‘Probably heard you in Norway…’

Hi, it’s me, Caprice. I wanted to tell you my side of the story. I see my ex-boyfriend John has been on here talking all kinds of shit about me, and how I treated him unfairly and used him for money. Well, some of that’s true but a lot of it is bullshit, and I wanted to say why.

Here’s the thing: I knew John was a cheater. I knew he had cheated on a previous girlfriend, and I knew he always had eyes for other women too. He was the kind of guy who always had eyes for the prettiest girl in the room. A lot of the time, it was me. But if it wasn’t, he’d ignore me like I was a grandmother. He was just like that. So, I didn’t feel bad about cheating on him so much because I knew that he was a cheater at heart, even if he never actually cheated on me.

OK, so I am admitting I cheated on John, but it’s not actually what you might think. Basically, every month or so when I had money, I used to slip away to this place in Soho where they did erotic massage and lesbian escorts and BDSM and all sorts of things, and I would let Jay, the lady who ran the place, do this to me.

Jay was about thirty-five and calm and confident and mature and had amazing arms and hands and a lovely, husky East End accent. I never asked if she was a lesbian but the place catered mostly for women, so I guess she was.

She’d start by totally coating me in oil, and gently working the tension out of all the big muscles, before moving up to my shoulders, and then starting to gently tease my breasts, which makes the nipples puff up.

Then she’d focus on them more intently, and while she was doing that she’d start talking me through some stuff that was almost like hypnosis. She’d tell me to block out thoughts about past, future, or any other people, and just focus on breathing good energy all through my body, which became the centre of the world. After a few minutes of this, I was totally under the spell.

The first time she did this I thought an erotic full body massage would probably not include my pussy, but when I felt her fingers drift down and start brushing my clitoris, I realised that indeed, it really was going to be the full body. I did wonder if this was going to cost more, but it felt so good I didn’t say anything.

‘You are lovely,’ said Jay, calmly playing with my vagina. ‘I’d like to make to come now.’

I moaned my compliance and she asked me to spread my legs. She began slowly massaging my clitoris and labia. I felt dizzy, completely relaxed, and waves of tingling pleasure began rushing up into all the places where I had had just breathed the good energy.

After a few more minutes her fingers delved deeper into my pussy and began to play around the opening, the first inch. The back of my cunt now glowed with pleasure and yearned to be filled, and sensations like minor orgasms began to sweep through me in time with my breathing.

‘Lift your legs,’ she said, and my body obeyed without knowing too much about it and she held them in place with one strong arm.

For a moment her thumb played teasingly in the opening of my cunt, and I squealed and was about to start begging her to put something inside me when she plunged her middle finger in deep and I wailed.

She didn’t move her finger in and out, but pulled her hand up and down rapidly, so the tip of her finger rubbed into the top wall of my pussy over and over, and I felt an absolutely huge orgasm building inside me, and I began to moan uncontrollably.

Then after a minute of that, she withdrew, but was soon back inside me with two fingers, and this time she went at it hard and fast on the top wall of my pussy and within about fifteen seconds, I had the largest orgasm I had ever had, bigger than I even used to think was possible. (I’ve had plenty bigger, since then. Most of them from Jay, and for a hundred pounds. Total bargain.)

‘Good girl,’ she said. ‘Next time we better gag you, though.’

‘Was I noisy?’ I said, worried.

She laughed. ‘They probably heard you in Norway, love. You’ve got to let go more, that’s my advice.’

I wanted to tell her about John, about boys in general, about how I constantly worry, that I will be rejected, that I will be a loser, that I will have to work at some crappy job the rest of my life. But she was just a masseuse, not a therapist.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Um, that was totally amazing.’

‘Spread the word, girl. Tell your girlfriends I’m the best in London,’ she said.

‘I don’t really have girlfriends,’ I said. ‘I’m not actually a lesbian.’

She laughed again, the self assured tone. ‘Right. But you don’t have to justify yourself to me, darling. Not in here.’

So that’s the story of my first massage, and how I went home feeling amazing, and dimly wondering if I was in fact, a lesbian.

And, that is what I used to think about when I was with John, and when I was masturbating.

Incidentally, he is wrong about all that. I did have orgasms with him, usually because I was thinking about Jay’s fingers. But he was right about me faking the second one in the bath, that time he came in to perv on me.

I am not sure why I did that, really. Just to be mean, I suppose.

First Into Bed

yazmina-melendez

She was always first into bed; her shoes kicked off with an easy flick, her sundress and underwear gracefully removed, then tossed carelessly onto the floor, her eyes barely leaving me all the while.

