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21 posts categorized "fellatio"

April 05, 2008

The Blowjob - Encore

One of the freakish things this week was seeing all the hits to this article in Lucrezia Magazine. It's all about the blowjob, and written by Roxanne Rhoads, and it was bombarded. I thought, 'gee whiz.' It actually received the most hits this week. It was also mentioned in Next Thing.

Its popularity relates to the art of fellatio, and fellatio tricks, but I'm putting my bet on the curiosity and apprehension that can accompany the thought of giving head. Beginners often wonder what they can try to improve their technique, and impress/fulfill their lovers. Giving head for the first time can be a daunting thought, and what I liked about this article is that its undercurrent is all about not being afraid to step out of the usual portrayal of fellatio in porn film (which is the usual and tedious in and out, deep throat) - which is done for display only - and experiment, which is the running theme.

The first time I read about blowjobs was so long ago, but most print magazines have the same regurgitated content: 'be wary of your teeth' (d'oh, it's not like you're going to bite it, and some gentle tooth action isn't going to kill the bloke), and if you can't take it all the way in, then do the best you can and use one hand to grasp the cock for the illusion of deep throat. It ran along those lines, appeared in Australian Cosmo or Cleo, and it was quite routine.

There is only one thing to say:

Now I'm expecting to receive a similar article on cunnilingus written by a dynamo/practitioner. Any takers?

April 02, 2008

The Blowjob Phenomenon

“You can’t argue with a good blowjob,” - George Carlin

The blowjob is a showstopper. It is a high intensity subject, as I found out this morning when I added the article 'Blowjob Tricks That Will Drive Him Wild' in Lucrezia Magazine on Topix as a link. I am falling in love with web publishing. It is easier, or easier to access content without the frou-frou.

I used to devour women’s magazines in my teen years and early twenties, and the ‘article continued on page 134’ note would bug me because many glossy magazines omit consistent page numbers (because of the full page adverts). I’ve never been a fan of blowjob articles in magazines like Cosmo because they tend to take a detour. They start by detailing the blowjob, and then it’ll be, “Take Linda, her husband enjoys it when she…” and you think: Que? Who is Linda?

Anyway, I’m excited about the article, because it’s the first fellatio article for Lucrezia. And it was about time huh?

March 23, 2007

The Collector - III

The first two parts are accessible through Categories: The Collector.

The Collector - III

Looking up, ignoring the sun’s crisp glare, she smiled at his wincing face.

‘Going slightly over the forty-five degree mark makes you quiver,’ she maintained her grip. Her knees dug into the earth; she stared at her static hand. ‘You’d like me to continue….like this…’ each dry stroke pained him. Searching his eyes, she locked into his displeasure.

‘So Pavlovian. You’d like me to suck you, but you’re willing to take the second option,’ she said, her mouth widening with each passing second. ‘Does that feel good? No? Too dry…’

‘Then wet it…’ his hands gripped her shoulders, digging into her shoulder blades.

Continue reading "The Collector - III" »

March 17, 2007

Bitch

It didn’t take long for him to ask, let alone make the move; the dimmed pub, and its veteran patrons continued shooting pool while they shot the daily shit.

“Don’t you like the sound of balls cracking?” I said.

“What?” he leaned over, continued cradling his beer, “Thought I heard incorrectly…”

His lips slowly opened, revealing teeth that could be paid a separate income.

And now, in an improved flavor…

This thought coincided with another, that of his tongue taking a swipe at mine, and the little train that possibly could, derailed a few moments after nine, after our fourth round of beers. The question of his taste lingered on my fervid taste buds.

“I wanna to be your bitch,” he said, ringing the glass rim with his index finger. It brought to mind Iggy Pop, ‘ah-ah wannaaaaaaa be your dawg!’ and the six foot something dear next to me didn’t resemble Iggy with his shiny black locks, and clear olive complexion.

Continue reading "Bitch" »

March 12, 2007

Stripped

Stripped used to live in my Blogger Sex & Music blog, and I removed it six or so months ago. I decided to return it to this blog tonight for two reasons. First, today was a long day and I just want to crawl into bed, have an early night, and second, because few of my stories contain group sex or the kind of group sex that focuses on one woman, and three men, and sometimes I find the atypical 'woman-bi' element a little tedious, not to mention cliched "two women just happen to get it on for a bloke to get his rocks off" (okay one woman just happening to get it on with three guys out of the blue is unusual, fair enough, but I've always been selfish with my fantasies; I don't think I'd buckle down to a man's suggestion for a three-way, because each suggestion in the past has never taken my preferences into account, and there have been many suggestions - it's all about them), so this story is a little like Three Men & a Horny Lady, where I thought, "screw the male harem fantasy, let it be about one of my fantasies for a change" when I wrote it and it. The story also explores the sexual-ethnic element, along with the taboo element.

