Big Two-Hearted River 1

I first encountered “The Big Two-Hearted River” when I showed up for a class at university, where we were supposed to be reading Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan. But the prof, who had scant regard for such an arriviste writer, said that we would read Hemingway’s story instead. It was the real trout fishing in America story, he believed.

I have since read Brautigan’s little novel. His story is perhaps more suited to a blog humidified, as this one is, by sex. But on the subject of trout fishing, and speaking as an amateur of both literature and fly-fishing, the prof was right. More on that later.

In a couple of weeks, we will be drifting down our own Big Two-Hearted River: the west coast of Canada has a dozen world-class fishing rivers, and countless smaller ones. We will be fishing one of the best-known.

It has been a cold spring this year, which means the trout have been slow coming up the river, waiting for the snow to melt off the mountain tops. The snow is starting to melt, sending the fish their invitation to swim upstream as fast as they can to find the safety of the cool, deep lake.

Rainbow trout are strong and muscular, their colour is bright and noble. Cutthroat trout in the river will be more numerous - smaller, and darker but for the telltale orange fins below their gills, the slash of colour that gives them their name.

The section of river we will fish is fly-fishing only. I doubt if we will catch any we can keep. You are only allowed to keep hatchery fish here; all wild trout have to be returned to the river to preserve the strain. It is worth doing, as painstaking as it sounds. You can tell the hatchery fish because they have their adipose fin snipped off.

Women learn to fly fish more quickly than men. The still posture, and the limited action of the arm, so necessary, are not easy things to manage for most men, who are goaded on by experiences of sport where to do something better means you just have to move your body and arms harder and faster. Women don’t have that macho thing about being better than the next guy, or catching more fish, and proving themselves. They just pay attention and move their arms as instructed, and watch the fly gracefully drift out and land like a piece of dandelion floss on the surface. Men make much more of a mess of it. Yet most fly-fishers are men. That dogged hunter-gatherer competition, to receive the accolades of the tribe by feeding it, runs deep.

Somewhere, in the still waters of their souls, men believe their trophies are breeding plumage, inciting sexual heat in the females of the species.

De Retour

I have thought about this blog many times over the past few months, while I dealt with some serious issues – not my own serious issues, thankfully, except that I am tied by blood and love to those whose trials of sickness and death tested them much more than I was tested.

This is not a blog about life’s difficulties, though, but about my own inner Montmartre, which is as big as the wide world, and which is shared by others.

To those who return here, thank you.

Cher lecteur, bienvenue. Je vous en prie: une table? Un café? Un verre de vin?

Mid-Levels

Straight up from Central, the heart of Hong Kong, via wide, well-worn stairs, the Mid-Levels hang on the steepness, in a crazy lego patchwork; you feel that if you just pulled out a single building, the whole set of blocks would cascade down in a child’s play pile of rubble. Stiletto heels everywhere, even on these narrow, crooked, cobbled and steep streets. We enter a store that sells curios – hundreds of cheap Chinese teapots and glass ornaments imitating jade. She wants a tea set, not that she will ever use it, but to remind her of these moments, this air. To remind her of how she looks, the store dusty and brightly lit, tawdry, and the street outside garish with multi-coloured neon signs; a thin black shawl hangs loosely down from her bare shoulders which are creamy, mottled with a few freckles. Her breasts strain against her red tank top, spaghetti straps biting slightly into her skin. Her skirt looks like it is patched together with irregular swatches of gauzy rags, in a variety of lengths of red, purple and yellow. The way she is standing, with one leg straight and locked, the other leg bent at the knee, cocks one hip higher than the other, and extends one foot forward. Her heels are thicker than stilettos, and across the band over the top of her foot there are little crescents of silver on the black leather. Her toes are painted the same bright pink as earlier.

The Peak

The Peak. The day down below had been sunny and humid; on the Peak it was fogged in. We had taken the tram up, bemused by the steep angle of ascent. Now up at the Peak, through the fog, we had glimpses of expensive cars, the houses of the very wealthy. Many tourists, like us, were milling around, making the best of a disappointing situation. The sun occasionally suggested itself as a faint bright dot in the fog. Later, I was fucking her ass, she was spread-eagled on the bed and my hand was wrapped under her, fingering her clit. It was one of her favorite positions. I love to feel the contraction of muscles inside her ass when her orgasm erupts. Her gasps and cries when she came were muffled into the pillow, and I suddenly thought again of the fog, as if the guttural animal sounds were coming to me through some dense cloud, and I couldn’t see anything, and only knew it was her because of those familiar tremors from some deep volcanic part of her.

Bus to Stanley

The bus to Stanley twists over and around the hills, and then along Repulse Bay. We will shop at the market, finding cheap ties we will give to friends back home and loose silk trousers we will wear around the house back in Canada. Months later, we will feel the silk trousers against our bare skin, and once again be enveloped in the smells from the meat shop where orange dusted chickens and rabbits hang in the window, again feel the wending of our bodies through a crowd. Once our shopping is finished, we will eat at a restaurant serving Australian pizza and hamburgers, which don’t taste too different from the pizza and hamburgers we are used to. We will each drink a can of Foster’s lager. On the way home on the bus, we will decide that tonight we will take the ferry over to Kowloon, and find the restaurant whose name we can’t remember where we had Peking duck last time. She is dull with sleepiness after the beer – she sleeps easily. I watch her face relax against my arm, eyes closed, as we descend toward the incredibly crowded streets below, where the cars are massed and move like corpuscles of mechanized blood.

