that awaited him made his mouth water. My university friend thought all this was way too much effort, he just wanted to go home. Yes! I was jubilant inside. That had been the only vague part of the plan – how to get shot of our friend. See how it happens with some problems: they simply solve themselves!

Number Thirteen and I staggered to my little French apartment. I had managed to drag my teen dream guy, after many a year of secret yearning, into my apartment – could barely believe my luck! I immediately embarked on my pancake-baking endeavor even though I wasn’t the slightest bit hungry – a promise is a promise. I even accepted the prospect of everything stinking of hot fat: hair, clothes, skin... Smelling of frying oil is a sure-fire way of turning someone off. Number Thirteen opened the nearest bottle of red wine (when in Bordeaux...), even though my limit had already been well exceeded and I don’t hold my drink all that well at the best of times. Never mind. If it helps me get my dream guy – bring it on! To cut a long story short: I baked a heap of pancakes in the middle of the night, they tasted great and when we’d done away with them, Number Thirteen and I stood leisurely by my window, each of us clutching a glass of wine, looked out into the warm French summer night and chatted about life, the universe and everything. We stood very close together, our bodies touched and I loved every second of it. The moment of first kiss came ever closer. Everything was perfect, it would continue to be perfect, we would have perfect sex. I was practically drooling.

 
And then a big iron gate came crashing down across my dreams: shit. Shit. Shit! I cursed inwardly. I was beyond annoyed. I bombarded myself with the worst swearwords I could come up with in my inebriated state. I could have torn myself to shreds. Goddamn crap, I couldn’t have perfect sex with this hot guy now. No – not because of a sudden bout of guilty conscience about my boyfriend – that didn’t even occur to me. It was much worse! I suddenly realized that I was in no state to have sex. To be precise: my naked legs sported stubble like a field in autumn, and my bikini zone was overgrown with a jungle that hadn’t been cut back for a very long time. What a bloody disaster! There was no way I could possibly have sex with my dream guy like this! No bloody way! What was he supposed to think – the hippies are back? I just couldn’t believe my own stupidity. I was such an amateur! How could I prowl around town with my dream guy without ensuring that my nether regions were prepared for all eventualities? I could have howled with the pain of such idiocy. I was living proof of the supreme efficacy of “not shaving”, which is being used by American high school girlies as a tried and tested method for preventing them leaping into the sack on their first date with the quarterback. There was no way I would even remotely consider the possibility that maybe it didn’t actually matter that I hadn’t shaved. I’d rather do without. When you’ve been together for five years or more, weeell, maybe then it’s a different matter. But not the first time. And never ever with the type of guy who was now standing so close to me by the window. Goddamn it all! How could I have been so damn stupid? I’d given it my all, I’d come so close, only to be defeated by my own lack of intimate shaving. How sad is that?!  

Eventually, Number Thirteen just kept yawning and in the end he left. He didn’t try to come on to me, for which I was extremely grateful. Later he told me that he’d been absolutely crazy about me at that point, but hadn’t dared make a move. Aaah. How sweet, my cool superman was shy… Luckily! It saved him from being faced with impenetrable thicket of my pubic jungle!  

As soon as Number Thirteen had left, I gorged myself on the remaining pancakes, from sheer frustration. This was my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! And I missed it. Made a mess of it. Screwed it up. You stupid bloody cow! Which became my mantra for the next few miserable days.

However. It seemed that the God of Missed Opportunities had taken pity on my plight and seemed to wish to make amends. He gave me a second chance! Yay! Number Thirteen was going to be in Bordeaux for a few more days and, without any help from me, had the glorious idea of asking me for a date. And so we arranged, very properly and officially, to go for a meal. This was his last day in the land of the French, he was leaving the next morning. This time, nothing must go wrong! With military precision, I planned and executed my preparations – I spent hours in the bathroom perfecting my body for its expected performance in bed. For obvious reasons, I paid particular attention to my pubic hairstyle. Because as sure as eggs is eggs, we’d end up in bed. I had no doubt about that at all. I knew: this’ll be my night. I’ll be having the best sex of my life. I was willing and horny, in heat and foxy, buttery, slavering and hot.

In actual fact, when Number Thirteen came to collect me, he could have simply grabbed a hold of me, we could have pounced on each other and could have gotten down to it right away. We’d have had the entire night for ourselves and could have spent many happy hours romping around in bed. But no – dumb-asses that we were, we wasted what precious time we had following the antiquated etiquette of dating: go for a meal, lots of chit-chat, go for a drink, more chit-chat, then slowly but inescapably coming closer together until at long last, drums beating and trumpets sounding, the ultimate act of the evening can finally be initiated. While all along the both of us had only one thing in mind: screwing! I guess this is how it has to be: after all, we don’t start a three-star seven course menu with desert!
 