It's more explicit beneath the cut.

Stripped

"The bird that would soar above the plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings." - Kate Chopin

To look at me, one wouldn’t assume I lived to swim in the whirlpool that is sex. When I first spied them, they resembled – and still do – the educated academics that one often sees and hears on television. Damon, an associate professor of English literature assessed me first whereas Anthony, a frightening managing director, sat alongside him interviewing me, firing off a series of well-thought-out questions. Tobias, on the other hand, a nomadic war photographer, busied himself in the kitchen stirring coffee and tea.

‘What do your parents think about this Alexandra?’ Anthony asked, peering through a pair of rimless spectacles.
‘About?’
‘About you sharing a residence with three men, what else?’
Damon’s blue eyes met mine. Tobias interrupted by asking me whether I took sugar in my coffee and Anthony patiently waited as he licked his lips.
‘Well…’
Anthony frowned.
‘Look, we’re busy as it is. We don’t have time to wrestle with frantic parents and ethnic concerns,’ Tobias stated, while Anthony turned to eye his colleague with surprise.
‘Ethnic?’ I replied.
‘Oh, you know. The usual concerns, whether or not we’re out to debauch you and whether we enticed you, so on and so forth…’
My face felt the first wave of blood pooling in my cheeks.
‘I’m not a teenager and I’d be a good housemate,’ I maintained.
‘We have no qualms about that. Your resume indicates as much…’
I adopted the logical male view.
‘It’s either a yes or no,’ I heard myself state.
Tobias, at that moment, graced us in a pair of close fitting ancient jeans and ragged tank top, resembling a bricklayer than an internationally renowned photographer.
‘You are aware of the confidentiality clause,’ it was Tobias, bending over the coffee table. The four mugs were deposited, with four identical hollow taps, on the square coffee table.
I nodded.

Continue reading "Stripped" »

February 27, 2007

Scenic Night

Scenes4 I decided to update Scenes with a short piece tonight. I even found myself a matching fellatio picture. So it's been a bit of a scenic night for me where blowjobs are concerned. Blowjobs can be many things. Depending on the type of scene, they can signify domination. Alternatively they may serve as a voyeuristic tool. Whichever way, one thing that can't be denied or refuted is that fellatio - the blowjob - is the ultimate gesture because no other gesture signifies cock adoration as the blowjob. (between consenting parties, of course)

Scenes was just something that I thought I'd begin, basically a fun for all where people (bloggers and non bloggers), could post their erotic fiction, read, or use it as a writing resource (there are a few writer links on the taskbar). It's primarily based on a 1000 word limit per post, and at the time when I commenced it there were a couple of other adult oriented community blogs opened by other bloggers.

Either way, it was really slow and it is slow in terms of taking off, but who knows where the future may lie. While you're there, that's if you do decide to pop in for a little read, there are other hot contributions by other bloggers such as EA, Alex, Loki, Bad Influence Girl, Spirit (who is, unfortunately, on hiatus - but his story is still there), His Fucktoy and Eddie.

October 11, 2006

Scenes - "Sleeping Beauty"


