“Do you want to make some plans with me?” he asks, all casually playful, as if his name hadn’t just splashed into her inbox like a life ring tossed to a drowning woman. She grasps at it, as if he alone can save her (he cannot). He offers a selection of activities, and each shines bright with promise – a bike ride, a show, dinner, conversations about the book recommendations they’ve been swapping. Plus, of course, sex. She ponders which to pick, knowing the sex will be on offer no matter what they do beforehand, and even though she’s poor in spirit she’s now rich in possibilities. She replies swiftly – picks a fun activity, gives him her availability, then adds: “I am not sure about the sex. I’m feeling very… [big black box of horror that it’s probably best we don’t open] right now. In theory I like the idea though, can we play it by ear?”.
Of course they can.
The sex is not the only reason he wants to see her. And something about that – pathetic to say this so bluntly, perhaps, but it’s true – causes her to melt a little inside. The idea that she’s worth more than just the sex… it feels good.
When they meet, he’s all healing smiles and simplicity. They do a silly activity together: one that makes them feel smart and playful and on top of the world. Then they ride Lime bikes like chaos agents through the half-empty streets of East London, and she creases with laughter at how naughty this feels. After a long week that’s been damp and cold with pain, this sparkling brightness feels like cheating. As if she’s skipping out of school to eat ice cream in the park.
They eat ice cream. Well, OK, cream cheese bagels but close enough. They laugh. They swap jokes and stories about what they’ve been up to.
Later, she shows him a little of the darkness. Just a little, mind you, too much would kill the vibe. She only tells him because it feels necessary – his lips are on her neck and his hand is down her knickers and her useless, fucked-up body isn’t responding as she’d like.
She whispers ‘I’m so sorry’ and ‘it’s not you, it’s me‘ as her face flushes – shame and disappointment.
He tells her it’s OK.
He genuinely means it.
Over the course of the evening, they sometimes kiss. Sometimes hug. Occasionally they dance with each other – playfully like dickheads, then close like two people in love. And when he touches her body, there are flickers of many different things. Want. Fear. Desire. Repulsion. Anxiety. Lust. Self-pity. Each competing to jostle others out of the way.
She roots for ‘lust’ to win, but it’s not looking good so far. Says ‘sorry’ again, and means it with all of her soul. He tells her again it’s OK, and he means that too.
Then later, as he strokes the soft skin on the legs she’s shaved especially, just in case, he asks if she’d mind if he took her to the bedroom.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he reassures. “Just lie down and let me kiss you.”
That sounds nice: not having to do anything. No expectations or demands. Just ‘lie down and let me kiss you’. She can do that.
So she does.
He begins at her bare feet, pressing dry lips to soft soles, all fluttering and gentle. Then works his way up along her calves and towards her knees. She looks down occasionally to make eye contact, checking in. Brows slightly raised as if to ask if she’s doing this right. He flashes dark eyes that sparkle with pleasure and grins.
“You’re doing brilliantly,” he says, anticipating her worries and dismissing them as if they are nothing. Then he plants the next kiss on her thigh and moves up towards the black triangle of her thong. When she keeps looking down he reminds her to “relax. You don’t need to do anything, other than tell me to stop if you’re not feeling it. But if you’re happy, just lie back and chill out.”
That feels like permission. Glorious, freeing permission. She lets it flow through her veins the way that sleeping pills do. Drops her head back onto the pillow, closes her eyes, and enjoys the butter-warm sensation of his lips as they trace meandering journeys up and down her calves and thighs. When he presses his face into the crotch of her knickers – inhaling deeply – she cracks a radiant smile.
“In a minute,” he whispers with languid control, “I’m going to ask you to roll over so I can do the same to the backs of your legs. Is that OK with you?”
Mmmm. She can barely get words out, she’s now so relaxed, but she nods and makes happy noises, so after a few more kisses he tells her to roll over then begins again, from the feet. Kissing softly, like she’s precious. Slowly, like they’ve all the time in the world.
