The Not So Invisible Woman (7 page)

But I'd committed. So I drove to the Renaissance Rooms in Vauxhall, where the event was being held that year, and performed my duties, in the name of solidarity with like-minded sex-positive folk. Then I went into the after-party space to find Tania. I spied Claire, a fellow volunteer I'd worked with over the years, standing against the wall. She was wearing a vintage 1950s one-piece swimsuit and some 1940s platform shoes. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled back into pigtails. Petite and cute, just over five-feet tall, she was a little pixie who could pass for 25 any day of the week, even though she was at least a decade older. But in the dim light, she almost looked like jailbait.

'So, seen any action yet?' I asked. The party was always an anything-goes affair, complete with play areas with names like Fetish Palace, Massage Garden, Anything Goes Den, Women's Swoon Space, Boys' Back Room, Roissy Dungeon, in fact pretty much anything designed for adult pleasures. Yet, strangely, I didn't feel much electricity in the air. Every year I'd gone, I'd seen the same bald man get fisted by the same overweight woman spilling out of the same PVC leotard; seen the same droopy-tit woman in cheap chain-mail pissing on the same scrawny senior citizen in, probably, the same children's paddling pool. Though a full range of perversion and perversity was available to me, and I could have found something, somewhere, that might appeal, as a sex venue Night of the Senses didn't really work for me. I was always more successful at sex parties and small swingers' clubs. Typically, there's less female competition in those places, since women are hesitant to go to saunas, sex clubs and swinging parties on their own, and that means more men for me.

'Action?' said Claire. 'Not really interested in any of this. But I'm going backstage in five minutes to help Rump Shaker prepare for his act.'

'Prepare?' I said, raising an eyebrow. 'Rump Shaker?'

'He's one of the strippers,' she said. 'He needs to get hard before he goes on stage. And I'm going to help him.'

'Hmm,' I said, approvingly.

'The thing is,' she continued, all wide-eyed and innocent 'it's so big that I really could use some help.'

'How big?' I said.

She held her hands about ten inches apart.

'Do you think
I
could help you? I am a volunteer here, after all.'

'That would be great!' she said. 'Meet me backstage in five.'

Slowly I made my way to the backstage area, thrilled that I might actually get something that year. I stopped en route to watch the PVC-clad dom fist her partner, to kill a few minutes.

'I don't get it,' I said, mainly to myself.

'That's nothing,' said the scrawny little guy in a leather thong standing next to me. 'You just missed the real show. A few minutes ago, there were three women with their hand up his ass, all at the same time.'

'I just don't get it,' I said again.

'Nor do I,' he said. 'But he looked like he was enjoying it.'

'Oh, that's the guy who likes getting fisted,' said a familiar voice next to me.

I turned to see Tania. She looked great. About five-foot eight, curvy, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and fantastic tits, she was wearing a red tight-fitting top with straps that crisscrossed her chest, accentuating her boobs, and a short leather miniskirt and ankle boots.

'Seems so,' I said. 'Hi!
You
seen any action here yet?'

'No,' she said. 'The last time I saw any action here was a couple of years ago. I snogged this guy. He was actually really nice. I should have gotten his number.' She sounded wistful, romantic, as if speaking about a bloke she met on a picnic in Hyde Park, and not some perv from a full-on sex party. 'You?'

'I'm on my way backstage to help Rump Shaker prepare for his act. Apparently it's really big – his cock, I mean I don't know about the act. Wanna come and watch?'

'Sure,' she said. 'Sounds fun.'

On the way to the backstage area, we passed the swingers' tent and a flautist playing classical music and a pole-dancing stripper and the geriatric being pissed on and climbed over cables and detoured around a makeshift clothes rail dripping with glittery strippers' costumes. Finally we reached what was clearly the dressing room, a small space with one wall handily lined with mirrors. The long counter against it was covered with make-up, hairdryers, curling tongs, overflowing ashtrays and empty beer bottles, evidence of all the strippers and artistes who had been there earlier. It was otherwise empty, including no Claire, aside from a naked black man sitting in an old wooden chair with his back to us. I could tell from his hand movement he was wanking.

Tania and I exchanged a smile.

I cleared my throat and walked towards him. He didn't react to my footsteps, perhaps thinking they belonged to one of the dozens of pros working and sharing the room that night. I felt slightly nervous. Despite having blown scores of guys in swingers' clubs and at my neighbourhood sauna – students, builders, bakers, journalists, musicians, taxi drivers, cops, lawyers, IT wonks – I'd never met a stripper before, much less blown one. In my mind he was a professional and presumably met gorgeous strippers all the time through his work. I assumed he only went out with perfect bodies and perfect tits. I may have felt hot that night – push-up tits and six-inch hooker shoes – but as I reminded myself while moving towards the chair, I was, as they say, no spring chicken.