Sleeping Beauty
He sleeps, oblivious to the maddening roar within my womb. I command my legs, no, my cunt to take the initiative. There are no rules, and my hand turns the doorknob. Should he awaken, I’ll inform him of my mission, and if he continues to snooze, then so be it.
I stealthily creep into his room, a room that’s doubled for ‘ours’ and his slackened lips are perfectly positioned for my tongue to enter, no, invade his blissful sleep. Cheap, sluttish, amoral, wanton, and more words crisscross my mind. I’m all of these, yet all fail to sum up my psyche. It’s difficult to define each burning thought, and separate those thoughts from the rising pulse within my pussy.
The darkness is a cloak, and I’m a walking succubus who isn’t going to stop to ask for his permission. Three silent strides see me by his bedside, I sink onto the floor and my hand reaches up, and over, to caress his warm abdomen.
He’s naked, asleep and I open my mouth for the first taste. My tongue circles his lips, and his breathing rhythm falters. I retreat, watch and inwardly leap around like an excited child. I’m going to fuck him.
Opening wider, my tongue boldly tickles the soft damp inner lining of his lips for a few seconds before painting his teeth. I grip his stirring cock, and relish its plasticity. Its metamorphosis, within my hand, unlocks the wetness within me. I briefly butter my pussy, and return to the centerpiece that is his cock.
‘Err…W-Wha….’
Shut up.
His voice protests but his cock or his tongue interrupt his logic, short circuiting it with a fiery slap. He then tells me that it’s my fault, that I did this, that his hardening cock was all my doing and I have myself to blame. With one firm sweep of my hand, the sheets give way and his cock lies on the altar of his belly; the main course is served, and I savor it slowly. His hips rise, and my tongue paints. Up and down, all around and my grip never falters.
‘Jesus, fucking Christ…’
Fully awake.
He guides my head, needs to fuck my mouth. Who is fucking whom?
Moisture’s music massages our ears. He slides in and out, and I stroke my furious clitoris until I hum, for my song to vibrate along his shaft and for him to hit the roof - of my mouth - mid gyration.
‘You fucking bitch…’ he groans. His warm syrup floods my mouth, and it beats the shit out of spearmint Listerine .




April 23, 2006

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version) - Part 8

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version) - part 8
The mind and body appear to exist within the same plane but there are times where either one can behave independently. Sometimes the mind tries to outrun the body or visa versa. This depends on the variables at hand, and one can overrule the other.

My mind did entertain the prospect of going all out the moment I felt Panos’ erection rub my backside but my body also desired comfort more than the fuck. This need for comfort, or nurturing won over the inner (and novice) libertine within me. I didn’t have to light up like a Christmas tree. I turned round, facing him, eyes still closed and burrowed into him. It didn’t feel alien, I didn’t feel uncomfortable as there was no pressure. It felt like the most natural thing to do as his relaxed body, erection aside, rubbed off on me.

The combination of his skin, warmth and size, along with my leg between his soothed me to sleep. I didn’t feel like I had to snatch each second to score the hole in one. The advantage of an older partner on most occasions (for me anyway) is that they’re not wholly obsessed with instant gratification. Anticipation, mental explorations and the wait in itself is part of the foreplay whereas with one much younger, or close to my age (at that time) it tended to be the opposite and usually led to disappointment. So I turned my back on any notions I previously had, and embraced sleep.

I woke, realizing I’d slept for three or four hours. Panos, asleep, lay on his side with his back facing me and my first instinct was to curve my body against his. Wide awake, feeling the initial warm rush of anticipation, I lay there listening to him breathe for a long interval. At some point I decided to take a closer look - using my hands. My fingers traced the curve of his shoulder, from the base of his neck to the outer edge of his deltoid, then sliding inward and along the ridge of his scapula. I retraced this route many times. The texture of his skin under my fingers mesmerized me and I decided to travel further south, down his back, all the way to the cleft of his buttocks. The thrill of this, based on him being asleep, amplified within me. My pulse quickened the longer Panos remained adrift in the ocean of dreams.

I leapt over the initial hurdle and sought that little bit extra. Stripping the borrowed T Shirt off
me, I huddled closer, with enough distance to feel the heat from his skin against mine without touching. Moments passed. I needed something more. At that point in my life I had never specifically woken anyone up for sex. There was also the memory of choosing sleep much earlier when he was primed for action so the question of his reaction, should I have woken him, hung in my mind.

It’s strange how time and experience can alter a person. I wouldn’t think twice about waking a person now, and if they ‘ummed’ and ‘ahhed‘, I’d probably reply with a curt ‘fine’ and simply masturbate (in the same bed, they’d be watching but they’d be prohibited from touching - as a disciplinary measure), but back then the idea of intimacy took on a hallowed form for me. After my two encounters with two different males - the so-so to dismal sex with those people - I sought perfection or that idyllic sexual encounter. I had little idea as to how to obtain the ideal sex that my then girlfriends boasted they had and it usually mimicked what one read in romance novels or saw in films. As Panos slept, and my fingers continued their trek, I felt in control. I decided to press my body against his. My hand reached over his waist and rested on his stomach for a short moment. I then felt around, found that magical trail of hair that originated at his navel, and yielded to the temptation of walking that silky trail. My hand wandered up and down the warm playground of his lower belly for a while, purposefully refraining from stroking his cock only because I was, back then, quite shy about it. He boasted the morning semi-erection and my fingers surely felt the heat dripping off his cock but I focused on his respiration, body temperature and the possibility or hope of him waking up so the show could get on the road.

