Fools for Lust (5 page)

I'd never been a political animal and my voting decisions swayed all over the place depending on my mood and whichever party had committed the latest political gaffes. More often than not, I had voted for the party which had no chance of winning; a mischievous streak inside me had always felt doing that was both honourable and a way of defying public opinion. Not a man of deep social convictions, you see. What I didn't tell her was that at the previous elections I had actually voted Tory. It's just that the national Labour candidate simply got on my nerves! No way I was going to throw a spanner in the path of our burgeoning affair. I lied. Implied that I shared Eddie's political leanings.

I'm not sure she believed me fully, but the subject was never raised again. Maybe, like me, she had come to the conclusion that the sex was just too good and that principles would have to take a back seat.

By now, I knew the affair with Eddie had quickly reached a point of no return. This was no passing infatuation. It was the real thing.

Just seeing her coming towards me in the street, her flowing skirts billowing gently in the wind, brought a lump to my throat. Her voice on the phone, hesitant, vulnerable was like an arrow aimed straight at my heart. Her lengthy silences when we were together spoke to me more words than a recitation. I knew we had to be together, no longer reliant on stolen, illicit moments of joy. I wanted to travel with her, take her places I'd talked of, praised, loved. But most of all I hankered for whole nights with her. Whole nights. A whole life.

The idea appeared to have some appeal to her, albeit with reservations too, which I could well appreciate.

Which presented us with a problem.

The husband.

A man who took her for granted. Her first big flame married too early, now too obsessed with his professional career and neglecting her needs it seemed.

They had come together at university. Oxford. He'd done time at the BBC in the News Department, reporting for radio and then, when bi-media was established, for early morning TV, on business in the automotive and nationalised industries. He'd now progressed to business correspondent of one of the failing broadsheet newspapers.

Our silences shortened while our talk of the future increased. Hesitancy. Fear. I foolishly insisted, although never quite to the point of giving her the damn ultimatum of him or me. Although I maybe gave that impression in my feverish intensity.

We still fucked like rabbits, and I just couldn't believe how every time it just got better and better as our bodies grew ever more familiar with each other and the fit became so much more intimate, frenzied and tender. Any more of these heart-wrenching heights and I'd be having heart attacks, breaking in two, collapsing in tears of joy, I felt.

I convinced her to spend a whole weekend with me. We knew it would be a test for both of us and that decisions might be reached by the end of those 48 hours together. I was deliriously happy. Two whole days seemed like an eternity, and I was convinced that my fervour would convince her I was her only alternative. All I had to do was just be myself, love her even more tenderly (which was no stretch in the state I was in) and all would fall into place.

Excuses were made, alibis meticulously constructed and we met at Waterloo Station for an early morning Brighton train. Both a bit nervous. Never before had we actually spent so long together. Both of us bursting out in laughter when we discovered we had each packed a book along with our lightweight overnight luggage.

We never did read much. Well, the morning papers on Sunday as we enjoyed breakfast in a bed that stank of sex and sweat and other delightful secretions.

We did all the things you do on a traditional dirty weekend. Enjoyed our bodies. Walked on the sea front. Had fish and chips. Fucked again all afternoon. Found an Italian trattoria full of football supporters for a late snack until we repaired to the hotel room together again for more carnal activities. At some stage, I also remember we went out seeking the local Häagen-Dazs ice-cream parlour in a backstreet which she recalled from an earlier visit (with her husband, I assumed). I had chocolate chip and raspberry, Eddie had bilberry cheesecake. We swapped flavours from tongue to tongue like kids.

It was a rainy weekend and there wasn't much else to do but stay in bed, caress, embrace, cuddle, make love until we were both quite raw and wondrous at our renewed vigour and how perfect we were together and how we didn't want these moments to ever end.

But they did.

In Brighton.

Why the hell do political parties have annual conferences, I ask you? It's just an ego trip for politicians. A rubber stamp for redundant policies. And why the hell do they always choose seaside resorts as venues for the damn events?

At any rate, neither Eddie nor I had realised that the annual Labour political conference was opening in Brighton the Monday following our fated weekend of unbridled lust.

We soon realised, of course, what with television crews setting up all over the place, and gaffer tape and chalk marks dotted across the hotel lobby and the sea front to indicate where the cameras were to be set up.

Innocently, we didn't give it much of a thought.

Lovers live in a private world all of their own, don't they?

How could we know that we (she?) would be recognised in Brighton by a couple of BBC journalists on assignment who had once seen Eddie and her husband at a regional radio Christmas party in Elstree, and assuredly knew I was not her husband, this scruffy man holding her hand and always touching her rather intimately as we supped our pasta in that damn trattoria. Or, to compound our fate, that we would be observed checking out of the hotel, both carrying incriminating overnight bags, by an activist from her local party.

