The Not So Invisible Woman (13 page)

'I'm really proud of you, Suzanne.'

I turned over and went back to sleep.

When I woke up later that afternoon, I put my hair back in curlers, reapplied my make-up and dressed for my reading at Happy Ending. It's a former erotic-massage parlour on the Lower East Side, that has been given a second life as a swinging-1960s-style cocktail lounge on one floor. It retains the tiled shower stalls and sauna from its last incarnation, with tables and chairs and mood lighting added, turning the basement into a warren of cosy booths. Its website actually advertises an 'intimate, almost indecent atmosphere that harks back to a pre-Giuliani New York' – a bit forced, perhaps, but the blurb serves as confirmation that Giuliani's crackdown was a feat of historic proportions.

I wore my 'lucky dress' – the leopard-print halter-neck number that I'd first worn at the Erotic Awards. Since meeting Carl, the Rump Shaker, my first night in it, the dress had become my fail-safe pulling outfit. It showed off my curves and, when I was squeezed into a black push-up bra first, it gave me the lift I needed. A fashion stylist had once told me during a shoot for a soul-singing diva, 'Foundation garments are everything,' and, judging from my ongoing successes in the outfit, she was right.

I arrived at Happy Ending half an hour before the show started and was met by a guy named Greg. He had written to me after reading a piece about my book on the
Sunday Times
website, and we'd corresponded since then. He hadn't offered any sexual favours; he just seemed like a normal, nice guy, who wanted to know where he could pick up a copy of my book.

He was about my age, a bit short of five-foot-ten, medium build, with a small goatee, short dark hair swept up in spikes, brown eyes that glistened in the club lights. I took inventory and found him just as cute in person as he was on his MySpace page. We hit it off instantly. He was sharp and funny and sweet and, as we chatted in the corner booth at the far end of the lounge, I found myself thinking I had to add 'sexy' to my list of adjectives. He worked as a film editor. I thought that was cool. And he lived in Greenwich Village. I thought that was convenient.

'I'm staying in the Village,' I said.

'That's handy,' he said, smiling.

I topped the bill that night, and I revelled in the attention that resulted. The space was narrow and dimly lit and packed full of people of all ages, all types. Standing centre stage before fans who had read my blog or heard me on Stern that morning, I enjoyed sharing excerpts from my first book, and digressing before the appreciative crowd to ad lib anecdotes. It was a reminder of just how much I enjoyed performing for an audience, something I'd done only sexually in recent years. I had briefly considered a career in theatre while at university, but chucked the idea when I realised I was good at stealing scenes but not good enough to star. Standing in front of the microphone at Happy Ending, I felt like one.

Full of adrenalin, I stepped off the stage and walked over to Viviane, who had brought along some fellow bloggers to see me.

'Hey!' I said. 'So good to see you again.'

She told me I'd been great, invited me to a little Vietnamese place around the corner for dinner, then introduced me to the dark studious-looking man next to her. Very tall, very slim, twenty-something, he was wearing tiny round wire-rimmed specs and a preppy Ralph Lauren polo. He looked like a world-weary college student or a tortured poet, very much the humanities-studies type.

'Hi,' I said.

'Hi,' he replied. 'Flint.' His voice was soft and low, like an American DJ on a jazz station. It was a strange name, but I remembered hearing it before. The previous evening, after describing some of my conquests over a cup of tea, I heard Viviane say to someone, 'Don't you think she'd like Flint?' I later found out Flint wasn't his real name. His real name was a conglomeration of unintelligible Nigerian syllables few Americans could get their tongues around, and he'd given himself a cooler-sounding alternative shortly after arriving in the States to attend NYU.

'So, wanna join us?' said Viviane.

'Sounds great. I'm starving,' I said, giving Flint another up-and-down. 'Let me go and grab my friend.'