As I stroked his skin and felt my chest adhere to his back, the age difference slipped into another dimension. I didn’t care about it and saw it as having little to do with the rising flame within me during the moment. My toes rubbed his heels, my hand continued to wander and my restlessness was no longer restricted to my mind, it migrated to my limbs.

His body shifted, I held my breath. So nervous and it was ironic considering heat dripped off me back in kafeneion bathroom. In this circumstance we were both naked, in a bed, and that to me spoke not only volumes, but tomes of what was to follow.

The assumption of him being asleep was short-lived, he turned over, fully awake. He’d been awake for a while, he said, and that was all he said. From that point on it became automatic. Our faces made contact, as did our mouths, and it flowered into this moist, oral journey. Since that time, I have a tendency to correlate kissing with cunnilingus. The tempo of the kiss pretty much gives an indication of how explorative a person can be when their lips travel south.

His kiss was sufficient for me at that point. I was primed. It didn’t take much because I had all the previous imagery embedded in my mind. When his hand wandered between my legs, and stroked me in the same manner as before, I couldn’t help but raise my leg and wrap it over his hip - awaiting something more. My tastes were simple back then. I’d hear about spectacular sexual episodes, multiple climaxes and so on, but didn’t really stop to take them seriously as these stories that friends told me always ran along the same lines, like a choreographed dance sequence - the Solid Gold grind.

Panos was a pussy man. At that point that phrase wasn’t in use in my circle of sexually active girlfriends, and I hadn’t stumbled upon cunnilingus either. I had experienced making out, digital stimulation, the ‘finger fuck’, vaginal penetration, but not the French kiss of the south so I felt a little, well a lot, nervous when he left my mouth and journeyed south, kissing each square inch of skin along the way.

In the oral sense, mouth to mouth, Panos preferred slow exploration to rapid licks and sucks. Between my legs, he began in the same fashion, using the tip of his tongue. He elevated his head enough for me to see what he was doing, and this alarmed me. The first sensation of his tongue felt like he stripped me open and this was due to the fact that Brazilian waxes weren’t the fashion fad then as they are now, so he pried my labia open - not that it was that difficult, it wasn’t. He sensed, as he later confirmed by revealing this information, that it was a first for me. My thighs twitched, the sexual equivalent of restless legs syndrome. I clutched his shoulders, trying to hold or control him and didn’t know where to look because the sensation he unraveled with his tongue overwhelmed me to the point where I couldn’t let go and relax.

I’d never had a conversation with a man in that manner. He remained in place, looked up at me and asked me, rather nicely to relax. He continued, my gut was in my throat. He slowed down, and avoided any direct clitoral contact, but for me the entire act was more intimate than kissing and penetration - as weird as that may come across. Within my mind, I’d think of his tongue between my legs, tracing each contour of my labia and him tasting ‘me’, as in me, myself and I. His breath became more ragged, and his hands grasped my upper thighs. His thumbs dug into my inner thighs, probably to keep me still but this didn’t work.

I sometimes return to this moment of my life and ask myself what a younger male would have done in that situation, whether they’d continue or just plod along, shift a gear forward and proceed with penetration but it didn’t faze Panos. He casually sat up, stood and walked over to the dresser in the room. I lay there, admiring his naked physique - he may have been forty five, but he was a tall robust male - and hoped he’d return. I also felt embarrassed. When he turned, I avoided his eyes and focused on his arms but I noticed that he was returning to the bed with something else in his hands and I didn’t realize it at first, it didn’t really enter my mind and I’d never read about such things.

In his hands he held his leather belt, folded in half.

‘Lie back,’ he said. That was all he said, only for me to effectively tremble. The only time I’d heard of belts being used was when I was in primary school when my school friends acted up at home and got the ‘strap’ as a disciplinary measure. I never copped the belt across my backside, my mother preferred using the good old fashioned wooden spoon on my backside if I acted up.

