Don’t let anyone change you for anything. You are awesome.
I turned the phone off. When I get in, I must run a bath. You know I have to have a bath. Apart from lying with my own cum all squashed up my back between me and your leather sofa, you smoke, and I have significant squiggly, wild, random hair. It collects the smoke. It’s why I don’t date smokers, but this wasn’t a date. But I have to wash my hair.
I looked in the black book you sent me away with, with my homework in:
“The night before I left was the 30th May, Israeli Independence Day and there was a big street party throughout the whole of Tel Aviv. Ben Yehunda Street, the street where we lived was marked off. Cars could not travel anywhere tonight. Music and streamers, fast food vans and a carnival atmosphere prevailed. General merriment filled the air. 30th May 1982. I was 22”.
You made me write it in a book and you made me promise to tell the story. When I said, “The night before I left....” you said “Hold it there”. You ran to get a pen and you found a book and you made me sit up, naked and cold with my own cum all over me, and you said, “Write exactly what you just told me”, and you went out for a cigarette while I dutifully did exactly that. I promise I will finish the story next time.
It had been a strange 24 hours. This time 24 hours ago didn’t feel too good. Me suspecting he was a player and setting up a false profile. Me knowing I was right, but you know in your heart of hearts when you just want to be proved wrong. Me feeling a bit stupid that I had thought I was special to anyone.
I cried a lot and he logged out and logged into the other women he was chasing, that was his way, nobody meant anything. He used his girlfriend dying as a sob story to chase women and ensure they asked no questions about why they couldn’t call him at home. With hindsight and stupidly I realised he was probably just married with a good cover story he’d rehearsed.
Immediately after a name I recognised from my previous profile came on and I asked if we could speak on the phone. He was kind. We used to talk a lot online. I cried a lot. He told me to pull myself together but it didn’t stop me crying. I didn’t tell him to fuck off, listen.... it’s nice when a stranger agrees to talk to you for over 2 hours in the middle of the night when you’re crying, it’s a kindness in a way, it’s nice, and at the end I stopped crying.
I woke up with that worthless feeling inside me. He had been going to come over at 7pm. Wow. Last night he was talking to a new girl (he thought). He was going to go and fuck her and then come on to me later that day and fuck me again. I felt slightly queasy. How many times had he fucked me with the cum of other girls still on his cock. I fetched a bowl from the kitchen as the thought made me feel gradually more and more worthless and unwell in equal amounts.
So, what should I do today. There was the nice man in Sheffield, I could go and see him. The very nice man who talked to me for 2 hours last night lived in London, but wasn’t free till Saturday. London is always a winner. If I get down and don’t get on with the man, I’M IN LONDON. I can just walk around the streets of my native home city and feel good, even if I’m alone.
I wish I was still in London. My friends are in London. I wouldn’t be so alone.
My arm hurt. The nerve pain they don’t understand since the operation shooting back and forward, the pain in my arm making the day a little less easy to tolerate.
Sheffield it is then, I’ll run a bath and wash my gorgeous hair.
I checked my phone. The message from Axel was still there. “I looked for you but you had gone. We could meet you know, have a cup of tea and talk”.
Awww, that was nice. I should have replied but I hadn’t got around to it. He sent it after I did just disappear from the centre. Well, I tried my best that day but I had just arrived (late) from the hospital from a steroid injection and I was in pain. I tried to stay but I couldn’t, and admittedly, I just left without any goodbyes.
He was a friend though, I should have replied. Before getting in the bath and I texted back, “That would be nice”, and he replied immediately “You can come to my house you know” and I said, “When” and he said “Today”, and I thought....
Sheffield sounds nice but I don’t know the man. I like Sheffield and the man might be very nice, the man might even cuddle me. What if he isn’t nice, what if I get there and feel insecure, what if... Axel is a friend a proper friend. Wouldn’t it be better to go and have a coffee with a proper friend in a safe environment, I could go to Sheffield Sunday.
The man in Sheffield said Sunday was better for him so that was settled upon.