The restaurant was a cavernous fluorescent-lit space filled with huge, round Formica tables that sat ten. A lazy Susan was in the centre of every table, each filled with soy sauce, condiments and plastic chopsticks. Mirror tiles and posters of cranes and Chinese bridges decorated the walls. It was only 10.30, but we were the only people there and, between the unflattering light and the desolate atmosphere, it seemed about the least romantic spot in all of downtown. Fortunately, Greg and I had already quaffed a few Manhattans at Happy Endings, and with two cuties at my table, the promise of another happy ending was on the docket.

'Beer or wine?' Viviane polled the group.

I voted for beer. Viviane called over the waiter and ordered Singhas and food for four. I was tired and a little tipsy, and it was nice to let someone else take charge. I sat between Viviane and Greg, with Flint opposite, which gave me the chance to take him in.

'Have you read Flint's blog?' asked Viviane.

I confessed I had not. I'd not even heard of it. 'He's a really good writer,' she continued. Viviane was a warm and generous woman. I was grateful and flattered that she had come to my reading and then invited me to join her for dinner.

We closed the restaurant an hour later. Viviane looked at her watch. 'I have work tomorrow. I really should make a move.'

'Soho House, boys?' I said.

'Are you a member?' asked Greg.

I looked at him, raised a brow, said nothing.

'Oh, wait!' he said, suddenly remembering the many scenes I'd described in my first book that took place in the toilets of the club's London branch. 'Of course you are.'

'What's Soho House?' said Flint.

'Meatpacking District club,' I said. 'C'mon, let's get a nightcap.'

We packed Viviane into a taxi, then Greg flagged one down for the rest of us. I sat between Flint and Greg. 'Two handsome men and me. It doesn't get more perfect than this.'

Greg put his hand between my legs and kissed me. His mouth was soft and warm. As his hand travelled up my leg, I whispered in his ear, 'Rip my tights.'

I felt his fingernails dig into the nylon, but the material would not give way. I'd bought cold-weather tights especially for the trip, and they proved very protective indeed. They were indestructible.

'This is a lot harder than you think,' he said with a laugh.

'Try harder then,' I said.

He dug his nails in deeper and pulled and pulled until eventually the material tore open, giving him just enough room to manoeuvre his fingers towards my pussy.

'Thank God,' I said. 'I thought you were never going to get there.'

Greg's index finger pushed to open me, making me instantly wet. Then Flint put his hand on my thigh and inched up. By the time we reached Soho House, their fingers were lubricated from knuckle to fingertip.

We stumbled out of the cab, past the bouncers and through the front door. 'C'mon, c'mon!' I laughed, leading the guys to the lift.

It was midnight and the sixth floor was packed, as the London club always was, with media people and models, most of them, as in London, drunk. We took a seat at the far end of the leather banquette. 'Manhattans, guys?'

'Why not,' they said.

We had just the one round. My mouth moved from Greg to Flint, Flint to Greg as we sipped, exchanged kisses, sipped. I liked the contrast between the two men. Greg, my age and experienced; Flint, young and keen.

'I think we should leave now,' I said after we emptied our glasses. 'Let's go back to my place. There's a bottle of wine with our name on it and a few beers in my fridge.'

Fifteen minutes later we were in the guest house rearranging the furniture with our bodies.

Greg pulled over an armchair and sat on it, stroking his cock. I stood in front of him, my legs shoulder-width apart, naked aside from my ripped tights, heels and push-up bra. I watched him masturbate for a minute. Then I bent over, took his thick six-inch cock in my right hand and began sucking him off.

Flint was behind me. I felt his hand reach between my legs and, yanking on my tights, he probed my pussy with his cock. It was thick and very long. His cock hit the top of my cervix when it slid in its full length.

'That's incredibly hot,' said Greg as he watched my head bob up and down. I took his almost painfully wide cock in my mouth.

'Isn't it,' responded Flint. He was sliding in and out of me, pushing against my cervix, making me wetter and wetter with each thrust.

I grabbed the arms of the chair as Greg pulled my head in close, easing my mouth down onto his cock again and again to take him in.