Number Thirteen picked me up from home. Where we wouldn’t return to until hours later. We went to an Arabic restaurant with plush oriental décor straight out of One Thousand and One Nights, which kind of suited our mood. We ate Middle Eastern food with lots of vegetables and spices and drank fresh peppermint tea with honey. These delicacies resulted in our already swirling hot blood getting ever closer to boiling point – Arab cuisine is rumored to be quite helpful in this respect. Respectable as we pretended to be though, we kept things under control and our hands and tongues to ourselves. Oh sweet delay of our sweetest desire. Meantime it was after midnight. His flight was at eight in the morning. Not a lot of time for the best sex of my life, I couldn’t help thinking. Still, we doggedly followed the rules of dating and drank heavy red wine out of huge glasses in a dimly lit little bar furnished with antique looking settees covered in ruby-red velvet. You couldn’t help but sink into them. From Moulin Rouge, with love!

Dazed by the full-bodied red wine, intoxicated by spices from Arabia and entirely besotted with each other, everything was happening in slow motion. With infinite gentleness, Number Thirteen moved his cool wineglass along my arm, his eyes slowly following the barely discernable track left on my skin by the cold glass. I had goose bumps on my skin, my heart boomed right up to my neck and my mind was awash with “Yes! Yes! Yes! Finally!” – the only thoughts I could muster at that moment, and my panties were dripping. Nothing had actually happened yet, but often it’s those moments, incredibly soft but extremely intense, that flood your entire body with unbelievably wonderful waves of arousal.

Number Thirteen traced the path of the glass on my arm with his finger. I melted. I moved even closer to him, so that our faces nearly touched. Neither of us said a word. Instead of kissing, we explored each other’s faces by “almost-touch”: with my eyes closed, I “sensed” his face, his throat, his neck with my velvety lips, mouth closed. Again and again. I barely touched him but I could feel his soft skin, smell it. He reciprocated. I was caught in a sphere of arousal and, had time stopped at that point, I would not have minded in the least. Everything to do with Number Thirteen felt brilliant. His scent was great, and the suggestive closeness of his body and his warmth was driving me crazy. At long last, we allowed ourselves the long desired kiss. A picture book kiss. Absolutely everything a kiss should be. Soft, gentle and arousing in the extreme. Both of us employing the same kissing tactics so there was no sobering collision. The sex dream continued…
 

We had no more time to lose, it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. Five hours before his plane left. Propelled by lust we rushed to my place. Where we could have been lying in my bed for hours, sweaty and well satisfied. We were ripping each other’s clothes off before we’d even tumbled in through the door. Like in the movies. This time, no panic about pubic hairstyle. All of me well prepared for the best sex of my life. He had a devastatingly beautiful body. Wiry, muscular, firm, sinewy. Soft white skin, discreet dark hair at all the right places. Like a prototype Greek preparing for the 395 B.C. nude Olympics. By far the most erotic part of a man’s body is when his belly muscles are well developed and they form these slanted channels from the waist down, like a funnel leading to the goal still hidden inside the jeans. That beautiful part of a guy you get to admire in every Calvin Klein underwear commercial. What’s it called? Loins? Number Thirteen had such a thing too, such a yummy funnel. I was so turned on by Number Thirteen – I could barely believe my luck of having him right here, in front of me, naked and yummy. I looked him over and to my relief he had a very beautiful cock. Not too long, not too short, not too thick, not too thin. Just right.

We fell on my bed. I just couldn’t get enough of feasting my eyes on his beautiful body. Then I couldn’t stand it any longer. I mounted him. Without a condom, again. Slap-slap around the earhole. But, sadly, the beautiful piece of equipment seemed unable to find its way in. Instead, it suddenly gave up the ghost. Oh brilliant! You cannot be serious – does that mean I’ll now have to do my sympathetic-good-girl routine and go through the entire don’t-worry-it-doesn’t-matter-it-happens-to-everyone thing?

Number Thirteen suddenly went all sheepish. Where a moment ago he’d been groaning and moaning like a wild ox, he now whispered a tiny “sorry, I’m just so excited” into my ear. Which in itself was so droll that it made me melt again. I mean, if anyone was to be excited, that should surely be me! And not Mister Supersexy, Mister Adonis, Mister Superkiss, Mister Superman, my Greek God, whom I had adored for so many years! That didn’t really make any sense. HE was excited? Because of ME?! I was speechless. This hadn’t been part of the plan for my “best-sex-of-my-life” scenario. I’d planned to be at the receiving end of his leisurely ministrations, just as it should be for a little girl who is finally in bed with the much more experienced man of her teenage dreams. Shouldn’t he be the master in bed? Rather than me?!