The Peninsula

We have arranged to meet at 11:30 for lunch, but I delay a bit, watching from behind a pillar. I like to observe her. Natalie sits on one of the plush chairs in the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel, where women fresh from shopping sip coffee together and beside their LV and Prada bags, where businessmen from many countries meet to discuss money. She is wearing a pale pink silk dress, which looks like it could come from one of the fashion boutiques attached to the hotel, but it really came from a rack of a hundred dresses at the market on Nathan Road last night. Ten dollars. She will throw it out, possibly before we leave Hong Kong. The dress has a relatively modest cut, showing a few inches of leg above her knee as she sits, showing her bare arms, the candy pink of her fingernails resting on one thigh. Her legs are angled and bent at the knee, ankles crossed. One of her heels is lifted away from the sole of the bright pink sandal, the arch of her foot duplicating the arch of her shoe; her toes are painted the same candy pink as her fingernails. She looks like she belongs, sipping her tea languidly, her mind lost in the middle distance, privately enjoying being the object of the perusal of those who enjoy a woman’s lines: the slope of neck and shoulders, the concave and convex of waist and hips, pretty legs and feet.

Sugasm #118

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #119? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

An Erotic Story…Samson and Delilah

“Now how exactly does one go about seducing a preacher?”

A Kiss

“Then, the lulling low roar of your voice falls away and we are both leaning forward, transfixed.”

Clif & Lydia Drop Over The Edge

“She nervously giggled and lowered her lashes. ”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

The Secret of Playboy Legs

Editor’s Choice

The Carnival of Feminists 53: Call for submissions

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Erotic Angels (1)

Erotic angels are like other kinds of angels: their appearance is subtly different from the visits of purely human creatures, which is why you don’t recognize them at first. Non-believers are stubborn about asserting that in fact they are humans, nothing more, and that the serendipity associated with their presence is just coincidence. Such people only believe in what they can see and touch. You might as well say gravity doesn’t exist. Or love, for that matter.

Those of us who ponder our sexual selves, and who set sail to a sexual shore that will feel like an exotic, undiscovered land, and like home at the same time - we sometimes do find that harmony between our inner rhythms and the rhythms of our partners. Out of our experiences, our reflections, and from the cards fate has dealt us, we gather the past and present into our minor supernovas. Erotic angels, though, don’t come from the past like that; they visit from the future. They come from somewhere we haven’t been yet, and open the door to rooms we were unaware of. Nor do we realize, at first, that an erotic angel has visited. I have an erotic angel right now, for instance, but I was hardly expecting her.

My first erotic angel visited the summer after I turned seventeen. I was working just outside Montreal for the summer, speaking French all week, and on weekends I would go into the city and stay with a married couple who were distant friends of one of my teachers. I had a girlfriend, Janet, back in Ontario, and we had started having sex about eight or nine months earlier. Janet and I loved sex, it was new to us, and we had strong teenage libidos, but Janet was not an erotic angel. First loves are rarely erotic angels; most of the time they are just fellow explorers, and novices.

The couple, Frank and Melanie, lived in the old city, right opposite the old Church of Notre Dame. They were about ten years older than me. Frank was a movie director, with one documentary to his credit. Melanie was a model, who appeared frequently on television and in magazines. They were wonderful to me. They welcomed me into their bohemian apartment with open arms, and an open fridge. I would sit out in the square in front of the church, just below their apartment, and watch the sunny world go by. Frank was explosive and emotional; Melanie’s armour against him was her prettiness, which she wore with a smile, along with the detailed decoration of her painted fingernails, her carefully made-up mouth, and her silky skin.

Frank was in the middle of finding backers for a movie, and spent a lot of time interviewing set designers and camera crews and all the other people you need for a movie. He was hardly ever home, and when he was there, he was entirely full of his movie, how powerful it was, how ridiculous people were, how he was going to be brilliant. I had never really seen adults fight like they did. Tooth and nail, dishes flying, no surrender, grudges maintained for an entire weekend.

You have probably guessed that my erotic angel was Melanie. Because I had a serious girlfriend back home, I honestly wasn’t looking for sex. That’s often how it happens – you think you’re doing pretty well in your own sexual present, and then the future arrives.

Frank didn't come home for two weekends. The first of those weekends, Melanie pulled out some pot and we smoked. It was muggy hot as only an inner city can be in July. I remember clearly the Vivaldi violin concertos that flowed all around us, and seemed to sparkle all along her limbs as she did her impromptu dancing. The second weekend I was looking forward to smoking pot again, and I wondered if Frank would be there. He wasn’t.

Friday night I arrived, and Melanie greeted me laconically, her brow a thunderhead. It was impossibly hot again. I went down to the little corner grocery below their apartment and picked up a couple of Italian sandwiches. We ate them, drank beer. Then she rolled a joint, and we smoked it. She put on the Vivaldi again, and stood there moving randomly, swaying, her eyes heavy-lidded, a half-smile on her face. She extended a hand in invitation, which brought me to my feet, and we danced together in this odd, swaying, irregular improvisation. She said I was such a teenager. Those exact words: “Such a teenager.” She loved that, she said, and then she said, “don’t you want to kiss me?” She didn’t wait for my answer, but spread both our hands out wide so our chests touched, and brought her smiling mouth to mine so that our teeth clacked. I had never had a teeth-clacking kiss before, so it really sticks in my mind.