I like Axel, I’ve always liked Axel. We’ve never done anything. He’s a human rights activist and I know him through work, and we sit at Amnesty International meetings together, and organise demonstrations. He photographs things and I write things and we both passionately care about human rights. I look up to him and he says I’m hot and somehow it just worked. OK we can work on articles, we can work on editing photographs. I’m go to Axel.
I went to the Spar to buy wine and looked at the labels. Is South Africa insensitive, Syrah Rose, that’s good, topical. Not made in Syria, made in France, but topical for the ‘against arming either side in Syria’ campaign.
Armed with wine and a yorkie easter egg (complete with cup), I took a taxi to Axel’s house.
I walked in and he said, “OMG how do you do it, how do you always look so hot”. I pushed him away. Actually he always said things like that to me. I used to think he liked me, you know, in a boy girl way, not in a fellow comrade way. After a while I got to thinking he just flirted with everyone like that and it didn’t really mean anything. No, it didn’t really mean anything, it was just how he was.
All the same, I had showered and fluffed my hair up and put full make up on and chosen the clothes that outlined my breasts and flattered my body the best all in a really-I-haven-t’-made-an-effort look. Look natural, look like... this is how I always look.
He took my coat and we sat on the sofa and we must have been there for all of 10 seconds before he started trying to touch my breasts. I moved his hand away. I didn’t know whether to be shocked bad or shocked good. I kind of had him down as a nice guy, a human rights comrade and I worked with, that we had a flirty kind of innocent obsession with.
He asked why not and I thought of a million reasons and said nothing.
He said it was unusual for me to be speechless, it was.
I didn’t come for casual sex with a man who would forget me the next day till he next wanted casual sex and probably had a whole harem on the go. If I wanted that I could have stayed with the tosser who showed his true colours the night before or the tosser before that who did the same thing.
It’s a No from me.
I haven’t really been well.... I started. Since the operation.... “Oh you can’t do your bra up properly” he said and I wondered how he knew and then realised he was on my facebook account. “That and... men... why can none of you be faithful, why do I have to be celibate for years and years and now probably till I die, or just be used like an animal?”. He said nothing. Then he said, “I have a girlfriend”. Then I thought.... I came here and you tried to touch my breasts and you have a girlfriend.... you... I respect you.... How can you be the same.
I just want to feel safe, I don’t want any of this anymore, I just want to feel safe. You know I hardly ever sleep. You know when I sleep I sleep so badly. You know I wake and I feel scared and sometimes I cry and sometimes I have nightmares.
We lay down on his leather sofa. He was comfortable. Something about lying on him and he cuddled me. He fetched a purple pillow for under our heads. I was lying on my arm, the one I’d had the operation on, and it didn’t hurt. Usually it hurts, but this time it was slightly raised as my other arm cuddled him and he held me and it felt safe.
The clock ticked in the room. The shelf with all his law books on heaved behind us. The computer with his latest work on sang quietly in front of us. The room was dark but not depressing. The gentle side light lit up his face and his body and the way his hands pulled mine across and held them and kept them safe.
I felt disorientated when I woke. I wasn’t expecting to sleep but I had fallen asleep on him. Was it night or morning, had I been there all night, had I had my breakfast, when did I come, where was I. Momentarily I had trouble working out where I was or how I got there or even who he was. I’d never been to his house before and I’d never laid on a sofa with him cuddling me. We used to talk and take photos across crowded cafe’s during Amnesty International meetings. Hundled round like anarchists and revolutionaries in small French cafe’s discussing philosophies of the day. That was where I recognised him from, not here, not with his arms around me lying on the leather sofa and keeping me so safe I had fallen asleep.
One I orientated myself I eased back into breathing softly, lying on him. It was warm and peaceful and safe. He wasn’t going to harm me, he wasn’t going to emotionally fuck with my mind, he was just secure. Nothing bad was going to happen to me here.
I wiggled myself against him, and he wiggled into me. He tried to put his hand in places I removed it from. He asked why and I said he had a girlfriend and he said, “So” and part of me died. Part of me thought, ‘Why... all men... why’.