Despite the number of drinks we'd all consumed, the guys were rock hard and my mind remained clear, as focused as an accountant on the numbers. One, two, three inches ... six. Greg must have been as thick as he was long.

I loved thinking about having these two big cocks all to myself, and about being desired by two attractive men.

'Why don't you fuck Flint while I watch?' said Greg.

Flint pulled out and moved himself onto the double bed. Lying on his back, his long body took up the full length of the bed, head against the headboard, toes dangling over the other end. His cock stood straight up and, seeing it for the first time, I wondered how I had managed to get all of it inside me. He was as long as the rulers we used to use at school, and a hell of a lot thicker. It was a real fucking cock.

I climbed over Flint and eased myself down on to him. As I moved my body slowly up and down his cock, I felt him get harder.

'Wow,' said Greg, 'that's a big cock!' I felt his eyes boring into my back, watching me ride Flint.

'Very big,' I said, moaning. 'Very. Maybe a little bit too big. But it feels amazing.'

'You don't mind if I just watch, do you?' asked Greg. 'I'm pretty wrecked.'

I looked behind me and saw Greg had his cock in his hand and was wanking listlessly.

'No,' I said. 'Of course, I don't mind.'

'Your pussy is so wet,' said Flint. His hands were now on either side of my waist, lifting me off his cock and then down again.

'And your cock is so big,' I said. 'I don't think I've ever had a cock so large before.' It was a porn cock, like something from BlackOnWhite.com.

'I know,' he said, proudly. 'Sometimes I think it's almost too big. Some girls don't like it.'

'Well, I'm not one of those girls.'

'I noticed,' he said. We laughed.

I heard rustling in the background and turned to see Greg pulling on his jeans and shirt. 'I'm gonna leave you guys to it,' he said. 'I've gotta be up early for work, and I've been burning the candle at both ends a little too much.'

I climbed off Flint and went over to Greg to kiss him goodnight. 'I'll call you,' I said. At Happy Endings we'd made plans to have dinner in a couple of days.

'Have a good time, you guys,' he said, smiling, and walked out the door.

I turned around and looked at the bed. There was blood on the bedlinen.

'I'm really sorry,' I said, surveying the crime scene. 'I didn't realise it was that bad. I thought I was at the end of my period.'

Flint laughed. 'Doesn't bother me.'

I climbed back on his cock and continued grinding down on him, moaning as I did so. A short while later, Flint passed out. I followed close behind. Neither of us came.

When I woke up at dawn to go to the toilet, I could not understand why I wasn't able to get around the bed to my destination. Somehow the bed had become wedged next to the armchair and created a barrier. I had to climb over Flint, who was still comatose and splayed across the mattress. It wasn't until I came back into the room that I realised our romp had completely altered the design of the room. The bed, normally up against the wall midpoint between door and window, had moved three feet to the side, and was in the centre of the room. I crawled back onto the mattress, put my arms around Flint, and went back to sleep. I woke up two hours later, when I felt Flint's hard dick against my buttocks. I climbed on and, as usual when I have morning sex, came quickly. So did Flint.

'I should go,' he said at 8.30. 'I need to get to school.'

School? I thought. I've just fucked a guy young enough to be my son!

Even though young guys tend not to be my thing, though now and then I end up with one. But never before had one used the word 'school' during our time together. I hoped he meant grad school.

Not bad, though, for a middle-aged broad.

I kissed Flint goodbye and went back to sleep.

I didn't think of myself as the next Virginia Woolf, didn't expect my book to bring me a Whitbread award or an invitation to appear on
Richard & Judy.
But I did feel that sex-positive messages, whether mine or anybody else's, were practically a public service to the frowning masses, home or abroad. Promoting my book in America seemed almost like a contribution to the greater good. And getting laid while I was there was a bonus.

When I returned home to London, I was on a high. It had felt great to be appreciated in New York, both as a sex writer and as a sex object. But now it was back to relative anonymity, to being a player on the London swinging circuit but no longer showing my face around town as the author of an erotic memoir.

