Story 1 — Scheming
In shadows shying from the light,
I lived a life of black and white.
But venture out did I one day,
To chance a world in shades of gray.
Looking back now, I felt good about it, almost smug, especially given all of the things that could have gone wrong.
He could have been nasty and I likely would have accepted it, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was appealing; sweet, even. Too much so at times.
He could have been cruel, which I might have acquiesced to, but he wasn’t…at least not for the most part.
And he could have just dumped me off somewhere afterward, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d driven me to the station where he could have left me straightaway, but he didn’t do that either. As if we were acquainted, he walked with me to the barrier and kissed me goodbye; even pointing me to the right platform.
But that was then and now, utterly alone, I waited shivering in the crowd, as alone as the loneliness that brought me to chance all this in the first place.
I admit to it – about the smugness, that is. I plead guilty. It’s only one of an assortment of imperfections that surfaces when I succeed against the odds. And I had pulled it off, after all. I had done this thing, and deserved at least the joy of a borderline rush. Shit, I might even go back to do it again – if he’d have me.
It was exciting and the self-consciousness I’d almost drowned in three long years ago – the last time I’d fucked a stranger — wasn’t haunting me this time; at least not yet. It felt almost…good.
But whether to see him again was a decision I’d make if he even contacted me, although given the way things ended, it seemed doubtful he would.
The cold enveloping me made me shiver and I wished I had worn my heavier coat. Donning the lighter jacket, now barely shielding my tired body, had been a decision of style and show, not warmth. The look was smarter and while dressing this morning I’d wanted smart. But that was then too and now things were different and I wanted warm. But it would have to do as I was far from home and simple warmth was merely the fantasy of the moment. To occupy my mind, I browsed the dozen or so beverage options offered at the vending machine, and my thoughts turned to Anya. What would she say? That is, when I eventually got round to admitting all of this to her.
She’d be pissed at me of course; of that much, I was certain. Frankly, I was pissed at me – not for sneaking off to meet him, but for hiding it from her, especially since it was she who had unwittingly triggered my…experiment. Setting aside the part about not telling her, which seemed a betrayal somehow, I still felt all right about the rest – about the sex, I mean.
The Anya thing was, well, something I’d think about tomorrow. For now, I just wanted time to myself, to wallow in the moment’s euphoria. And past experience with euphoria had taught me something. It didn’t last. That before long, my mind would begin nagging at me, inducing me to make sense out of something so senseless.
My eyes idly wandered the beverage machine. Orange juice appealed to me; all that tingling liquid capturing Florida and its warm sunshine. But sunshine and warmth had no place in this freezing January night. Fuck, if anything, there were too many choices and I’d had it with choices today. Plain water was healthy; so “blah”, though. And then there was the worst of it, Diet Coke. So totally chemical!
Of kartal escort bayan course that’s the button I pushed and I smirked at the thought of considering a different swill. It was all I drank. Why I contemplated any of the others was beyond me; a need to show objectivity, maybe.
Taking a swig and wincing as the tingling bubbles scratched the back of my throat, I thought about how the addictive beverage acted as a tether, drawing me home after having spent the day drifting through an alien world of my own creation. I needed something normal, something completely “me”.
After what I had done this afternoon, after sucking strange cock, imbibing something familiar – something that might disguise his taste – was what I wanted. And though he’d tasted sweet, his sperm somehow contained a depressing, lingering quality that was already getting on my nerves.
More than anything, I needed to think, and the nice thing about having to journey home is it allows an opportunity to process things, healing frazzled nerve-endings for those of us plagued with overly fixated thought and right now I had to decipher all this, to decide whether it had been complete or only partial lunacy.
The frightening thought suddenly struck me that had he turned out to be an axe-murderer I wouldn’t even be here, but would simply have vanished, body parts buried in his back garden and since I hadn’t told a soul I was meeting him, I’d just be another Irish girl who vanished, an occurrence not as uncommon as one might think in a city the size of London.
Fortunately, I hadn’t disappeared, so my bigger concern right now was figuring out a way to tell Anya. She would instantly recognize the danger I had placed myself in; screwing a stranger, hazarding venereal disease and God knew what else. And something just as frightening; she’d frown at the thought I had given my body away for free. Just like last time. Sure, she would never come right out and say “you might have gotten yourself hurt, Taryn,” to shield me from having to admit the obvious. She’s protective that way and hates telling me her fears, for fear I too might fear.
I thought back to three years ago. That time, the sex had come to nothing, excepting a “minor” pregnancy scare and well, some soreness, but since then, I had led a simple life of work, study and an odd sort of friendship, one which brought me to, of all things, the world of a pricey escort.
We’d grown incredibly close, so close it almost seemed she’d been there with me through this afternoon, anxiously observing as I took him in my mouth that first time, watching as he positioned himself between quivering legs and frowning in agitation as he made that first aggressive lunge.
“To look at you Taryn, no one would ever guess how much you love danger,” Anya had observed one day not long ago. She was right; risk taunted me and I habitually nibbled at it, only half hoping it wasn’t linked to a trap. It was something she lived; something I merely played with.
But knowing all that hadn’t mattered. I needed sex again; to see if it could make me feel any more alive than it did that last time.
After the thought had struck me that I actually had the nerve to go through with it, I became my stock obsessive self, browsing cocks on the internet as one might fondle forbidden fruit at some erotic farmers’ market. And like a modern-day Goldilocks, surfing past hundreds of dicks, I’d found this one escort maltepe “too big,” that one “too small” — but eventually I had settled on one that seemed “just right.”
