Paris, France

J took me to Paris last weekend. I had been looking forward to it for months. All over Christmas, almost all I could think about was going to Paris with J. It just seemed like the most romantic thing in the universe.

We left on the Friday of my first week back at work. From about 12pm that day I'd begun to feel terrible nervous and excited, almost nauseous, which is pretty unusual for me. On the train to London I felt so fucking anxious I could hardly stand it. Couldn't read. Couldn't do anything except sit there and fucking pine away, waiting to see him.

He had sent this text:

"You get 3 spanks for every minute late you are after 1730. I want to kiss you. Xxx"

When the train pulled in I felt shaky with desire. I called him, and he answered "Nine minutes late. That's 27 spankings." Once I'd heard his voice I felt ok, and as I wandered through the train station to meet him I felt positively serene. Then all of a sudden there he was. Real as fuck. It was all I could do to stand there in his embrace, and not fall to the ground and weep with relief.

As we travelled through England and then into the North of France, we talked, chatted about life, about his friend who had died, about my Christmas trip. We made it into Paris quite late, then couldn't get a taxi and took a fraught Metro journey to our hotel. He seemed distracted, but it was ok.

The view from the Hotel

We made it to the room, and we kissed. He took my clothes off, I took his off. He ate me for a long time, but for some reason did that thing that T used to do, which is not listen to me saying "don't stop" and he kept on changing his pace. Fingering me too hard, and too deep. I'm being spoilt now, but it was so GD annoying that I kept being distracted. When I finally came it wasn't great, and I barely felt it.

He hadn't fucked anyone in six weeks, so he fucked the absolute shit out of me. He came quickly, had tried to slow down, then suddenly stopped and looked so intensely into my face before shooting himself into me with an anguished cry.

The scene of the crime

The next day he taped my arms together and fucked me from behind as he pushed my face into the bed. The me flipped me over and pressed his glorious weight into me from on top. My arms hurt but I loved it. I loved it when he came in me. I wanted it to be for real.

Saturday night changed everything though. He'd been a little distant in the afternoon, and as I generally let him set the tone I let myself get totally thrown and began to doubt myself. It was really my fault then for the rest of the weekend, as I couldn't feel happy unless I thought that he was. So I wasn't very talkative, felt shy.

We spoke about his work over dinner and when I made a foolish mistake over something quite key he'd been explaining he gave me an exasperated look and a sigh. I almost burst into tears. I felt mortified, humiliated, stupid and playing out of my league. He asked if he'd upset me but it was all I could do to shake my head and deny how easily wounded I was.

Sunday was fun. We walked around the Musee D'Orsay before a walk through the Tuileries and a crepe on a Ferris wheel. Another exhibition had too long a line and he was disappointed. We then went to Champs Elysees and wandered through some shops. He likes to buy me things. We went into a store, and he bought me some delicious boots. I adore them:



We then went to an early supper at Terminus Nord. I had onion soup and lobster. He had soupe de poisson and steak. He was quiet, I was sad and frightened. He seemed cross and I didn't know why. I don't even know if he was actually cross or just distracted.

We went to catch the train and the snow had thrown the system into mayhem and there were hundreds of people queueing for the trains. We made it onto the last two seats of the earlier train (which nevertheless running 300 minutes late) but did spend a couple of hours waiting. He was so anxious that he kept marching off, trying to find a better place for us to sit. Always trying to be more efficient. Not telling me what is going off. Walking off when I was halfway through I sentence. I know he didn't hear me. He should have been listening. I want him to be the kind of lover that is listening.

I had a cry, and told him he'd upset me. He was totally shocked and oblivious and I thought I saw a flicker of him being sad that I was upset. I don't know if that's the case though.

On the ride back we chatted, sometimes it was intimate, some times it wasn't. We spoke about life, and about sex, and he said to me:

"if you follow me into the toilets I will come in your mouth"

So I did. I've NEVER done that before, but he fucked me from behind in the Eurostar toilets, and before coming he spun me around, sat me down, took off the condom and pressed his lovely cock into my mouth. He came with a sigh into my mouth for the first time, and it tasted wonderful. He was shocked that I'd done it, and frankly so was I.

We tried to find our way back home. He booked a hotel, I thought I was invited, but I wasn't. He got me off the train a stop early and left me to make my own way home. I was devastated. He had the fucking audacity to tell me he missed me and wished I was at the hotel with him. I sobbed the way home.

I need to stop letting him treat me like a fool.

Monday Night

So I went to meet N for our tete a tete. The one I had ever so slightly been avoiding, whilst trying to appear casually no-avoiding and just busy. Not entirely sure it works that way, but oh well.

I went to his flat, and N opened the door wearing, surprisingly for him, a t-shirt. He was also wearing his custom black trousers, and braces which he’d left draping, rather than hoisted over his shoulders. It was a sweet look.

 He made me a cup of tea and ask for a hug, to get rid of any awkwardness. I guffawed about, proclaiming there was none, but I’m pretty sure I shot myself in the foot there, because when he went to kiss me, I did the super elegant thing of converting a full on pash into an clumsy kiss on the cheek. Elegant as always.

We sat on his sofa and chatted. We chatted about T and I, and also about N, and what his life was like. He looked me in the eye and said I was the only person he’d been attracted to in the last six months. I swore, and he told me it turned him on when I spoke like that. It was so straightforward, it was shocking. Much more shocking than any of the coy texts or flirting I got from S or M or even T. He told me what he wanted to do to me. He told me he wanted me to go to Paris with him. To stay in his hotel room. He told me he wanted me to call him Sir. That bit made me laugh/cringe, I have to say.