Back to normal life. For me, that meant back online.

I found in my inbox a message from a dating site called Flirtnik, offering me a free month's membership. I receive solicitations from dating services almost daily, but then I had been on pretty much every dating and 'dating' website around the world for years, so no doubt am probably on hundreds of mailing lists, with an asterisk next to my name indicating 'sure bet'. Flirtnik's email caught my eye because it reminded me of Nerve.com, the first erotic site I'd ever visited. Nerve featured fiction, photography, film and book reviews, and blogs, all about sex – plus personals, to float the site. It was New York-centric but somehow kind of poncey, with the air of a Gap ad. Everyone on it looked naturally attractive and a bit too wholesome. It was sexy and had gotten me laid, a lot, in the past, but I'd moved on to lower-tech, but more hard-core sites, and hadn't looked at Nerve for three years.

Flirtnik aped the look but not the flavour of Nerve. It was pure vanilla. Still, it was free, and I'm Jewish, so I posted my profile and had a look around the site. There were five men in their forties listed. One was called Honest Jim. He hadn't posted a picture but, valuing honesty, particularly after my adventures with Karume, I thought this guy might prove refreshing. Equally intriguing, Honest Jim's profile said he worked in the music industry and, being in the entertainment business myself, I thought that was a plus. I sent him a wink.

A day later, I got a message back. 'So, after my first tentative steps into the brave new world of cyberspace, I already have a response. That is so cool. Flirtnik is a shite name, don't you think?'

I knew then he had potential.

We exchanged pics and sent long emails back and forth every day for a week. I recalled my own first steps into cyberspace, five years earlier, and enjoyed playing the seasoned traveller to Jim's newbie. He was cute enough, despite some very crooked teeth, and he had a huge variety of interests, mentioning English literature, music, gallery shows and football matches all in the same email, and not sounding like a pretentious wanker. After three days I found myself looking forward to opening up my inbox to see if there was a message from my new buddy.

I knew from our correspondence that he had always been monogamous, and had never done the swinging thing or been to a fetish club. He seemed like just a normal nice guy, a real change from some of the men I'd been hanging out with. I wasn't looking for a boyfriend, but I had thought I'd found a friend in Jim and possibly a new fuck buddy too.

Then, seven days into our chatfest, Honest Jim confessed that his ex had come back into his life. And being that rare monogamous type, he said he thought it only fair to break things off before things started. I found that a bit presumptuous. We hadn't even met, much less slept together. All he'd done was send me his pic and a few emails, and although he wasn't unattractive, he was certainly no George Clooney.

I confessed to being slightly disappointed that we never hooked up, but I'd survive. That's the way things go in cyberspace. Honest Jim went back to his girlfriend. I went back to my fuck buddies. And shortly afterwards Flirtnik went out of business.

Since my first Swinging Heaven hook-up with Sam, we'd arranged our schedules for a meeting time that worked for both of us. Every two or three weeks he'd come by for a breakfast that did not include cereal. I'd drop my kids off at school at 8.45, then turn around to get back home for a nine-o'clocker. Sam was always on time.

He'd ring the bell, come in, and fuck me until I came. Then I'd suck and wank him off, and we'd go. We soon got to know each other's preferences so well that most mornings I'd be at work by ten and he'd make his regular 9.45 Friday staff meeting, conveniently just up the road. Our sessions were as much about efficiency as speed. He knew what to do to get me off, and could do it quickly.

'Can I come and fuck you senseless in the morning?' would be a typical Thursday-evening text.

'Yes.' My typical response.

One time he came to the house, marched me up to my bedroom and fucked me without saying a word. I played along. After that, words weren't necessary. I'd get a text the night before setting out the morning's agenda.

'Will text you when I'm outside,' said one message in my inbox. 'I want you to open door, go upstairs and wait on the bed. Legs spread wide open, rubbing your cunt for me. Wear a blindfold. X'

'Naked or lingerie?' I asked.