I was floating in a moist and pungent glowing cloud. (That’s another sign of the visit of an erotic angel, that cloud – I’m sure some of you recognize it.) Melanie was so pretty, and just started to open me up, unpeel me like an artichoke, scraping flesh from each piece of me she lifted away. She took off my t-shirt, kissed and bit my chest, my nipples. I had never been bitten before; Janet had never sucked my nipples, which were very sensitive. I realize now that Melanie knew I would cum soon after she took my cock out, which is what happened. Several powerful spurts of white cum over her silky legs as she stroked my cock gently with the prettiest fingers I had ever seen.

That was just the beginning. She kept calling me the perfect teenager, and I simply flowed against her, like warm plasticene, through the evening, and the weekend, surrounded by that sensual mist of hers. She pressed on my flesh with her fingers, strangely, as if she wanted to leave her fingerprints. She left several perfect sets of teethmarks on my chest, my stomach, my thigh next to my cock and balls. She sucked my cock assertively, instructively, as if to show me what lay in store for me when I went out into the world. She assumed I was a novice, and showed me how to touch her clit, how to suck it, how to fuck her on her hands and knees with my fingers, and then my cock.

I went home on Sunday evening, taking the subway to the end of the line. Sitting on the bus that would take me the rest of the way, I remember looking out at the failing light that was setting on Montreal, and trying to count the number of times I had cum. I kept losing count, because I would go through each orgasm and then get caught up in the recollection of one particular instance, and have to start over. It was easily at least twenty times, a number that seems absurd now. But that was the number I eventually arrived at. I am a bit of a stickler about numbers like that.

The next week, I quit my job at the cookie factory. I hated the job, and my girlfriend had found me a job at the resort where she worked in Muskoka. I stayed with Melanie one last night; Frank was gone for good. We were both very sad that Friday night. Melanie tried very hard to keep smiling, and she made me dinner, with candles. I felt a bit funny. Off-kilter. We kissed many times during dinner, but we didn’t touch each other sexually. After dinner I stood looking down at the evening light on the square in front of Notre Dame. Melanie came behind me, wrapped her fingers around me, those pretty fingers, and undid my shorts. There in the window, she knelt, out of sight of the street below, my cock also out of sight, and sucked me off. That set us off, and we retired to her bed where we fucked four or five more times before morning.

In the morning she came with me to the train station. It was crowded, and noisy. At the gate I didn’t know what to do, but she did. She turned me toward her and kissed me on the lips. As I descended the stairs to go down to the platform, I looked back and she was still at the top, in front of the rest of the crowd. She mouthed the words “I love you,” which froze me, then she waved, and the crowd got in the way.

After that, we exchanged exactly one card each.

In writing, we were too prosaic; her angel-being was gone. But that’s what she was, definitely, my first erotic angel.

Showing off

We take the ferry from Hong Kong to Cheung Chau, one of the outlying islands. It is a sunny day, and warm. Cheung Chau is small, no more than a fishing village nestled into a high backbone of rock and scrub. There are no cars. While we are eating lunch - a collection of small local fish mixed with garlic and hot spices and vegetables – a walking funeral procession goes by on the narrow street in front of us. It is colourful, quiet, and not quite as solemn as we are used to. On the boat back in the sunlight I am quite mesmerized by how Natalie looks. She is wearing a black and white sundress that crisscrosses over her breasts. The wind is blowing the dress tight against her, plastering it to her body as if it is soaking wet, showing her nipples, the curves of her stomach, the crease of her thighs. You can tell she is not wearing panties. She leans back against the steel bulkhead of the boat, and I lean into her, rubbing my thickening cock against her thigh. She knows how erotic she looks. The ferry is moderately busy; it is a passenger ferry only. Natalie closes her eyes, angles her face upward, leans back against the bulkhead and enjoys the heat of the sun. She knows men are stealing furtive glances; even a pair of teenage girls look at her and confer in agitated whispers, their eyes examining her body, not sure whether to be shocked or fascinated.

The bar on the ground floor of the Mandarin is always full; the hotel and several near it are customary overnight stops for business men and women on their way through. Over the sound of a banal trio singing covers of jazz favorites you can hear the sound of a number of accents : English, Scottish, Australian, Canadian, New Zealand. Usually there is someone speaking German, and these days, Russian. Tonight I am feeling some inner heat, and Natalie is feeling full of some buzz of liberty that comes with foreign places. We talk about how erotic she looked earlier on the ferry; I tell her how her nipples looked; where the fabric had a swatch of white, you could see the curve of her tanned aureole.

Once in San Francisco I bought her a very attractive bustier; I remember when I went to pay for it and a couple of bras, I asked the girl serving us to check the addition; it couldn’t come to $400. I hadn’t checked the cost of the bustier; it lifted her breasts prettily, stopping just at the aureoles of her nipples – in fact, when she turned certain ways, and moved her arms, the aureoles of her nipples became visible through a narrow strip of crinkled black gauze that rimmed the top of the bustier; it had looked so fantastic on her I hadn’t even thought about cost, assuming it would be in the same ballpark as other items in the store. It turned out to cost over $300, but I was smitten with it. This is what she wears tonight. With a black suede skirt down past her knees, and leather boots. She looks encased in black, bursting from her bustier, so ripe. She is to sit at the bar and order a drink; I will watch from just outside, at the edge of the hotel lobby. This is something we had done before; her line if approached is that she is waiting for someone, but he is late and she has just about given up on him. This gives hope to anyone whose eye she has caught.

Two German businessmen ended up taking stools next to her. Their eyes take in her outfit, her silky dark red hair falling just to her creamy shoulders, the creamy roundness of her breasts. She accepts a glass wine, and answers their questions as planned. Emboldened by drink, one of them rested a hand on her thigh; which she maneuvers away from after a period of time that let him know her initial reaction is positive, but then has thought better of it. He finds a pretext to look at her earrings, and places a hand on her shoulder, kneading it. The other man is staring at her breasts, lifted by the bustier.