Now, as I waited anxiously to return home and a full hour after the abrupt conclusion of our Biblical “joining”, there was self-satisfaction; a touch of vanity, even. In an odd sort of way, screwing a stranger had done it for me. It was excitement with zero commitment. So simple, I thought, smiling.
But there was still that other matter. Minor in the grand scheme of things, I couldn’t help but be disappointed with myself over the sheer rudeness of my exit from his house. It was only moments after he’d…finished. And though I was sure my abrupt departure had pissed him off, I wasn’t convinced it bothered me in the same way the Anya thing did. My treatment of her was appalling and I was determined to tell her every detail as soon as I got home. But thankfully, that was still an hour away, enough time to give it some additional thought.
I recollected how I’d run away from him; how I had panicked in those final moments scurrying about his place, snapping up my clothes like some school girl. My exit was unquestionably bad-mannered…but tough shit.
My issue with Anya was more complicated. To begin, had she known what I was up to, she would have said “don’t.” That’s exactly why I kept it from her. It was something I needed to do and didn’t want to have to cope with her brand of in your face common sense. It was strictly a “beg forgiveness afterward,” kind of exploit, I concluded soberly.
Yet despite the not-so-comfortable prospect of having to face her, I desperately needed Anya’s take on it and wanted to call her but thought better of it; that I had to tell her in person. I should have brought her in on it from the beginning. We talked five times a day, after all. But I’d been guarded and never once let on.
I had never kept anything from her and now that I had actually done it, the need to confess to her was eating at me.
Pacing the platform, my mind drifted back to the past couple of weeks. There were times I thought she might have picked up on something but sadly, I hadn’t uttered a single word which might have betrayed my secret. I desperately wanted her to somehow realize what I was about to do, but how could she have? It was my own fault, for being too much of a coward to say “Anya, I’m staging a fuck with this guy I don’t know. Tell me what you think.”
Of course, part and parcel of having a call girl as your best friend means the subject of sex arises pretty regularly. I loved it when that happened because she gave me ideas I hadn’t thought of before and I could ask her questions. She was usually candid with me, clipping my investigatory wings only when it threatened to breach the privacy of her clients. One day, out of nowhere, she flippantly turned to my persistent erotic longings by dictating a mock schedule of raunchy tasks.
“Find a guy Taryn, anyone you like and give him a hand job. Do this by, say…March. We have to get you used to coping with semen, which you’ll need to learn to play with afterward.”
“And don’t give me that grossed-out look of yours,” she added sternly.
“Play with? I hate that idea, Anya,” I countered, knowing I was acting like a child. “Why can’t I wipe it up with a tissue or something?”
“Because,” she answered matter-of-factly, “men love pendik escort cum-play, and you want to please him, don’t you?”
“Not really,” I said. “I don’t. I won’t do it!”
“Well, consider it anyway,” she reprised firmly. “You’ll come up with something. You have to get used to sperm or you’ll never realize all those shocking fantasies of yours. Anyway, are you listening to me?” I nodded sheepishly.
“By May,” she continued, “do a blow job, and don’t you dare swallow – not the first time! And I don’t care how much you like him!” Her tone was grim. I didn’t argue.
It got worse. “Have vaginal sex by July,” she went on, “and anal by August. That’s your schedule. Oh, and pick somebody whose prick isn’t huge please, just in case you actually reach the anal stage in all this.”
Her clinical prescription prompted hysterical laughter on her part and restrained laughter on mine. To her, it was harmless banter. To me, it struck a chord and though I laughed along with her, deep down, I took the whole thing seriously.
That I would inform her every step of the way went without saying. That’s where I got into trouble, as I never told her anything and assumed she assumed I took her “suggestions” as little more than a joke, – if she thought of it at all after that night, which I doubted. She had more interesting things on her mind than the make-believe sex life of a practical virgin. But unbeknownst to her, I resolved to do exactly what she half-facetiously suggested – with one modification. I was an accountant, after all, and liked efficiency, so I determined to take on all her sexual assignments in one…sitting.
I decided to choose an internet sex site and would order up a fuck buddy; something with a cock attached to it, something without the tedious male baggage-train that too often follows in the wake of these things.
In short, I refused to be wined and declined to be dined. I didn’t crave flowers and abhorred the monotony of fictitious romance. And when it was finished, I didn’t want some doe-eyed boyfriend nipping at the heels of my cherished privacy, pestering me for more…of something.
I chided myself for not thinking of the scheme sooner and I smiled a demure smile, thinking, yes, I could do it, and more importantly, I could keep it simple. Simplicity meant keeping it black and white. And while I was curious about how “colors”- those complicated commitments known to exist inside relationships – might feel, they posed too much jeopardy for me, and made me uneasy.
But still and all, much as that yearning gnawed at me, urging me to take a peek into a mysterious rainbow world of intellectual intimacy, there was too much risk, and the idea of emotionally shackling myself to any man, of having a real connection with another, was too frightening for words. It was the single thing holding me in check, because taking that step meant revealing who I truly was. No, I decided. Not now anyway. Sex this time would be perfectly physical. I convinced myself it was the right option.
Yes, I’d have it all, but only in black and white. Colors could wait for a day, if ever it came, when “Mr. Right,” happened along.
Even so, I couldn’t shake the idea completely; the vagabond feeling which loitered on despite attempts to suppress it. It drifted as it pleased, in and about my otherwise objective approach to everything wicked.
But for the moment, the matter was decided. Just now, forsaking colors bright, I’d be that girl in black and white and as for gray, “Be off, I’d say, you’ll have your way, some other day.”
One thing was clear; the time for scheming was over. The time for browsing had begun.
End Story 1 – Scheming
To be continued…