I retreated into the bed. Obeyed him when he requested I raise my arms above my head, and in front of the bed head but inside, I trembled. His legs framed my torso, his hands stretched the belt, as if to show me its full span. I couldn’t hold out much longer and asked him what he was doing. He didn’t answer, at first. Needless to say, after he used the belt to tie my hands against the wooden bed head I lay there in disbelief. At first I thought he was joking. As he looped the leather around my wrists, I thought it was a prank, something to get me to behave, or lie still. It was only after he returned to the foot of the bed, parted my legs and faced me, when I couldn’t move my arms away from the bed head that I knew he was serious, that he’d actually tied my wrists.

What followed, for a decent interval anyway, was a completely unladylike reaction from me:

‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Fuck you!’

My legs rustled about the bed, and I only stopped when he warned me that he’d do the same thing to my legs if I didn’t stop. He then reminded me that I wasn’t relaxing. In his defense, he had no idea of my previous sexual encounter, it wasn’t something I wanted to reveal to anyone and I didn’t think I’d have to, but things have a way of resurfacing. He repeatedly stressed that he wasn’t going to hurt me, and this he followed through with a copious load of kisses before he went back to work.

In the room, sometime after noon, his lingual action forced my mind to meet the moment. This took a while. I didn’t have a watch, who really does have a watch when they’re intimate? For those who do wear a watch while they’re having sex, well hey good luck to you. To this day I’m not entirely sure what got me to the mental place where Panos was at. His tongue, labile and supple, not only traced each external contour, but explored me internally (if only a gyno exam could be that sublime!) and yet, his appetite didn’t abate. His breath labored with desire or hunger. It wasn’t a case of him performing a function to arouse me so he could stick his dick inside me for a few moments so he could ejaculate, it was a case of him dining out, eating me with panache. My emotions reached a crescendo and I couldn’t help expressing each visceral sensation with matching groans, moans and smutty verbal epithets.

All up, in light of all experiences I’ve had, this hit the spot in so many ways. It remains unique in that it was the first time for both restraint and cunnilngus. It was a teary intense climax for me and a feast for Panos, who didn’t request any reciprocation but slowly slid inside me and wrenched more emotion from my core. The first half of the journey was lengthy and flawed, reaching clearer hot skies later in the piece. My vulva, spent, pulsated madly. His light touch, as an after dinner stroke, made me wince with pleasure and the ensuing slow ride tortured me more. We didn’t care about doing it in a fancy Kama Sutra position. I forgot about my wrists being bound, and watched his torso overhead while his hips adhered to mine. The second half, the ‘fuck’, didn’t bring on a second orgasm, but that didn’t matter.

Panos took his time. I, ironically enough, wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to keep up and I focused on his face during each motion, watching how his eyebrows knitted together, how his lips relaxed and pursed together, there were so many expressions on his face that I lost myself in each and came out of the dizzying thoughts when he began pounding against my hips, into me.

Our mouths met after he climaxed. He kneeled up and untied my hands. I embraced him and felt the slick warm sweat on his back, and was surprised to notice my own sweat that coated my entire torso.

At that stage, I had no idea as to where it was heading. I didn’t particularly care. The moment was the only thing that mattered and when Panos, after some time, hinted about a next time I inwardly felt thrilled even though I knew that our assocation would be judged by many during that time.

In regard to what took place, his use of his belt: it overwhelmed me, thrilled me, aroused me in ways I can't find words to describe and, compared to what my girlfriends were experiencing at the time, it felt deliciously naughty or depraved. When I was 19, in 1989-90, I didn't really know what the term bondage or being 'bound' meant.


(to be continued)






April 22, 2006

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version) - Part 7

At the Kafeneion - Part 7
Once inside his one bedroom bachelor pad, I half expected him to make a move. This assumption, based on earlier events, was the only conclusion that I thought of and the reason why it featured in my mind was because I wasn’t sure whether I’d be up to it or not. Half of me felt like a stranger within myself. To react, in the manner that I did, was like seeing another person – not me. Now, of course, I see that period as the dawn of the faux sisterhood, where limits don’t matter and personal feelings have no importance in the realm of acquisition when the perceived commodity – the male – is up for grabs.

Panos quickly showed me round the place before grabbing my arm and guiding me to the bathroom. He set out to clean up my foot. This took a while because all the blood had dried. I stepped out of my shoe and felt odd about him performing this task. I was so accustomed to performing these tasks myself.

‘It’s okay…’ I’d say, and he’d tell me to be quiet and stop being so difficult but independence can also be, on the odd occasion, a security blanket too.