I approach and she turns, making her apologies to the two men. She introduces me to them, Hans and Dieter, and they accept their disappointment with good grace, following her with longing as we find a sofa away from the bar.

Later that night I undress her at the edge of the window in our room in the hotel, a few paces back from the glass. I do it slowly, and she watches to see if anyone in the hotel opposite is watching, where five or six rooms in the opposite hotel might have a view. Then in one of the rooms we see a couple of figures. Females. Very briefly, we speculate that it is a pair of young women, perhsps college girls on a trip, or young office workers, a couple of secretaries here for a weekend. They half-hide behind their curtains. Possibly, in this poor light - the light from one bedside lamp on the opposite side of the room – they might see me scrape my fingers down the front of Natalie’s naked body. I take my time. Pinch her nipples. Take more time. Bury a couple of fingers in her cunt. Then I turn her, kneel in front of her so her back is toward the window, her legs spread, my shape visible between her legs. I continue to fuck her with two fingers, my tongue on her clit. She keeps her balance by resting her hands on my head. Finally, she cums, her body convulsing and jerking, till she has to bend over my head, her knees collapsing. I let her recover herself, then she stumbles to the bed, where she lies down on her back, naked, her eyes glazed over, a bit of a crazy smile on her face.

I pull the drapes and stand against the tv cabinet at the end of the bed, then pull one of those little bottles of scotch out of the minibar. I know she never likes to cum only once. Her first orgasm just sort of lights the fire, especially for that next one, which always seems to be her most intense one. I sip my scotch and make a motion at her cunt with the glass as I take it from my lips. “Go ahead, mon amour, you know I love to see you cum.” Her fingers go to work, she lifts her knees, and I watch, her fingertips glistening, the wet sound occasionally rising above the sound of the air system. I part the drapes and see the two young women are still watching. When Natalie is close, she straightens out her legs, as always. This is how I usually know she is about to cum: she can’t help straightening her legs and curling her toes. Then she is convulsing, moaning, gasping… it seems to go on forever. Finally when she is done I pour her a glass of wine, one of her favorite things. I close the curtains.

Sugasm

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #118? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

A Fable

“They start touching her, gingerly at first, wondering what magic is in her.”

Fiction: The Island Princess and the Monkeys Who Tie Knots

“You naughty, naughty, NAUGHTY monkeys!”

Sexy Is In Your Mind

“Sexy is an attitude and really all in your mind.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Chickipedia

Editor’s Choice

Take a walk on the wild side.

More Sugasm


Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Mind the Gap

Mind the gap. It’s strange to hear this phrase as we board the subway – the MTR as it’s known in Hong Kong.. But this was a British colony till 1997, after all. It is now the 21st century, 2004. We come here once or twice a year.

I check my watch; we are still okay. Mr. Ho offered to send a driver for us, but the MTR takes half the time. Cities with subway systems are so much easier to get around. A group of teenage girls is standing and sitting at the end of the car. Natalie has an eye for detail, and points out the frilly ankle socks the girls are wearing with their (again – it seems to be the uniform) stiletto heels. Their legs are quite skinny; later in life their legs will fill out; it appears to be inevitable. As they stand and sway, giggling to each other and squealing into their cell phones, they reveal other details: navel rings with long dangling pink stones; a tattooed character at the base of a spine, fingernails with some sort of glittery design on them. Oddly, they seem only remotely sexual; Natalie, sliding her hand up my thigh to my crotch, discovers my cock is flaccid, unexcited by these unaware girls. At the other end of the car is a young couple, clearly a few years older; she has one arm wrapped around his waist, her head buried in his chest as they, too, sway between stops. He plays with her hair; she shakes her head and giggles. She is wearing a tiny skirt, tight and shiny. A jacket top which masks her upper body. Strappy heels. They are still locked in their embrace when we disembark.

Natalie is wearing exquisite shoes tonight. It is quite common for women to be dressed up in Hong Kong. There is no telling which cities might have this characteristic. One of the most disappointing cities for couture on the street is, oddly, Paris. As if Parisians treat couture with disdain, and dress down, drab and boxy. Her favorite cities for dressing up? New York, Montreal, Toronto, San Francisco, London, Vancouver, Hong Kong. Oh, and Tokyo. Yes, Tokyo, for sure, where all the young people want to be cutting edge, with their 21st century cell phones, tiny cameras. Where they have the most complicated subway system in the world. Where they have vending machines that sell school girls’ panties.

Yes, her shoes are exquisite. Coming back from dinner on the MTR, she puts her feet together and smiles at them. The shoes are basically gold and strappy, with somewhat thicker straps, and the gold is metallic, reflecting different colours at times. The shoes are nevertheless dainty and elegant, despite the powerful statement they make. Her feet are very pale, with a very few freckles. Her toes are painted that glossy deep dark red that I like. I compliment her on her feet and shoes, then lift one of her legs and take her foot in my lap, and run my hand over the top of it, then my fingers along her arch, touching each toe gently, touching in between each toe. This drives her wild. Her tummy contracts visibly, and she jumps. We get out at Central and wind our way up to our hotel.