By then I would have removed shoes socks and belt, and no more. Pants, shirt, tie, all remained.

I asked her if she would mind if I did not dress formally on all our dates.

‘Of course I would not mind,’ she said. ‘I just wouldn’t have sex with you. But you can still buy me dinner.’

No Cukes!

FRUSTRATED_WIFE2 weeks into my trip to Europe, Carla calls me, her voice shaking.

C: I really need to take this thing off.

Me: Why? It was partly your idea, remember. No backing out now.

C: It’s driving me crazy. I keep hallucinating. Today I felt like I was practically naked in the supermarket.

Me: You are wearing your body suits under there, right?

C: Yeah but it felt like that was all I was wearing and everyone in the aisle knew it. I bought some vegetables, and then I walked home, and forgot I had driven to the store. I had to go back later. It was so embarrassing.

Me: Hah! Poor sweetie. Be careful what you wish for.  I’ll be home in a week…

C: Seriously, just one? Or not even that. I just need to feel something inside me for five minutes. Then I’ll put it back on.

M: Nope. I’m not telling you where they spare key is. You gotta have something much better than that.

C: Asshole.

Me: 🙂

Joanne: The Ox and the Fox

At the time of this story, I was working designing graphics and layouts for a large publishing company that specialises in travel and adventure books, and also has an imprint of pseudo-factual kids’ books about Pirates and Zombies and Mummies and so on.

You know when people talk about their career and they say “I know it sounds glamorous, but…”? And then they play it down and tell you about all the bad things about it? You end up thinking, “you actually want us to think it’s glamorous, don’t you,” or, “actually I never thought it sounded glamorous in the first place.”

Well, illustration actually is really glamorous. Even if you didn’t think it was. It is.

To start with, the books we do are pretty cool. The thing I’d been working on that week was a series of maps illustrating Scott’s exploration of the Antarctic, and the main editor Mr Peterson said I could totally go for it with the whales’ tails and other cartouches, which I still love to do. I even did a squid with a beady eye, which made him laugh.

In between working up drafts of those, Mike the Ox would come and show me his layouts for the Werewolf volume we were doing, which had a series of very neat drawings showing exactly how the man’s body got ripped apart by the inevitable full moon transformation. I’d told him they needed to be more colorful and flamboyant and less like something out of an anatomy textbook, and he’d made a rumbling noise, and wandered off back into the fields to eat grass, um, back to his desk to keep working.

I made a mental note to replay the little rumbling noise a few times in my head, when I got home.

I kinda like Mike in that way, you see. I haven’t slept with him. But I do like him.

After that encounter with the Ox, I went into see my boss, Mr. Peterson, the old Fox.

morenas_011 - Copy (3)Mr. Peterson is about fifty five, but very well preserved and quite attractive. He is a talented artist too, but he barely gets to do much of it. He’s too busy looking after the business. I admire that, and I’m grateful. I’m not sure that I’d want to be in his position, though.

‘Ah, Joanna’, he always says, in an avuncular tone. ‘What’s happening?’

I walk into his office and instead of sitting opposite him, I sit down sideways to him with my legs crossed, and drink a glass of water.

His gaze is not drawn to my thighs.

‘Mr Peterson, this isn’t about my work. It’s about Mike’s,’ I said, shuffling forward on the chair a little further. My work attire is pretty respectable up top, but down below, the skirt is short indeed . How is he not looking at me?

‘Ah, indeed. Tell me?’ He sounds intrigued.

I lean forward. ‘Well, John, I just wanted to say that his work has really been great lately. He’s reliable and he’s creative and he’s hardworking. Best on my team, for sure. So…’

‘Yes?’  Mr. Peterson raises his eyebrows and seems almost amused. I have managed to take him by surprise, at least. It’s just not with my legs.

‘So, I’d like to support his application for a promotion to senior illustrator. I know he’s been working on one.  And we used to have two here. We get on very well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem if we are both on the same level.’

‘I agree, that is a good idea,’ said my boss. ‘But, I’m afraid that Michael has not made any such application to me. If he does, it will be favorably received. But it may be the case that whatever he has been working on, it isn’t that. Now, is that all?’

I left his office.

Is that all?

No one ever says that to me!

Mr. Peterson and I have been playing this game ever since I started working here a few years ago.  I’m pretty sure he wants me. And sooner or later, he’s going to slip up. An invitation to work on something with him, alone. A gaping stare at my chest. A moment of hesitation as I raise my arms before I get something from a shelf.

And then I will know.

(Joanne archive is here)