'Lingerie,' he replied, so lingerie it was.

'And your wet pussy will be all mine. Going to fuck you hard and deep, make you come and then leave you in the blindfold. Leave your toys out.'

No meet was ever the same, and each got slightly kinkier than the last. I suspected Sam took pride in concocting new scenarios for us to play out.

'I want to come up the stairs and be watching you two-finger fuck yourself for me. Get me hard and ready to slide my thick cock inside you. Your pussy better be ready.'

His wish was my command.

'God, I'm hard,' he texted another Thursday night. 'God, I love fucking you.'

'I'm going to shave my pussy for you NOW,' I wrote back.

'Just what I like – a nice, wet, shaved, ready pussy. No fingering without me tonight. That's all mine.'

'OK.'

'Get it all finger-fucked wet and spread wide open for me. My mouth will give you all you need. Caress my head while I lick you out.'

As became our ritual, the next morning I did as instructed and lay on my bed, wearing a pair of skimpy red lacy boy-shorts, a black bra, and my favourite high black patent fuck-me shoes over flowery red bobby socks.

Sam fucked me in every position over time – often blindfolded, start to finish – until I'd come, sometimes in bed, sometimes bent over and gripping my kilim-covered easychair with one hand, massaging my clit with the other. He would ease his big cock in and out of my ass or pussy. After my contractions eased off, he'd take my hand and turned me around, sitting me up in bed or down on the chair. I'd take his cock in my mouth while he stroked the shaft. A few minutes later, I'd feel his warm spunk on my lips, tongue and face. I'd leave on my blindfold, then listen for the footsteps. He'd slam the door shut and be gone in thirty seconds.

One afternoon, I met a guy the old-fashioned way: in person.

I was at High Road House, a members' club newly opened in Chiswick, for Sunday brunch with my girlfriend Bernadette. We had known each other for fifteen years, but hadn't seen each other in six months, as she lived on one side of the Thames and I on the other. We spoke regularly, but somehow London geography got in our way. A catch-up was overdue.

Following the hostess to our table, we walked in the direction of a handsome grey-haired gentleman. He looked to be in his late fifties, and was sitting with three other people about his age, two men and a woman. Bernadette and I were seated in a corner by the window, a perfect vantage point for surveying the people in the room and, happily, right next to Handsome Man's four-top. I looked over at my neighbour perhaps a bit too frequently, but he met my eyes frequently enough, so when it came time to leave, it seemed only logical to slip my card to the maître d'.

'Would you mind giving this to that distinguished older gentleman at that table by the corner?' I asked him, trying to sound nonchalant.

For a moment the maître d' looked taken aback, but he quickly collected himself, then offered to oblige. I didn't linger to see if he was true to his word.

At 6.30 that evening I received a voice message on my mobile.

'I was extremely chuffed and delighted to receive your card,' said a guy who sounded like Prince Philip, 'although I have absolutely no idea who you are.' He said his name was Max and gave his number. 'I must say, I was sufficiently intrigued by your boldness to invite you for a drink.'

Even though I'd heard only snippets of the conversation at Handsome Man's table, I could have sworn the man I wanted was an American. Max's posh accent didn't gel with my memories.

Still, I called him back. 'Listen, before this goes any further, can I ask you something?' I said. 'You were the guy who was sitting with two men and a woman on Sunday, weren't you?'

'No,' he said, sounding rather sad. 'I was sitting with a man who is much older. He is a judge.'

'Right.' I said. 'Sorry, Max, you're not the guy I thought you were. We might as well end this conversation right now. But thank you for calling.'

'Please,' he said, his tone almost pleading. 'Please. Don't go. You sound absolutely delightful. Just meet me for one drink.'

I pondered. 'So, what do you look like?' I asked.

He said he was about six feet tall, medium build, grey haired and 54 years old. 'And in quite good physical shape,' he added.

'I'm not usually into older guys,' I admitted.