Of course, neither of us was supposed to be in Brighton that weekend.

And people have big mouths. Bastards!

My final memory of Brighton is the delay at the railway station as we prepared to take the train back to London where we had arranged another assignment four nights later, where we hoped to reach a final decision as to where the affair was going. I had high hopes, of course. Brighton had been good. As we disembarked from the cab, there was an unholy affray outside the station. Tony Blair and his retinue were arriving in town.

Eddie had smiled. ‘Our future leader,' she had said.

I can't remember what my mumbled answer was.

We were just a few yards away from him as he trooped past.

We never did meet again in London four days later. I got a tearful phone call from Eddie the day before, telling me that her husband had found out about us.

My heart dropped. So what? I pointed out. Then, how?

She haltingly explained. The Party conference. Blair.

Shit.

Her husband wanted her to stay. He'd forgiven her. Had sworn he would devote more time to her from now on, things would be different. She had to give him a chance. Just couldn't throw away eight years of marriage that way. I must understand. This was it. It was over. I must promise never to try and contact her again. She was sorry. So sorry.

I cried.

Initially felt sorry for myself.

Wrote her crazy letters. Which she never even acknowledged.

That's it. See. What an ordinary story, eh? Man meets woman. Man and woman sleep together. Think they're in love. Labour Party political conference pulls them apart.

So now you know why I did it.

All his bloody fucking fault. Tony Blair, with his insincere smile, his smarmy holier-than-thou pronouncements.

The bastard.

Why couldn't he have chosen Blackpool or Scarborough or anywhere else than Brighton?

I'll do my time.

He got what he deserved.

He'd always been attracted, sometimes fascinated by the smooth pudenda of women. Not just the fact that some women wished to shave their sexual parts, or more likely in the pursuit of fashion, wax them. What also exercised his imagination were the deep set motivations behind the decision to reveal their cunts so openly, to regress to a state of far from innocent childhood, unprotected by a bush of curls or a minor forest of imitation barbed wire in all shades of colours and textures. Quite often, he had convinced a lover to allow him to trim her pubic hair and, one occasion, to actually allow him to shave her fully. The experience itself had proven most erotic and the ensuing fucking had acquired an extra dimension. It was summer and the South of France and, the next day, he had half jokingly suggested she refrain from wearing her thing under her short skirt when they went out dining and she had playfully agreed. A memory then lingered with him much longer than the intensity of their love-making. But she had drawn the line at returning to that nude beach some miles away from the port where they were staying with her cunt in full naked display. He had failed to persuade her to do so, and his innocent request had visibly irritated her. It would seem that a hairless cunt was a private matter that should only be witnessed by a lover of long standing. By coincidence or otherwise, this was to be their last trip together.

His next mistress was already shaven. Had been so for years, long before he emerged on her scene. It seems the practice was widespread among young women in Germany, and having noted the fact during endless telephone conversations and email exchanges, this was one aspect of hers that had immediately attracted him to her in the first place. And her jovial willingness to sleep with him. Undressing her for the first time, in a hotel room in Frankfurt that smelt of illicit sex already, proved an exhilarating experience, but also a sort of anti-climax as he finally unveiled the silky smoothness of her cunt, and the red gash of her sexual parting in a wet state of readiness. The thought briefly occurred to him that it would have been so much more exciting to have witnessed her passage from hairiness to utter nudity himself. Maybe it wasn't the state of nakedness of a
mons veneris
that did these strange things to him, but the very act of revelation, the passage from hirsute parts to billiard ball shininess. He hadn't had much time to reflect on things though with her, as he quickly discovered the ever so slightly masochistic streak that illuminated the young woman's sexuality, as she greedily invited him to twist her nipples between the vice of her abandoned hairpins once he had set her dark auburn hair loose.

‘Yes,' she had moaned, begging for the pain.

He had soon forgotten the initial ecstatic vision of her smooth cunt as further excesses quickly suggested themselves to him, none of which she rejected during the course of a long night of sheer, mutual madness.

But the fascination remained. Encouraged, exacerbated, provoked, kept alive by the torrent of images of exposed, naked cunts he kept on coming across in magazines, books and even movies. (European ones by Peter Greenaway, Julio Medem, Mike Figgis and others ...)