She leaves her shoes on, nothing else. I am sitting in the bathrobe, flipping through a magazine. She sits on the edge of the bed, her knees spread, her hands between her legs, sitting forward, smiling at me, her feet in her shoes pointing outward. She smiles beatifically. I know she wants me to adore her feet. At least that’s what I think she wants. Then she slides one foot up my calf, under the robe and along my thigh. She finds my cock. I lean back and undo the robe, letting my now stiff cock stand up, while she delicately moves her foot, and shoe, along it, around it, carefully lifting my balls. My cock is throbbing, pulsing, beating rhythmically with the blood beating through it. After a few minutes of this I reach down and remove her shoe, and beckon for the other foot, whose shoe I also remove. Then her soft, small feet resume their play with my cock and balls. As my precum starts to ooze, it coats her toes and the new slipperiness makes the sensations even more erotic. Intense. I grip the arms of the chair, trying to sustain the moment, the torture of this pleasure. I cum. My cum shoots up into the air three, four, five times with decreasing power, all over her feet and calves, running down off her heels, down her legs. She is grinning fiercely, then scampers over on her knees between my legs and takes my cock in her hand, licks it clean. I run my fingers through her hair and catch my breath. My god, I say, I am going to plan something for you. For you and your pretty, pretty feet. She grins up at me, so pleased with herself, like she just got an A, a good little schoolgirl.

modest whys and wherefores

This blog has become a bit of a travelogue, which suits me fine. I don’t know what I thought it might be or become, but a few other bloggers have caused me to adjust my sails, so to speak, by their messages to me or by their own blogs. Montmartre started in homage to a site that no longer exists, that had a certain flavour, erotic and sensual, run just for fun by a woman from Toronto. The site is gone, and so is she – requiescat in pace.

Also, the posts I have made to this point have been from the past. A fellow blogger asked me if these posts were real; they are, but they are much more coherent here than they were in reality. I suppose I want them to be coherent, or at least I want myself to be coherent in them. I am discovering that as I read others’ blogs, the present also may have a place for me, so I am about to meander in that direction. “Meander” is the operative word: this is likely to be far from a linear journey, with much to and fro between past and present, between one continent and the next. So be it. I think it will remain true to its original conception, though – an arrondissement of the mind, and therefore without boundaries.

A Fable

It was late, but not dark, and the sun was setting on the Mediterranean. I was telling Catherine a story, so my tenses will change to bring her and my reader into that particular moment. Earlier, we had been in the harbour in Sete, where they make the vermouth that has given its name to the drink, the martini. We sat, holding hands in front of a large, long wooden boat whose green and white paint is peeling. The windows are old, the frames are old, the boat is old, but it will last for dozens more years.

It is easy to imagine her as the bowsprit, if the boat had a bowsprit.

Yes, this is how the myth would go, I say: she is a luscious figure, lashed to the bowsprit, yes, lashed of course. Sailors in many boats observe her carved form extending from the front of the boat; she becomes legendary, the story springs up that if you touch her it will bring luck. Her breasts are full and firm and announcing themselves like hanging fruit, hair streaming back in long, loose curls, hips flaring and then diminishing to shapely thighs and legs, covered with the most diaphanous fabric. One day, finally, in a state of mad possession, drunk or drugged, a group of rugged sailors, enraged with the vision of her, board the boat and cut off the bowsprit, the carefully carved figure. They drag her on board their own boat, then fade into a drunken sleep. The night deepens, and one of them awakens. By a miracle – perhaps the spell of their exotic spices and tobacco smoke and primitive oaths, she has come to life. Her eyes blink, her chest heaves, and the sailors are transfixed. Her eyes don’t comprehend them, or the world she has found herself in. They start touching her, gingerly at first, wondering what magic is in her. She has never felt fingers before, never felt anything. Her responses are natural, primal, shameless. Her body is pulsing and ripe, molten with decades of virginity. They leave her bound to the post, arms back, ankles tied on either side of it, and they fuck her, again and again. They take her any way they wish, in her cunt, her ass, her mouth. Her body quakes and explodes again and again, greedy, absorbing, knowing nothing else. They keep her, and use her like this, for years. At some point they realize that while they are growing old, she is not. They are so covetous of this creature they brought to life, she has wound herself so deeply around their hearts and souls that they will not share her. Finally, only one of them is left alive. He has a dream, and knows what he must do. Secretly, he takes her down to the harbour, finds a solid old boat, and fixes her to the bowsprit. She returns to her former state, a carved figurine. One day, another group of sailors will see her, and it will start over again.

Our hotel room is full of Catherine's smell now. While I tell her this story, I am slowly fingering her cunt. She loves the story, she is very wet, imagining being fucked like that, helpless and knowing nothing else, a life of orgasms and endless youth. She cums when I tell her about the first time she is fucked; she cums again when I tell her they are fucking her, all of them, in her cunt and ass and mouth simultaneously; she cums again when I tell her she is sucking five of them off one after the other; she cums again when I tell her she is being re-attached to the boat, lashed there, helpless and on display for weeks, months, years, while the yearning builds inside some secret part of her.

Danny

Danny is clearly going through a bad patch. He has a lot of inherited money, and he has not made a success of his recent business ventures. His family’s fortunes, however, are virtually intact. When he takes Catherine and me out to his favorite club he is immediately surrounded by pretty girls in tight, shiny, technicolor dresses. One of them sits on one knee, and he orders a bottle of scotch, Johnny Walker Blue Label. He needs to do this, to save face, to show that his business failures mean nothing, that he takes it all in stride, that he still has all this power over people. A bottle of Blue Label costs the equivalent of about $1000 US at this establishment.

Momentarily he looks over at Catherine wondering if she is uncomfortable, but she is not. She is entertained, and she tells me afterward that she found herself imagining what it would be like to be one of these girls, the most successful one. They are all whores.