'Oh, just the one drink, Suzanne. I promise, if we get along, I'll buy you dinner. Then if that works out, I'll buy you a car. And after that, a house. I have a million pounds in my current account.'

That made me laugh, and since his deep baritone was alluring – I've always had a thing for deep voices – I accepted. Max and I worked out a date two weeks in the future, as my diary was full until then and, in the period leading up to our dinner, we talked on the phone almost daily and got along well.

I called Bernadette to update her on post-brunch developments.

'Can't you even
try
to like him?' she asked. 'It sounds like he ticks at least some of your boxes – car, house, loads of money.'

'I'm trying to keep an open mind,' I said. 'Really.'

'Good. I think this one sounds like he could be The One.'

'The One' was a bit of a joke between the two of us. Morene, my psychic, had said there was someone out there for me when I'd last seen her. She'd predicted that I was going to meet a man much older than I, a guy who invested in creative companies, lived on a mews and 'collected things'. She said that if I didn't dismiss him for the usual reasons I tossed off men – small cock, beady eyes, tiny ears, wrong shoes – I'd end up marrying the guy.

Max seemed worth a shot.

He turned out to be pleasant-looking and pleasant to be around. He was quite a gentleman, too, but not the distinguished gent I'd stared at over brunch. Though his face was a little too pink and round for my liking, as I prefer thin and angular men, he had a surprisingly handsome profile. Dressed in a navy-blue-blazer and chinos – rather conservative for my taste – he looked like an umpire on a cricket field. But he was a great storyteller and loved drinking, so the champagne went down well as Max told funny stories about his days in advertising and about his friends, whose names were straight out of 'Jennifer's Diary' in
Harper's.

I found myself fantasising that his having a million was true. Just the idea of all that money made me moist. Most of my men lived off their overdrafts.

Max invited me to stick around for dinner. A good sign. He was still telling stories when I looked at my watch. It was midnight; four hours had dashed by, and I'd hardly noticed. I began to wonder if Max could grow on me, despite my not being overly attracted to him. Certainly, financially he was a far better prospect than any of my previous boyfriends, ever. And unlike so many monosyllabic types I'd put up with in my youth, he was a great raconteur. He really knew how to spin a yarn, and for a change that took the pressure off me. I'd always fallen into the role of court jester, so it was a mini vacation to be able to sit back and watch someone else hog the limelight.

After that first chaste date, we carried on chatting on our mobiles daily. He would entertain me with stories about recent dinner parties at aristos' stately homes, and then turn to other current events in his life: mostly battles with his social-climbing ex-wife and problems with his spoilt teenage daughter.

I called my friend Janie, a long-time single with a penchant for unavailable married men, and told her that for once I'd met a guy with a car and a job and a million pounds in his bank account.

'Wow,' Janie said, 'maybe he's The One.'

'Oh, I don't think so,' I said. 'I'm just not feeling it.' I told her how even on my first date with Rump Shaker, I'd felt something. 'Even if it was mostly in my loins and a lump in my throat.' I explained that I felt a lot more comfortable around Rump Shaker, that with him I didn't have to prove anything. And that I always wanted to see him again. Though Max was entertaining, I didn't feel any great urge to see him a second time.

'Let me get this straight,' she said. 'You're telling me that you'd actually prefer being with a human strippergram with diamonds in his teeth, no permanent employment, four kids from three different mums
and
financial problems, to an extremely wealthy, smart
and
attractive, single older man?'

'Yeah. Stupid, eh?'

'Don't you want, like, a real guy?' Janie said. 'At least one with long-term prospects?'

'Right now? Actually, no,' I said. 'I'm just having too much fun at the moment.'

'You're nuts,' said Janie, laughing as she signed off.

I thought it interesting that my girlfriends had such different takes on the men in my life. When I'd told Pat that Rump Shaker had a second career as a builder, and that he sometimes did handiwork around my house, naked, taking his tea breaks in me, she thought he could be a contender.