When I had run out of explaining why but still cuddled into him I said, “OK, Your girlfriend comes in how and sees us lying together on the sofa like this, how do you think she would feel”.
OK so now I don’t have to explain why anymore, and he stops trying to keep touching me.
We snuggle into each other, that probably wasn’t allowed either, but I had been very sad the night before and overdosing on this amount of affection just felt so good. I fell back asleep and he fell back asleep and later we woke and thought we should eat, but neither of us wanted to move.
My arm started to hurt so he moved the pillow to the other end and we changed ends on the sofa. I pushed my body into his he let me know. Offering no resistance. I lifted my legs and squashed his into mine. My groin against his leg, pushing harder and harder. I don’t even really know why I did it. I was sure I didn’t want sex. Something about knowing him so well, feeling so safe. Something about him finally accepting that this didn’t have to be sexual. Something about knowing he would cuddle me and I would just go back to sleep, something about him making me sleep, made me push.
Harder and harder. He picked up on the vital clues and allowed me to rub my groin against his leg, lifting it higher and higher till he resting back and forward through my jeans onto my clit. He pushed his hand down my jeans and held my bottom. I did the same to him. Ohhhhh what a cute bottom, so round, so perfect, so young. Fresh meat.
I don’t know how our clothes then fell off. His cock looked massive, well he did come from a culture known for massive cocks. He brought a box of condoms from the bedroom and I commented that was good, I wouldn’t leave till we’d used everyone. He brought some lube and I said he wouldn’t need it.
(Secretly I hoped he wouldn’t need it, if I didn’t get turned on then he would, but how do you say that to a man, so I crossed my fingers and hoped for the....)
Bastard that was huge and it sunk deep in me. I squirted madly all over his leather sofa. Having nowhere to run and settle it ran and settled up my back. I’d never fucked him and I’d never been intimate with him. He’d taken dozens of photos of me and here we were, my legs around his neck and he was fucking me, spread wide, pushed aside, me squealing like a little piggy and him shoving it in harder, deeper.
A vanilla fuck, so this is what vanilla people do. When you feel hurt and wounded sometimes vanilla doesn’t feel so bad.
OMG ... Fuck... that was good.. omg omg omg......
He changed position, and changed again and changed again. Is this what they do. Do they read the karma sutra and instead of tying me to a chair or not letting me use the bathroom they work through every position known to man,
He was so fucking huge and he rammed it in like I was a piece of meat he was tenderising.
Somehow I almost ended up on my side. It forced my arm into a new position and even though there was weight on it, it stopped hurting. The nerve pain I have night and die since the operation vanished. Fuck it I didn’t even care that he was fucking me, bring the neighbours in to fuck me, just do it in this position, don’t move me, just let my arm rest like this and me be out of pain because being out of pain just feels so fucking amazing right now.
Still he felt safe. I came more, he got covered in my cum to. Good.
It ran down the sides of the sofa. It added to the humidity of the air. He carried on fucking and moving me around, closing my legs and pushing it in to see what it felt like, opening them and moving one around, lifting them higher and pushing them lower. I could feel the smell of his skin, the softness of his skin, was that his colour, was that his background, fuck it, it was youth.
Finally he came and he squashed into me and then he left to dispose of the condom and I rolled over to carry on sleeping. Something about, we had known each other so well in ordinary everyday life made this, just not awkward, just not embarrassing the way it is when you don’t really know someone.
Immediately he came I realised, fuck I was uncomfortable. My arm still had no pain in it and I liked that, but Jeez. I had wet dried, wet wet, wet squirty cum all over me, down my legs, up my back. It had squirted onto the side of the sofa when he turned round and did some exotic and previously unknown positions to me. It was everywhere, it almost got in my hair. In the heat of passion with his engine running 100 miles an hour for some reason I didn’t feel it. Now we had reached the station I realised I had come without an umbrella. He fetched towels and we dried ourselves as though we’d come out of a shower but actually, both of us had been showered in my squirty cum. We dried the sofa, well not the cracks, I wasn’t going in for housewife of the year. We just dried it as quickly as we could to make it bearable to get back on.