As we drink glass after glass of scotch, Danny becomes looser and louder, his hands making free with the girls’ buttocks, while they giggle and laugh in return. He is obliged to buy them drinks, which cost about $20 each on the official tab, but really they are colored water. They also dance with him, at $20 a dance. That’s how the girls get paid, that’s how the club makes its money. But really it is little more than a brothel. There are about five girls who are attending to the three of us. They get up and dance with each other every few minutes; they are good dancers. Catherine joins them from time to time; they don’t make her pay, and she seems to be the only one enjoying herself.

Finally Danny is far enough gone, glazed over, that we feel we can leave. His driver will take us home. At the car, one of the girls shows up. Danny has told her she has to go home with us, back to the hotel, or whatever we want. Danny is a good customer, she says, and she can’t disappoint him. I look at Catherine, who smiles, rolls her eyes mischievously and slides into the car. The girl follows her in. The car is a new Jag; Danny buys one every year.

I ask the driver to drive us along the Seine after going over the Pont Neuf, instead of going straight back to my apartment. The streets are packed, even though it is after midnight. I am trying to figure out why, but I can’t. The neon signs above the street and above the stores make it as bright as daylight but eerily blue and red and green. Catherine and the girl are curled up with each other, touching and kissing softly, slowly, with interest but without a great deal of passion. The girl’s hand slides between Catherine’s legs and for a long time they kiss and finger each other’s breasts and cunts as the driver picks his way.

Finally we are at the apartment, and get out. Catherine tells me to send the girl home. She is tired; she has had enough, if I don’t mind. Besides, she doesn’t want to get any diseases,she says. I am ragged with the after-effects of too much scotch. The driver takes the girl home. Or back to the club. Danny calls the next day, hale and hearty, asking us how we are doing, saying what a great night we had last night. He has to fly to Zagreb this afternoon but maybe we can get together again tomorrow night when he comes back? He doesn’t ask about the girl.

As I put the phone down, Catherine comes out of the bathroom, fresh from her shower, naked, a white towel stacked up around her hair, which is now dark red. “You’re perfect, you know,” I say, and she comes and sits on my lap, as if something has suddenly come over me.

Sugasm

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The Balcony

That particular time we had a tiny apartment. It was adequate, with a small, very private balcony, enclosed by a wrought iron railing, and gave on to a harbour full of sailboats, cafes, and sundry other commercial operations. There was often music in the square, and off to the other side a late night arcade whose bells rang till about 1 a.m.. We could sit on the balcony drinking a bottle of wine in hot night air, and observe the holiday-makers milling around down below. It was busy, yet we were very private.

With Chantal, I tended to travel with small lengths of rope. One night began with my tying just one of her ankles to one of the metal rails. She was sitting on a plastic chair, sipping her wine, her sandals piled against each other on the mat of the balcony. I took one of her ankles and tied it to the base of a rail. She smiled and sipped. I adjusted her chair, and tied the other ankle, about four feet apart. Four feet is the right distance; a fit woman can sustain a three or four foot spread for quite some time, especially if she has other means of support. Her calf-length skirt had slid up her thighs, but fell back down when I moved behind her and lifted her up by the shoulders, easing her into a position at the railing where she could lean over it or rest her elbows on it. She was wearing a pink – fuchsia – tank top; in the relatively bright light cast by the many lamps and signs down below her nipples were hard, casting their own little dotted shadows. She asked me what my plans were. I lifted the back of her skirt, rolled it around itself at the waist at the back, and took off my belt. I smacked once. She did an excellent job of containing her cry of pain; I hadn’t hit that hard. I continued. Again. Again. I was in the shadow, and she was in varying degrees of half light or more.

I filled her wine glass, and caressed her ass, which had begun to glow. My fingers moved down her cunt, which was streaming. She pinched her own nipples, her eyes half-lidded with the transport of her sensations. Two of my fingers slid up inside her, then out and around her clit, firm and swollen. My wet fingers moved to her ass, and pushed in past her cheeks, one of them sinking into her ass.

I began again to take my belt to her buttocks. Not in a frenzy, but in firm, stinging, irregular strokes. She was starting to writhe against the balcony, half with the stinging pain, half with the pleasure, and if it was possible to have another half, it would have been the thrill of her exhibition. Or her imagined exhibition, since no one really could tell what we was going on, although they might speculate that Chantal was dancing, or putting on some sort of demonstration. When I next stood beside her, and passed her a glass of wine to share with me, my hand on her exposed buttocks detected significant heat. Her cunt had spread its wetness down her thighs; she was also sweating. My fingers slid into her cunt, and played with her clit till she came. I enjoyed her orgasm immensely, not because it signaled the end of our activities, but because it was one of her quirks that her first orgasm was really just a tease, even though it seemed powerful. After cumming once, she was almost always overtaken with a more intense need to cum again.

I untied her ankles, and she trembled to keep her balance, holding firmly onto the railing. I sat back on the chair in the shadow of balcony, she knelt between my legs, and took out my hard cock. I slid my bare foot between her legs, rubbing her cunt with the top of my foot while she sucked. I told her to use her hand to hold my foot in place, so that she fucked my foot while she sucked. I love the feeling of my cock in her mouth when she cums; it nearly always triggers my own orgasm. This is what happened tonight. She was sipping down my precum, and sucking more and more feverishly as she approached her second, and favorite orgasm. Even when she had three or four orgasms in a night, there was no question her second one was the most intense and most sustained. Half way through her orgasm I shot my cum into her mouth. She was moaning, whimpering with her own orgasm, taking my cock deep. I jerked into her. When we were finished she gasped for breath, on all fours, her back heaving. In the light, the half-light, half-shadow, she looked primal and primitive, gleaming and breathing. Something out of myth.