This time, when he reaches the top of her thighs, he keeps going. Using his lips to worship the round cheeks of her arse, then bringing his body up to rest on top of hers. Stroking her hair out of the way so he can kiss her neck: behind the ears, at the nape, then the other side too. All the places that make her squirm and sigh until…
…I’m here. Back.
Pinned firmly in that moment by the weight of him on top of me, and the sensation of his lips against my neck.
It gives me all the best shivers, ones that shake me out of… something. His cock is pressing faintly into the crack of my arse. His every touch is soft. Like he’s determined to prevent me from shattering in his hands.
His every movement tells me ‘no pressure’ but my body is finally responding, so this sudden rush of need is all coming from me. A warmth spreading up from my feet where he first started kissing. Then upwards along the back of my thighs and to where his own crotch warms my bottom.
A craving that feels both urgent and – crucially, now – safe.
I buck up, fucking back against his cock, arching my back and wriggling my arse so I can feel his erection brush against my cheeks. He continues to lavish attention on my neck, peeling off my shirt so he can kiss my shoulders too, causing me to let out little mewls of delight.
I want him.
The second I remember that there is an ‘I’ and that ‘I’ is allowed to want stuff, I want him. His body crushed on top of me, his cock sliding hot and hard inside. The scratch of his beard against my earlobe as he whispers filthy things that bore into my soul.
I want him.
I want him.
He’s still gentle. Soft hands, warm lips, encouragement to ‘relax’ and ‘take your time’ and ‘don’t force yourself’ but now there is a ‘me’ and ‘myself’ where there wasn’t before. And she’s aching and squirming with hot, wet knickers and a throbbing cunt.
“I’m going to ask you to roll over again in a second,” he tells me, because he hasn’t noticed this sudden shift, the one that’s taken me from ‘meek’ to ‘hungry’ in mere seconds. “I want to kiss your nipples…” he trails off, planting those exact kisses on the tips of my ears, where it’s ticklish and intense. I almost howl with desperation, before I remember that I have words too.
“Please fuck me now,” I murmur.
He’s surprised. The woman who was stammering ‘sorry’ before is now greedy to get fucked. He pauses. Doesn’t want this to be something I’m saying just because I think it’s the right thing to say.
“Please put it in me,” I beg, fucking against him once more for emphasis. Grinding back onto his cock in the exact position I’d like to adopt when he shoves it nice and deep. He laughs gently and agrees. OK.
He stands up and removes his shorts, his pants. Slowly peeling clothes off while he looks down at me, sprawled and panting on the bed. And in that moment he could have just plunged in, if he’d wanted to. Tugged down my knickers with force and speed, then shoved himself indiscriminately inside.
But he doesn’t. He remembers the way I was so very sorry earlier – the shame in my face and frustration in my voice as I told him my body wouldn’t respond the way I needed. So after he’s delicately peeled off my knickers, he takes a bottle of lube from the bedside drawer.
My back is arched, cunt presented for him, head turned so I can see him in the mirror beside the bed. He meets my smile with one of his own then, very slowly and deliberately – with the air of a man who knows each stroke will get me panting harder – he slathers plenty of lube up and down his marble-hard cock.
Slick. Wet. Considerate. Hot.
Perfect.
The sex we have is anything but gentle – it’s just the way I like it. But I wouldn’t have remembered that I liked it at all if it weren’t for his skilful seduction. As we put on our clothes afterwards, swapping compliments on this or that thing, I tell him I enjoyed how carefully and patiently he seduced me, and he grins.
“I wanted to show you that I didn’t need anything specific. I was just happy to be here, touching your skin. Kissing you.”
What I blurt out is less sexy, but informative nonetheless. I couldn’t articulate it in the hours before we fucked, but it suddenly occurs to me in a rush as I’m buttoning my shirt.
That awkward girl, her reluctance and frustration. Feeling like an ugly, useless mess. An anxious, broken, unloveable, emotional millstone. As if any sex we could have would just be confirmation that my body wasn’t good enough and the person inhabiting it was trash. Like every thing I’d done in my life till that moment was just one more tick in the column marked ‘failure’.
He didn’t need anything specific. But…
“I needed to feel like I was worth something.”