I placed my foot in the bath, he turned the faucets and rinsed the, now bruised, area of my foot. His fingers ran over my toes, up along my metatarsals and back again, all the while he pressed my foot in various places and asked me if it hurt, and if so, where.

‘It’s just a small bruise, Panos…’ I felt somewhat overwhelmed. I wasn’t really accustomed to anyone attending to me in that manner. Back then, I was more of a control freak in regard to these things. Such close proximity, in my mind at that time, equated to intimacy or an increased sense of intimacy. Warm water ran over my foot, the initial tingle of the water worked to relax me and I then felt the tiredness of the previous day invade my body.

Wrong timing, was all that it was. As I stood watching him towel my foot I hoped he wouldn’t get any ideas. This thought was followed by another thought, steeped with guilt, concerning the audacity of my assumption in the first place.

He told me to lie down in his bed. This instruction didn’t alarm me, only confirmed his sexual presence within my thoughts.

As assumptions go, I thought he’d follow me but he left the apartment, telling me he’d be back in a short while. I made myself comfortable, after borrowing one of his T-Shirts. Falling asleep wasn’t so easy. I wanted to fall asleep before his return. This way, I thought, I wouldn’t be awake to be on the receiving end of anything in order to decline it. His bed, a comfortable queen sized mattress, was decorated with so many pillows. I laughed as I removed each one, thinking how much time he spent each day adorning his bed, only to remove them. At this point my mind didn’t stop to consider other uses for pillows. I was tired and desperately in need of sleep.

I retreated under the covers, nestling into the duvet and pillows. The more nervous I am, the more difficult it can be to sleep, particularly when sleep also involves another new person. Panos returned and made his way through the hall, and into his room.
He crawled into bed, after removing his clothes (at this point I was feigning sleep) and I lay, on my side, feeling anticipation prickle me just about everywhere. It felt like a second gust of wind, or oxygen, danced past my deprived nose.

My ears heard the newspaper. He flicked through it, pages ruffled and after what felt like an aeon to me, he quietly placed the newspaper on the floor, and spooned by body with his.

‘I know you’re awake.’

Now when I think of it, I find it funny but there we were, effectively at the beginning of our sexual adventure, and the scenario that unfolded reflected the typical stereotype:

‘I’m really tired Panos…’

‘Then sleep,’ he whispered, wrapping his arm around my waist before pulling me against him.

‘I’m trying to?’
Cringe worthy huh?
In all seriousness, I did have a full on week at work, in addition to late nights at the gambling joint. A couple of residents passed away where I worked, and these events would always stir my mind and make me question my life, where it headed and mortality itself. The issue that did creep into my mind, as Panos’ pelvis hugged my rear end, was whether or not I’d be able to sleep. By this time, the cotton T shirt rode up until I felt our thighs slide against each other.

The sheets rustled as we wriggled around. Panos’ erection couldn’t be hidden, it just poked my ass and yet, he didn’t immediately try to remove my pants. It’s not so much the sight of a naked dick that will get me, early in the morning, it’s the sensation of it against my ass: prodding, brushing against, whatever. This is how it's been since that time - we're talking sixteen years now. When that occurs during spooning, it’s all it takes to make my lower engine purr.

(to be continued)




April 21, 2006

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version) - Part 6

At the Kafeneion - Part 6


Sparks erupted within the darkness of the nightclub. Nikki’s distorted face turned to me and words tumbled out of her mouth. My legs aren’t pins. They’re rather sturdy. I’m built that way, and during this period of my life I spent at least two years on and off working in nursing homes and the work involved a lot of heavy lifting. The proper way to lift anything is to bend the knees, so one can imagine the result of this after manually lifting human beings, many of which were largely incapacitated in some way or form. In between shifts, I’d maintain my physical strength by attending the gym, not so much to sculpt a thin, lean physique, but to maintain physical strength and this involved additional weight training. I didn’t resemble a wrestler, but my work and gym sessions meant that my calves and quadriceps were rather developed (in addition to the fact that I’ve never boasted a fragile physique – I’m not built for catwalks, in other words). So Nikki felt the full force, something I didn’t make any effort to minimize. I did examine my reaction at a later point, but during the heat of the moment I flew by the seat of my pants. I didn’t appreciate her initial gesture. Whether it arose out of her insecurity or whatever else, wasn’t my issue. While such ‘violence’ isn’t condoned, for the usual politically correct reasons, when one is effectively violated one will feel like adjusting the scales that are.