Bull ring

Dry, hot, no humidity, a breeze. All along this part of the Mediterranean down to the Spanish border and beyond, this was the weather, every day. The beach, where we had spent several hours earlier, was now 20 minutes away.

Our tickets were designated ombre, or shade, to distinguish them from seats designated soleil, or sun. It was a custom left over from the days of bullfights, which they rarely had now – except during the feria, the festival when they revived the Catalan past. The upper crust used to guard their rights to these seats jealously; the bullfights were a major occasion in the town, when women wore their finery, and asserted their standing. No longer. Today was evidence of the democratization of our time. Chantal was wearing one of her pretty sundresses, a halter top with a skirt that billowed, gypsy-like. Other women were similarly dressed, many in skirts or dresses. The only obvious distinction between those in the soleil and those in the ombre is that there were many more females in the shade. A subtle remnant of chivalry, I suppose; women enjoyed being spoiled a little, and men enjoyed spoiling them.

Under the word ombre on the ticket, was the designation vomitoire 11. I pointed this out, laughing, to Chantal, and we shared images of ladies watching the spectacle of the bullfights and losing their lunch on the stone floor. In reality, though, the vomitoire referred to the wide arches through which the crowd exited – vomited – at the end of the bullfight. It was simply an easy way of indicating which archway we were to pass through to find our seats.

During the delay before the matches we had plenty of time to take in the ambience: the benches that were really simply curved rows of stone. Some people, in the know, had brought cushions. Finally the tennis started. These were former tour players, who now made their money putting on exhibitions like this, joking with the crowd, and displaying skills that were still impressive, and occasionally quite flawed. We weren’t going to stay for the concert afterward, although it was a good idea; some entrepreneur had figured that a tennis exhibition followed by a rock concert would be a big draw. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way, but the tennis, at least, suited us.

The drive back to our villa was easy, much less traffic than the drive in. The last bit was along a scenic part of the basin that flowed into the Mediterranean. In the fading last light of the day we pulled off the road and onto the wide gravel path that ran along the edge of the basin for the entire 20 mile circumference. It was quiet. A few gulls were straying into the sky; the rest had retired for the night. A cyclist pedaled at a leisurely pace toward us, then past us. A few minutes later another came along. A somewhat severe-looking older woman walked at a forced pace with her little terrier on its leash. Apart from these brief intrusions, the scene could well have been entirely ours.

Just off the gravel path the sand began that eased down to the water. High clumps of pointy grasses like sawgrass were spaced up and down the basin. The sand was soft; Chantal found it easy and comfortable to kneel, her dress pulled up past her knees. When she took my cock out of my pants and into her mouth, my responses were a battle of serene calm and high arousal. The warm breeze curled around my face, around my cock and balls. She loved doing this; she felt proud of herself when she sucked my cock. Some distant past ago she had perfected the action of opening her throat and pushing my cock past that tight opening. Every time she took me in, I awaited that sensation of the head of my cock squeezing into her throat. Her inner muscles had the habit of contracting at that moment, a well-suppressed gag reflex I suppose, that felt like small warm fingers squeezed my shaft. After a short while she gasped for air, and stroked my cock in her strong, small fingers, licking the head. The breeze actually felt cool, even though it was hot out, still. She had learned a rhythm, once my cock was fully inside her, of bouncing on the base of my cock, fucking it back and forth about an inch, before needing eventually to come up for breath. This was what aroused me most.

When I came I had to place my hands on her head for balance as I arched over, and thrust my cock into her mouth, down her throat with abandon. Cum spurted down her throat, into her mouth, over her lips, onto her chin as she licked and sucked and bobbed furiously.

She licked me clean. I caught my breath. She stood up, smiling, her face shiny, a glint in her eyes and in her smile. So pleased with herself. On the rest of the drive back, she sat in the passenger seat, her skirt pulled, up, fingering herself in the dark. The sound of her cumming was music over the sound of the car’s engine. Afterward she just sat back, her skirt still pulled up, so that the light in the yard shone down on her glistening thighs as I parked. We sat for a few seconds, and I laid my fingers on her cunt, feeling the wetness, feeling her little twitch as I sensitively touched her aching clit. I licked her flavour from my fingers, kissed her on the mouth. Our bed beckoned us.

Catherine is a dancer

Catherine is a dancer. She also works in a framing shop in the 15th District, but that is just temporary, until her dancing career takes off. She has been working in the framing shop for three years, and is now the assistant manager, second in charge after the owner. She looks after the place when the manager goes away, which occurs for a few days every three weeks or so.

I support her notion that she is a dancer. Her training is deep and long, and she has been on the stage in various musical entertainments that seem to be more common in Paris than other cities. But that is happening less now. The last time she danced was a short run in a cabaret where the story was something about Napoleon III. Just an excuse for girls to kick their legs and pose while the patrons drank and slobbered. We didn’t talk about it afterward, but I know Catherine was thinking that this was far from the ideal she originally sought, looking distant and beautiful on stage and perpetuating the thoughts that Keats writes about on his grecian urn – art perfecting something and making it endure.

So she goes to the framing shop, and fulfills her responsibilities with diligence and without irony, without letting anyone think that she views this job as temporary.

We met at the framing shop, actually. Some old prints had come into the bookstore – they were old art deco posters, originals, girls in diaphanous clothes posing on three-wheeled bicycles, that sort of thing - and the owner wanted them framed. I don’t know what it is about the chemistry between people, but you just sort of feel when someone is at loose ends, and wants you to make the first move, start a conversation outside the rigid form that your immediate business dictates. She looked self-possessed, and almost deliberately dressed and coiffed to appear less pretty than she actually is. Classically slim, with a fine face, fine cheeks and nose and brow and lips. So tidy.