So, it was no surprise that one summer while on holiday on a small Caribbean island, his enfevered mind should spin an unlikely variation on the theme. This was not a place where nudity was tolerated on beaches, despite the idyllic setting that so effortlessly evoked the Garden of Eden and its bucolic innocence. Even topless displays of female pulchritude were few and far between here. The heat over his first few days at the resort had proven oppressive, steamy, sticky, with no relief in sight. On previous trips here, he had been close to the hurricane season and there had always been a gentle wind rising over the ocean from mid to late morning to cool one's body down. By lunchtime, everyday, he was sweating profusely and his trunks or shorts stuck aggressively to his skin, the friction between the material and his flesh annoying and increasingly unpleasant. Dredging up instant nostalgia and longing for those nude beaches in France he had frequented some years back.

Maybe he should shave. Like a woman.
It might feel cooler
, he thought. And then remembered how some past conquest had once mentioned how unpleasant it could become when the hair inevitably grew back, the skin irritable and prone to bursting out in pimples and unseemly bumps. He would use cream.
It should be safe if women used it under their arms
, he reckoned. He located some in the hotel's lobby shop and deciphered the instructions in Spanish as best he could ...

Straight from the tube he squeezed out the thick white paste that smelt of almond oil in parallel trails across his thick, dark curls and flattened and liberally spread the viscous substance until his bush was fully obscured and covered. The label said to leave it to soak in for five minutes, although to take care not to rub it in and especially not to exceed ten minutes. He kept an eye on his watch. Then, with the help of the green plastic spatula supplied in the depilating cream's pack, he began gently rubbing the drying cream away. It worked. The hair was coming off with a minimum of effort. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, his legs spread open and began to systematically scrape away the dead vegetation surrounding his now half-erect penis until the whole area looked uncannily bare, the paler than pale skin a mighty contrast with the onset of a deep tan across the rest of his body.

After rinsing the newly depilated zone with some warm water, he passed his fingers over the whole area and found it surprisingly, pleasantly silky. Which conjured instant memories of the cunts of the women he had caressed lustfully during the course of recent sexual encounters. His hand moved down to his cock, and he was taken aback by the fact that some stray, almost spiky hairs still adorned the lower reaches of the thickening trunk of his member. His fingers lowered and swept across his testicles and again became aware of the sprinkling of hairs that coated them. Out came the cream again and he covered his balls all the way down to his perineum, as well as the stem of his cock. Soon, he was totally bare, all the way from his lower stomach area to his anal opening.

It felt good. Curiously arousing and it proved difficult during those few first days of total nudity not to touch and finger himself constantly. As if the skin above his jutting cock had acquired a new, sensual texture and the taut sac of his balls invited the tentative contact of errant fingertips as he explored the newly uncovered territory. He imagined how a woman's tongue would taste him, lick him and again came hard in the wink of an eye.

At regular intervals, he would examine his genitals in the mirror of the bathroom, or the half mirror that the hotel provided in the bedroom. He became an inveterate voyeur of his own parts, finding new subtleties in the ever-changing shades of white and pale brown in the virgin skin that dominated his cock, the reddish hue of his heavy balls. Actually, his cock now appeared longer, thicker, bigger, not that he'd ever had grounds for complaint previously. There was a nagging desire to expose himself, to surprise others, to reveal to the world at large how utter his nudity now was. He even began to dispense with underwear altogether, dangling loose under his trousers and shorts in the resort's large dining room that overlooked the sea, joyous with the secret knowledge of his uncommon state under the already thin material. It was definitely most arousing.

One morning, he even deliberately left the room around five in the morning and walked a few miles up the beach to an area he had once spotted, far from the hotels and beach guards, and swam naked. More than naked. The lapping of the water against his parts was joyous, liberating, even stronger than the feeling he had experienced the first time he had swam on a nude beach, albeit with his previous abundance of pubic hair. It wasn't just the sexual effect of his newly acquired nudity but a weird sense of possibilities that engulfed his brain.

He thought he now understood why some women depilated their sexual areas. He sympathised. Empathised. This was more than mere hygiene or practicality. To the extent that the compulsive desire to present himself in total submission, in all his childlike nudity, began to dominate his dreams. Surely there was no greater sense of vulnerability to be displayed thus, so shorn of all protection, sexually available to all comers and potential users. For the first time, he was beginning to understand better the mind frame of submissive women, all those doughty heroines from O to the legions of abused women from the Roquelaure tales of Anne Rice and her cohorts of more recent followers. He could close his eyes and silently yearn to be tied to some pole or tree, legs held apart by a spreader bar, ridiculous cock dangling in the forest breeze, while men of all shapes, sizes and sexual persuasions could liberally gaze at him, touch his parts, weigh their melancholy nudity in the palm of their hands, poke his holes, gently slap his butt cheeks, examine his teeth as he lay in wait to be auctioned. Yes, knowing how unprotected he was down there literally made him feel like a sexual slave in waiting. He did have a roaring imagination, he surely did.

