Helena (10 page)

Freddie, you
were always able to state things with such clarity, such precision,
so forcefully that I saw your unquestionable logic. But I'm not as
strong as you, contrary to what you thought, I didn't know whether
I could live like that for always, not then. The battle between
lonely but exciting exploration and the cosiness of conformity, I
thought, would always reside. I did not count my drunken night as a
great sexual experience. You, Freddie, were that, my first real
venture into the dark of my sexual being, but I was so tempted by
you, by the multifarious carnal possibilities that you seemed to
offer.

What I'm
saying is that you eroticised me. I could not walk down a street
without thinking about you, and thinking about you was the
equivalent of thinking about sex. In a supermarket queue, I
wondered what the pram-pushing father in front of me would be like
in bed, how thick his cock would be; I studied the face, the hands,
and the gestures of my splenetic boss in some dull meeting and
imagined his head burrowing between my legs.

I had of
course thought of these things before, used such images to fuel my
fantasies, but before you, Freddie, that's all they were -
fantasies. You made them real possibilities.

I knew that a
word or a gesture at the checkout could bring a man to my bed, a
casual invitation might tempt my boss. The ease with which you had
me, Freddie, made everything seem so possible, not a mere chimera
to help satisfy my lust, but a plausible reality; sex was only a
word away, a gesture, a smile. All it took was my willingness. This
had not been the case before. It made my body tremble!

You also made
me look at the way I dressed, the way I presented myself to the
world. I would look at my reflection in the mirror and think how
unbelievably frumpy I was, how all my clothes seemed to be designed
to hide the allure of my body, the baggy sweaters loose around my
curvaceous breasts, the long skirts and wide trousers covering my
slender legs. My whole sartorial style seemed a battle against the
possibility of my revealing of my sexual identity.

I would stare
into shop windows, look at skimpy skirts, revealing black numbers,
in lingerie departments I would imagine my legs encased in silk
stockings, satin panties.

I saw how
unsexy my bobbed hair was, at least on me, cutting off my silken
waves to hide everything that showed a trace of my sexuality.

But there was
always that little girl about me, struggling to behave myself,
shocked by the attention I paid to silk or lace, to the sexual
excitement I felt in the proximity of men, and sometimes women. It
propelled me to try to forget you, to force you away, but the
memory of you, of that afternoon relentlessly pursued me,
debilitated my best intentions, warped all my logical thought
processes until I could stand it no longer.

That is why
you found me that Saturday afternoon, standing outside your door,
having left Gregory at home marking essays. If only I could touch
you again for an hour, to feel your hands on me, to touch you,
smell you, see you. The addict always convinces himself that the
next fix is the last one, and once he has achieved his last hit he
can give up for good.

This was my
mental state. I would give you up. I had to give you up, for my
sake, for Gregory's sake, for the sake of my life and my sanity,
but just one more time, to have you again, before I renounced you
forever.

I had dressed
as provocatively as my wardrobe had allowed, in stockings, although
they were woollen and barely covered my knee, in a shrunken sweater
that pushed out my breasts through the wool. I had applied a little
make-up, a light brush of rouge on the cheeks, a faint trace of
mascara to delineate the shape of my eyes. My god I must still have
looked pretty prim, not exactly like the tarts I had seen standing
in strip club doorways in their short leather skirts and diaphanous
blouses.

Your hand
reached out to me and you gently hauled me inside the door. As soon
as you had banged it closed behind us I fell on you, feeling the
urgency of our mutual passion. This, as you knew, was no time for
savouring, no leisurely bout of lovemaking.

You threaded
your arms through mine, pushing out the sides of my opened
raincoat, and grabbing me to you, pressed my pliant flesh against
the firmness of your chest.