He came and sat down, turned him computer on. He touched me with a hand and rubbed my gently and it was warm and I felt safe. He read his mail and I knew he wasn’t on a dating site or a bdsm site, or anything crap like that. I knew he was reading real mail, important stuff, humanitarian issues, life changing things. I lay there naked next to him as he clicked through his computer working.
I always wanted to do that. You know how in Moulin Rouge she lies in bed with him and he sits up writing his script. All those romantic films where one of them stays in bed safe in the knowledge that even though the other is working, something about it is serene and safe and secure. He flicked through photos he had taken and then he flicked through all the photos he had taken of me, and he showed me where he had rearranged them and he commented on them and he commented on them in a way that I knew was not him just being polite. Bless... yes... I know I did look like I had freshly fucked hair then, but honestly, truthfully, I’d been celibate for two years when that photo was taken. He didn’t believe me.
It was true.
We talked.. on and off. I slept a little on and off. He shut down the pc and came back. He lay on the sofa and I sat on top of him. Both naked. I asked what year he was born in, the seventies, he was in his 30s, fuck, he was in his 30s and I’m 52 next month, HOLY SHIT BATMAN I'M AMAZING.
He said I was. (Without the holy shit batman bit).
The night wore on. I climbed on top of him, something untreating about both of us naked lying there. We talked about Israel and the West Bank and why we fell out a few months ago, although he took me back into his arms when I sent him a friendship request after. I told him I lived with an Arab. I may be a Jew but I am not a Jew who doesn’t know. I recounted some of the horrible things which happened. He never realised, and now he did, and now he said I had to write these things down. I recounted when Rafic took me to a public bar and publicly reprimanded me. He saw my eyes open retelling the tale, and although he wasn’t kinky, something about him totally accepted that I was. He said you must write this down. I told him that after being publicly humiliated by Rafic I just wanted him to take me home and fuck me which he did. I told him about Israeli Independence Day and the tears on my shoulder, and my controlled living environment and how taboo our relationship had been in this apartheid state.
I could tell him anything. Somehow it didn’t matter that Axel wasn’t kinky, he understood I was and anything I talked about just seemed right. He asked me what the strangest fetish I had come across was and I told him. He asked me what my darkest fetish was and I refused to tell him and he said, and smiled, “It’s alright, your fetish is fine” – even though he didn’t know what it was, I knew that was true.
We half dressed and we ate. He told me he forgot his girlfriends birthday and I said I would remind him of it later in the year. A moment of panic passed over his face when he said, “You won’t tell her will you?”. I said, “Won’t tell her what?”. He said, “That I forgot her birthday”.
You are scared that when I see your girlfriend I will tell her you forgot her birthday?
“We need to talk about these things” you said. WHAT. You’re not scared when I see her I’ll tell her we’ve been fucking all afternoon on the sofa and it now has my dried cum all over it, you don’t want to ask me not to tell her that, but you’re scared I’ll mention you forgot her birthday!!!!!!
I stayed for tea. I don’t usually do casual sex. I never do causal sex with friends, but I don’t know, something about the safeness of it, the security, the knowing he did care what happened, something about it gave it a life of its own.
We ate his chocolate easter egg. I told him he could use the Yorkie cup and he would always remember me. I was going to give it to my stepson but somehow I had rationalised my stepson was really too old these days and anyway, after sex eating that easter egg was really good, especially the bit he put into my mouth.
It was after midnight. I had come at 3pm for tea and it was after midnight. I had to go.
As I left the lounge I turned round and he said, “We must do this again”.
It wasn’t a polite, we must do this again, it was a, I really do want to do it again.
I didn’t answer.
I kissed him before I got into the taxi.
On the way home, my phone blepped a text message.
It was 1.09am. At the top the name read, Axel.
The message read:
“Don’t let anyone change you for anything. You are awesome.