By now my French had improved, despite the fact that nearly everyone who came into the English bookstore spoke English. Outside that bookstore, Parisians don’t accept English.

As our evening moved from a coffee, to a drink, to the suggestion that we have dinner together, I became very aware of her curiosity, which was hungry. Her eyes were unrelenting, her conversation softly probing. Once the decision had been made to have dinner, she insisted on going home and changing, which more or less forced me to do the same. We met over the bridge to the Latin quarter, which added a bit of a frisson to the evening, bustling amid all that energy.

Going to bed, having sex, was so natural and automatic. After dinner, she simply smiled confidently and said, “So, you are going to show me your place?” Her place was a bit further away, inconvenient, in a way.

I should do the scene justice, and describe it elaborately - the undressing, the scents and little nuances of our fucking, but I will save that for another time, when I can beautify it.

Her body was so alive, and she was dramatically pretty, with modest breasts whose nipples were very sensitive. In fact her entire body was sensitive. Her first orgasm happened about a minute after I slid my fingers along her cunt; as soon as I touched her clit I could feel her urgency and hunger. I think she must have cum about fifteen times that night, which to my mind was a sort of paradise, something you imagine happening in the Koran’s afterlife - coupling with an endlessly sexual woman. We fucked so many different ways, licking each other, sucking, I came in her mouth, her cunt and over her ass. Anal sex would come later.

She was only slightly moody. She was good-natured. Once after a period of desultory and unsatisfying liaisons a friend had asked me what I looked for in a woman. It was clear, to me: “an intelligent, attractive, good-natured sex maniac.” Catherine was her.

About Chantal, now...

I don’t want to give the impression that Chantal was consumed with cock-sucking.

She was a complete girl, as all girls are, of course. She had some of those gamine qualities that are particularly and even commonly French- sort of self-consciously cute, stagily mischievous, but in Chantal’s case it was in a totally disarming, harmless way. Whatever: I found it charming, and never found it tiresome, as it can get with some girls who try on the act because it is charming, and then use it as a crutch. With Chantal, it seemed genuinely part of her.


She loved oral sex – not just the giving, but the getting. The first time she sucked my cock and then she fingered herself till she came she seemed to be almost a self-contained sexual girl, or self-sufficient. If she had a cock to suck, she could get herself off, that sort of thing. In some ways, I am as fixated on giving a girl oral sex as Chantal was the opposite. I love all the textures and currents that run through a girl’s cunt, outside and in. I love to discover where to touch and lick, how to suck her clit into my mouth and thrum it just so, how to slide my fingers into her cunt and find her soft tender inside spot under her clit if she has one, to intensify her orgasm. If I were a gardener, I would grow only orchids, because of their resemblance to women’s cunts.

Chantal loved to be licked. One particularly celebratory night, she crawled up on my bed, spread her knees and stuck her ass up in the air. I knelt on the floor, licking her cunt while she buried her head in the sheets. Lost in the sheets. I licked all the way up to her ass, teasing her tight pucker. This elicited tiny repeated squeals, as if she was some breed of terrier or Pomeranian, little yelps of delight as I teased and tickled her ass, then licked down to her cunt again. I took her hand and placed it against her clit and cunt so she could finger herself while I licked. With her face buried in the blankets she fucked her cunt while I licked. Her grunting was muffled, into the mattress. Her head and its sounds were a little detached. As soon as I stuck two fingers in her cunt and started fucking her with them, she came, bouncing and lunging. Collapsing forward when she was finished.

I lay down beside her after, my cock at her mouth. She lazily stroked and licked it, so delightfully, without intensity, that when I came it was in fact intense. Surprising.

But Chantal was about more than oral sex.

Chantal

Before Catherine, there were several others, the first of whom was Chantal. Conversing wasn’t that good then, because I had just arrived in Paris, and my French was poor. But I was eager, and Chantal was so willing. I think she thought I was exotic, a Canadian in Paris. The first night we were together we stumbled through a flirty conversation that was a shambles, but she worked so hard at making it all work. Her cheeks got lovely and red as she drank, first red vermouth on the rocks, and then red wine. Her hair was red, too. Wiry red.

She was addicted to sucking my cock throughout our relationship. It started that first night. She treated it almost as if it were a job interview, showing me how competent she was. She used bright red lipstick, of a variety that didn’t smudge. I had never seen that before. It didn’t even come off on my cock as she sucked and licked. To be fair, she was an artiste. At least in my experience. Her mouth was volcanic. Fiery hot. Flowing. Sucking, almost breathing my cock in. At first she had difficulty taking it all the way in, I could tell, and gagged, till she got the angle. I had only ever had two girls who could take a cock deep into their throats. God I came hard. My cum shot into her throat (it seemed to, anyway) but then poured back out her mouth, down her chin, and she kept sucking and slurping… swallowing what she could. Afterwards, she just lay back (she was still dressed in her stretch top and jeans) and unzipped her jeans, fucking herself without taking her pants off, so I could see her fingers moving along her cunt and clit. It was simple and pretty. When she came she shuddered, as I expected, but it was oddly private. Hard to explain.

I had met girls who loved to suck cock before, but not like her; it seemed to be her mission. I will write a bit more about Chantal, because her love of sucking my cock was a sort of addiction, a fetish, something she wanted to do even when I wanted to fuck differently.