I cannot
describe the liberating thrill I felt at that moment as you
clutched me to you, emancipating me in your grip. Your hands snaked
down to my back and then my buttocks, grabbing me in your hand,
lifting me off the floor. Our mouths met in the most prolonged and
voluptuous kiss. Then you bent down, sneaking your hand between my
thighs, inside my panties so you could feel the burning reality of
my naked flesh. You dug your nails into the skin, scratching me,
nipping me in your overwhelming passion, your fingers sliding to
the wet folds of my engorged lips, pressing down on my vulva,
finding the sweet opening of my sex. Your mouth all the time
nibbling my lip, biting me as my hands clasped your round
shoulders.

No words, no
offers of wine, no kindness, no time. The urgency of your need of
me, from this I trace the submission to my need; from this moment
of grasping and clenching I knew I had never let the sexual
excitement go, that my sexual life with Gregory would always be too
tepid for my hot lust.

Before I knew
it, you had whipped my panties off, tearing the cotton down my
skin, your nails leaving a faint scratch mark on my inner thigh and
then your hand returning to frantically stroke the hard button of
my clitoris.

It was
arousing me, but it wasn't enough: I wanted your cock inside me. I
knelt at your feet, unzipped you, and pulled out your hard thick
rock, and roughly pulling down the sheath of your dome, I sank the
hot meat into my mouth, gobbling on you as frantically as I could,
with an almost violent passion.

But this
wasn't enough for you either. You pulled off my raincoat, pulled my
sweater above the bulge of my breasts, exposing the firm hard
nipples to your gaze, before lifting me up by my haunches and
impaling me on your thick, long cock. Lifting me up and down on
you, your tongue deftly snaked down the half cups of my bra, so
first your lips and then your teeth could pluck on my throbbing
teats, pulling on them roughly as I slid on your shaft, up and
down. The light tingling pain in my breasts fused with the denser,
inexorable satiation your hard cock brought to me.

I squirmed my
pleasure above, your hands thrusting my hips down on you, each
stroke seemingly deeper, more urgent, more ardent than the last.
This was the antithesis of Gregory's bland though tender efforts:
this was consummation, an intense burning into one another. My
orgasm did not start slowly, but was like a hammer blow stinging my
consciousness, dulling everything else. It galloped through me, an
irresistible crushing force locking every muscle of my body in its
wake, pushing through every ounce of my flesh, seeking release in
the mighty shriek of elation I let out as you spurted your seed
inside the silky flesh of my sex.

As you held me
in the aftermath of our lovemaking, clasping me to you, my naked
breasts rubbing against the linen of your shirt, your cock still
wedged inside me, I felt engulfed by a delicate melancholy, my eyes
moistening at the thought of the rough sweetness of my pleasure. I
never knew. I never knew.

Returning to
Gregory, the smell of you still on me, your seed inside, I knew
where all this had to lead. It had been the most clarifying fuck of
my life. It made it all seem so clear. I knew that I could no
longer stay with him, that I had now irrevocably taken the first
stride on the less traveled road of sexual exploration and that the
first and the biggest victim, the man tossed away on the side, was
Gregory.

I needed time
to think though. I knew the inevitability of extricating myself
from the relationship, but what I didn't know was the how. You see
I still cared for him. Until you, he had been the pivotal figure of
my life, the man I had invested my dreams in, my future. But beyond
that there was also the fact that he was a good, kind man, who I
believed deeply loved me. It would have been too callous to just go
back and tell him everything, tell him that I was leaving him not
for another man, but because he could not fulfil either my sexual
need or curiosity. How would he have taken it? He wouldn't have
understood. For all of his perceptive theological insights, it was
beyond his knowledge. He would have been bewildered,
distraught.

I needed to
plan, to think, to let him down as gently as I could. In a week he
was going away to Africa. Unbearable though it was to wait so long,
I would steel myself until his absence. I would have time to choose
my words carefully, to protect him from my true nature.

What an
agonizing week that was. I spent my time half-dreaming of you and
half regretting my inevitable departure from Gregory's life. In
those last days I noticed what a sweet man he was, how kind, how
attentive. I knew that there was no going back, that any attempt I
made to reconcile my mind with the idea of resuming a normal life
with him would be mere procrastination.