Nikki’s manner of minimizing her self perceived humiliation (of spilling her drink all over herself) was to lash out at me. Her self-involvement meant that her own gesture -that of using her heel to stamp on my foot (out of some need to mark her territory) – didn’t matter.

I’m not one for scenes, but I couldn’t dismiss her wrath. She exploded, thumping her fist on the table.

‘Poutana!’ she yelled, which (depending on how it's said) translates to whore/prostitute/slut.

The waiter tried to intercede. Panos sat, stunned at her outburst and the irony of what she uttered wasn’t lost on me, simply because she spiked me with her heel so she'd hopefully have her cunt penetrated by Panos.

‘Poutana eisai kai fainese,’ I replied, roughly translating to, ‘ that’s what you are and it’s rather obvious’.

I wasn’t specific as to the ‘what’ she was. I wasn’t entirely certain what she meant (except that it could only be negative) in calling me what she did and I found it amusing at the time. On stage she’d have seen our table. Common sense further validated that Panos had company, but as I’ve already mentioned moral values vary in this sphere or microcosm of the world.

Bitchy, perhaps. At that point my foot smarted and there was a sticky plug of congealed blood staining my sandal. My foot throbbed, and each pulsation dulled in comparison to my anger and confusion. I couldn’t comprehend why she did what she did.

I’d like to point out that I was far from being a saint, but the very term she used isn’t the same as calling one a slut in the sexual sense, not by definition anyway. It veered more toward defining one’s lacking morals more than anything else, or one's lack of humane respect. For me, her anger was amusing. During that period of my life I remember getting myself up to date on all the supposed global feminist issues. I was reading Dworkin, Faludi and Wolf (the Beauty Myth, back then, was a ‘groundbreaking’ text for every woman). The world they described, the one with rigid structures that supposedly enabled the patriarchy to operate, was always lost on me because in other spheres, outside the controlled environment these authors describe/ed – namely the white bread western world – these issues weren’t issues, they largely didn’t matter (and in many places today, these issues aren’t significant for if they were there’d be no child starving to death, no woman dying while breastfeeding in lands yet to have electricity grids and so on).

In short, my libido of the evening was sucked into a black hole. Panos interceded, told Nikki to calm down. I slugged down the rest of my drink. The others returned to the table and wondered what was going on. The waiter told Nikki to be calm. I kept on eyeing my stained sandal and felt like slugging her all the more. At that moment I learned that books, the academic kind, written by people who spend the bulk of their time on university campuses or immersed within faculties of knowledge, don’t necessarily reflect the wider world. The sisterhood that many tomes described didn’t exist and still remains a Utopian concept.

Panos, uncertain on how to take my response or reaction and caught off guard by Nikki’s tantrum, decided to pay the table bill. In the process of taking care of the bill, at the far end of the floor, I saw him talk to the club owner. They both looked at me from the distance. This conversation, as I later found out, resulted in Nikki being sent packing, back to Greece. Her spike heel in my foot was the final straw for the proprietor of the club.

We all left the club, someone suggested breakfast. I wasn’t in a sociable mood (at that point I was unaware of Panos discussing the incident with the nightclub owner) because Panos, in my mind, simply paid the bill and didn’t address the issue. It wasn’t until we arrived at the Bourbon and Beefsteak (in Kings Cross) that we both sat, and talked about the incident. The others decided to call it a night.

It was as I stabbed my egg yolks that I asked him about Nikki’s presence at the table.

‘Ask your waiter friend about that,’ apparently he visited the Gents and returned to find Nikki there - presuming she sat there waiting for the guy who was sitting to my right - so didn't evict her. It wasn’t as easy as that, apparently, because there were other vacant seats at the table and he didn’t see the point of engaging in a debate with Nikki.

My head still felt the aftermath of scotch, so I dug into my food and coffee.

We sat, for a while, after eating talking about everyday things. He asked me about myself, the usual family related questions and he didn’t express any shock or mock sympathy when he responded. Matter of fact, to the point, the conversation continued and fragments of his background unfolded. He adhered to the fragments. I didn’t push for more details, as I believed (and still believe) that an individual will divulge what they’re comfortable with divulging, not anything more or less than what they are comfortable with.

The moment, illuminated by a rising a.m. coppery sun, embedded itself in my mind. I remember feeling completely comfortable. There were no niggling doubts as to ‘futures’, his, and mine therefore no high expectations.

A quiet car ride followed and we ended up at his place...

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