Back in Europe, he would often wake at night from savage dreams of exotic, novelistic adventures full of rape and heavy use by Masters. His lust raged at the idea of such ravishment and, in each scene or sequence that his fever lust conjured, there were also beautiful women watching as he was being defiled, all with Mona Lisa smiles, some clothed in sheer silk, others in progressive stages of dishabille, calmly appreciating the sheer art his torturers exercised as they took merciless advantage of his now so prominent cock and shiny balls, and induced endless after endless erections until he felt he was about to burst, as each toy, object or alien penis dug its painful way into his innards, stretching him more than he ever thought possible, deepthroating him until he gagged, and all because his shaven parts betrayed his abject condition as a sexual slave available to all, obedient, displayed, ripe for defilement.

He even went so far as advertising himself in veiled terms as a sub for use when he ventured onto internet chat-rooms, hoping for takers and resolute enough to follow through should someone local and reasonably dominant actually take him up on the offer. But no one did; all they sought were female subs, no doubt similarly shaven. His sisters in arms.

And, at four or so in the morning when the dreams came to their spectacular climax (you couldn't call them nightmares after all), he would invariably be untied, his collar straightened and a chain attached to it and he was led, so naked and proud, to a stone table where the spreadeagled body of the most beautiful young blonde he had ever dreamed of was on public display to the leering gaze of a growing crowd, and, as a reward for having survived his own ordeal, he would be summoned to mount her, required to perform, take her virginity. And always he would note that she also had been depilated, her cunt lips gaping open like flowers and the skin surrounding her gash slippery like glass, smooth as a window pane, and when their flesh made contact, it would be like an electric shock. Nakedness touching nudity, as obscene as two skeletons mating, the nee plus ultra of performance art. At which stage, he usually woke up, his cock hard and raging and ready to spill, like the lone tree in a defoliated forest.

But the first time after the Caribbean holiday that he took a woman to bed, she barely noticed the uncommon hairlessness of his crotch, didn't even remark upon it. Which not only brought him down to Earth but also made him temporarily impotent. They parted in embarrassment. Anyway, he reflected, following her departure, she had just been trimmed and the conjugation of his cock and her cunt would have certainly lacked the obligatory magic. From here onwards, he swore to himself, he would only have sex with women who were similarly, utterly nude. Somehow, it became a clever, subtle question he would manage to introduce into the proceedings of seduction from an early stage. Some minded and went their own way; others were coy, some intrigued, partly offended by his outrageous and indecent curiosity about the state of their parts. He was not a totally hopeless case and still practised the art of courting with a modicum of elegance and intelligence and did not find it impossible to convince an attractive woman to go to bed with him, but he invariably became the one to surprise and disappoint them shortly after their answers to his one-track enquiries always seemed to reveal their uselessness to him. It was not so much that he didn't feel capable of convincing them, once lovers or in a bedroom, naked, lustful, to allow him to shave them; no, he wanted them to come to him in a natural state of nudity below from the outset, like Venus arising from the shell, their cunt more naked than naked ready for his kiss, his tongue, the heat of his lips. He had no wish for preliminaries, or hard work. Once together, they must both shed their clothing and witness their bare areas meeting, like waves lapping the shore, like a pagan ritual.

But somehow all the women he came across socially or attempted to weave into the fabric of his life now guarded the sanctity of their pubic hair like dragons, and bristled at his unkind suggestion they should do away with their heavenly bush.

So, instead, he masturbated a lot, familiarising himself even better with the new texture and feel of his own cock and balls. Altogether a pitiful state of affairs for a man who had now reached the stage where he was actually turning women away. And the fact he so often would not take advantage of their proffered charms – he would never say exactly why – only spurred them to attack him with more zest. Never had he been more popular with women, and never had he not fucked anyone for such a long period of sexual drought.
If only they knew
, he thought as he perused a room full of beauty and talent. But then he couldn't just drop his trousers here and now and expose himself and reveal his secret. Or should he?

But he was a patient man. One day, she would arrive, he was convinced, and at the very moment that bare cock and bare cunt would meet, as the mushroom tip of his thick purple cock would at last breach her opening and plunge deep into her pinkness, then their sex flesh would finally meet with a vengeance. Smoothness to smoothness, silk against silk, electrons against electrons, blissful innocence against total vulnerability. And everything would explode in an orgy of momentous pleasure, like an atomic bomb exploding. Like the end of the world.