How the past
seemed to betray me, as I recalled all our shared memories, the
tender details of our daily domestic love, the laughter we had
shared, the wealth of kindness and tenderness that he had shown
me.

Seeing him off
at the airport, I broke down. Oh, the irony! He thought I was sad
because he would be away for two weeks, when I was bereft because I
knew that I was leaving him for good, taking the most terrifyingly
momentous step of my life, knowing that nothing would ever be the
same again.

Knowing that I
was seeing you that night helped me a lot. I put all my bitterness,
my frustration, my sadness into anticipating the events of the
evening, temporarily freeing my mind of the guilt-ridden sadness I
felt.

The moment
that I saw Gregory walking through the departure gates, I left
Heathrow and took a tube into the centre of London and went on a
shopping spree, buying slinky dresses, stockings in silk and nylon,
suspender belts, satin slips, lacy bras. I spent over two hundred
pounds, another fifty on my hair and make-up, and returned to my
flat, bathed myself and tried on the array of clothes I had just
purchased.

I could not
believe the change in me, as I stood gazing at myself in the full
length bathroom mirror, my breasts plumped up in a decorative lace
bra, the full shape of my curvy hips ringed in a scarlet suspender
belt, sensuous stockings attached. I wanted to caress myself, to
touch between my legs, but I didn't. I knew that it would be more
exciting to wait for you.

After we had
made love that last time, and because you knew I couldn't stay
long, you took me outside and we went for a coffee. I told you then
what I wanted. I wanted to explore the darker side of my sexuality.
You seemed overjoyed at the prospect of initiating me further into
carnal pleasure.

"I'm having
some friends around next Saturday. Why don't you come?" You had
taken my hand in yours as you spoke.

"What
friends?"

"Oh that will
be a surprise, but I can guarantee that you will enjoy yourself
more than you have ever done in your life."

More than I
had ever done in my life! No wonder I could barely wait, that my
rampant imagination brought forth all sorts of interesting
characters and lurid ideas.

It was exactly
what I needed after the horrible scene in the airport: the
confirmation that I wasn't making a mistake, that I was doing
exactly the right thing. Gregory had been so touched by my tears
constantly reassuring me as we stood by the metal rail near the
departure gate that he would be all right and that two weeks would
pass quickly. As the automatic doors had opened he turned back and
mouthed an 'I love you', to me. I had to get that out of my system.
The hours waiting seemed endless, then finally seven arrived. I
ordered a taxi, still feeling a little self-conscious about my
persona, frightened of being seen by somebody who knew me.

I could tell
how surprised you were to see me in my new garb, your eyes bulging
at my curves delineated by the black dress, the buckles of my
suspender belt perceptible through the stretched material.

"Wow!
Helena."

Jean-Claude
and Simone were seated on the sofa, Frank with a huge joint perched
between the lips, lounged on the armchair. It was a little awesome
to take everything in all in one go. First, the subdued lighting in
your room made me feel like I was walking into a completely
different place. I realized then that I was relying on the
familiarity of your room to bring some calm to my nervous
excitement. And then the people: Jean-Claude looked so gallically
handsome that night, with his long flowing hair, his white shirt
unbuttoned at the neck, showing a triangle of firm, tawny flesh,
his limpid eyes so piercing, so perfectly blue. There was Simone,
Jean-Claude's beautiful French wife, so elegantly dressed, her
honey-blond hair flowing down to the white straps of her plain, low
cut cream dress, the enticing dark curve of her fulsome cleavage
visible above the velvet. And then Frank with his thick tousled
hair, flecked with the first signs of gray, his mature good looks,
his confident languid posture and the casual clothes. You know what
I mean, that kind of effortless bohemian look of his. And then the
freshness of Adele, your young Austrian be-jeaned student,
probably, although she didn't look it, as nervous as I was at what
was going to happen to her.

You took me
into your small kitchenette, briefed me about your guests, and then
kissed me passionately on the mouth. I helped carry the plates of
food into the living room for you, that you had prepared for your
little party.