In a way, it was very appealing. It obviously had some appeal, because despite myself I felt myself being drawn into this dream, this fantasy, when if I’m honest I knew I didn’t want to get into even as I walked to his lovely flat. I said ‘yes', when what I really meant was ‘I don’t know’. The deal for me was sealed when he kissed me, and I felt nothing. It wasn’t even horror, or disgust or anything negative. It was simply the pressure of his large moist lips on mine. And that was all.

I haven’t kissed many people but I know it’s not supposed to feel like that. But I was weak, and I let him kiss me and I kissed him back. But down deep I knew I couldn’t give him what I wanted and more to the point, I didn’t want him. In the end, I don’t want a lover that I will never love. That’s not what this journey is supposed to be about.

I don’t know why I find it so hard to follow my own advice, and realise that when it’s not right, it’s not right. When you don’t follow that gut instinct is when you get into trouble. N would never hurt me (at least not in a way that we hadn’t agreed) but I felt the weight of his feeling to be so oppressive. I’ve often longed for someone to tell me that I am beautiful, and attractive and that they’ve never met anyone like me, and that after I leave they say how lovely it was to kiss me. But I never realised how unhappy it could make me, when I don’t feel the same way. It’s only a blessing when it’s reciprocated. How do you tell someone that it’s not you, it’s them? That you just don’t feel the same way, not because of something they’ve done, but because intrinsically you just aren’t attracted to them.

Three days went past, and the more time apart made me realise I couldn’t go through with it. It was making T unhappy, and I felt trapped and scared. I knew the longer it went on the worse it would get, and the more damage would be done to our friendship (in that I would play the avoiding game - that one that I am so good at). So on Thursday I called him and told him that the ‘yes’ I had given on Monday had become a ‘no’. It had always been a ‘no’, but I guess I just needed to work that bit out on my own.

G, 2008

I met G in a gay bar in my home city. I’d worked late with some pals and my sister, and after the shindig had been and gone we wanted to carry on into the night. This bar was famed in our city for it’s debauchery - mud wrestling and lady lovin’ abounded here. I’d never had any luck there before; one disadvantage of being a femininely dressed bisexual woman is that people assume that you’re there for support rather than as a punter. It could be worse, I suppose.

That night I could have cared less though, and it may have been the wine that made me feel powerful, or the liberation of having cut all my long brown hair off a few weeks earlier. My body started buzzing. It was electric. I danced and danced with my sister on the lit up floor, until we couldn’t breathe and our lips were dry and parched. So many people. We went outside to the rooftop bar.

We immediately saw our friend V, and older guy in our industry who hadn’t really made it much of a secret that he wanted to slip me one. It had been sort of weird between us, and I found him so unattractive that the thought of fucking him took on a majorly kinky not-sure-if-I’m-prepared-to-actually-live-this-fantasy quality that I was still working out. He bought us bubbly drinks, and we all chatted and then we watched him start to really drink. It was eye opening.

Then I saw G. He was standing talking to what I later found out to be his very pretty blonde friend. He was French, and fucking gorgeous. I don’t know how we started talking, but we did, and I remember finding out he was French and just losing my shit. I’m utterly obsessed with France and the fact that he was just so goddamn good looking made me instantly moist up. His English was at the stage where I could work out what he was saying, but not without some effort. He was making my skin vibrate so eventually I straight up asked him if he wanted to come home with me. He was concerned that his English meant he had misunderstood me, but I reassured him - yes, I really was inviting him home to fuck my brains out. He said yes, but that he needed to take his friend home first.

I ran to my sister and told her (totally excitedly) that I was going to get sex! The look on her face went from unbelieving delight to a bit of shock and she said ‘I think I’m going to stay at Mum’s’. Good idea.

My sister left ad all of a sudden I felt a fool, and convinced that G had taken the opportunity to swiftly escape me. I was losing hope swiftly when he reappeared and told me to get my coat stat (obviously not exactly in those words). We took a taxi to mine and I remember his hot mouth bursting all over my lips. It was incredible. We both stumbled up my carpeted stairs and fell onto my bed. As he stood before me I took his tshirt off to reveal a muscular and incredibly tanned body. He came towards me and his skin was so hot it was as if he burned his imprint onto my body. I can still feel it. He took off my black singlet and deftly (miraculously, even) removed all my other clothes without me really realising.

He turned to me and asked me what I did for a living. ‘I’m a student’ I said and he nodded. ‘Do you want to know what I do?’ he asked. Sure. Why not. ‘I am porn star’.

Now I am pretty open minded but I was completely not expecting that answer and I’m sure the shock registered on my face because after a few seconds he laughed, shook his head and told me he was joking. ‘My cock is not big enough’. Imagine a naked man in front of you saying that with a French accent. EXACTLY. Hilarious. ‘I am osteopath.’ Three little words that actually could not have delighted me more. I love being touched and have relatively constant back problems, so it was ideal that after he fucked my back up by fucking me hard from behind, he could readjust me and give me a rub down! What’s not to like?

He bent me over the side of my bed, and pushed the head of himself inside me. That achingly pleasurable first entrance. Christ. I had a full bush at this point and he seemed to quite like it, perhaps a European thing? Embarrassingly, I don’t remember much else of the sex part, other than I enjoyed it but didn’t climax. I do remember being particularly vocal as my sister wasn’t there though...

Around this time, I was starting to realise that even great sex for me was often sans-climax. I just couldn’t seem to get there when someone else was present. After he came, clenching my ass as he shot, he actually did give me a rub down. A full blown, full body massage. It was gorgeous. Afterwards I gave him a beer (!) and we chatted about France, about our families and about our lives. He tried to teach me some French and when we slept he pulled me closer to him and held me there all night.

In the morning, I walked him to the bus stop and he left. It wasn’t until afterwards that I realised how stupid I had been not to get his details. I never saw him again.