Rump Shaker looked up.

I was now standing in front of him, facing him, or rather, facing it. It was hard to miss. Thick, hard and, yes, about ten inches: a very attractive cock. He continued what he was doing, which, I could now see, was wrapping leather cord around the base of the shaft, which I assumed helped him stay hard, and made the show more titillating for the audience.

He was bald, with high cheekbones and big brown eyes, very good looking. His shoulders were broad and he had completely smooth, hairless skin, plus great abs and thick, muscular thighs. He was perfectly proportioned in every way. The diamond stud in his front tooth was a ghetto-trash touch, kind of tacky, as was the silver lightning bolt glued onto an incisor. But, hey, I thought, this is just a blowjob, I'm not going out with this guy, I'm not going to marry him, I don't need to introduce him to my parents. This is just plain fun. And a first, for me – action at the Erotic Awards.

I looked at his cock and then into his eyes. 'Claire tells me you could use some help,' I said provocatively.

Rump Shaker stared into my face for a few seconds, then moved his eyes down my body. He paused over my breasts, which were popping out of a clingy Lycra leopard-print halter-neck dress, then dropped down to my waist, slim and toned, then to my legs, wrapped in slutty fishnet stockings, and settled on my six-inch red patent wedge-heeled shoes. 'Yes,' he said, looking up. 'I
could
use some help.'

'Would you like
me
to help you,' I said.

'Yes,' he said, smiling, 'I would.'

I crouched down until my mouth was level with his cock. I leaned in and ran my tongue from the base to the head before sliding him into my mouth. Claire was right. He was big. Not too big for my taste, but too big to fit completely in my mouth, so I slid my hand down the shaft of his cock whilst letting my tongue work the top. He stood up and reached behind my head, pulling me into him.

'Mmm,' he said. 'That's really good.'

I pulled out his cock and said seductively, looking up at him, 'I'm only here to help.' I used my hand to jerk him off.

'I did need help,' he said with a laugh.

'I know,' I said, smiling. 'Too bad Claire didn't come. Her loss.'

I took him back in my mouth, closing my eyes, relaxing into the rhythm, and let him into my mouth deeper and deeper. Shania Twain's 'I Feel Like a Woman' played in the background.

I heard other people enter the room. They stood at the entrance, by Tania, who was watching my technique from afar.

'Lucky bloke!' shouted one guy.

'Tell me about it, man,' I heard Rump Shaker say. 'She gives a fucking brilliant blowjob.'

I ignored the comments.

'Hey, babe, that's great,' he said softly, pulling out suddenly. He stroked my hair. 'I better get dressed. I have to go on in a minute.'

'No problem.' I kissed him on the lips. 'Always happy to help.'

I stood up and adjusted my dress. It had slid up my thighs while I'd been crouching down. I walked over to Tania and together we walked out the door and around the corner of the hall, then stood by the side of the stage to watch Rump Shaker perform.

A few minutes later, Nelly's 'Hot In Herre' started playing, loudly. The curtain rustled and Rump Shaker stepped out. He was dressed in a British policeman's uniform, with shiny, tight black trousers, a tight white shirt, a long black tie and a bobby's cap on top. He smiled broadly as he strutted around the stage, swinging a truncheon to the beat. He looked so confident, so comfortable onstage, lapping up the attention from the women and men in the audience. Many were hooting and cheering, and all were waiting for the fantasy cop to reveal his manhood. I felt secretly empowered, as if the performer and I shared a secret.

The audience wasn't kept in suspense for very long. Two minutes into the song starting, Rump Shaker had ripped off his uniform and was down to a chain-mail thong. Soon after that, he was naked, and his hard cock was protruding out from his body like a missile. He reached into the audience and pulled a woman onto the stage. The crowd hollered. Rump Shaker put his hands on his partner's shoulders and pushed her down on all fours, like a dog, then crouched behind her, rubbing himself against her, simulating sex.

Just a few minutes ago, he was in my mouth, I thought.
I'm
the one who got him hard.

As if reading my thoughts, Tania looked at me and said, 'Good blowjob, Suzanne.'

I felt naughty whilst watching the man I'd fluffed, a fantasy bobby to everyone else there, strut around the stage.

He grabbed another woman from the audience and, putting a collar around her neck, fastened it to a leash he held in one hand. I recognised the woman as a stripper I'd seen perform earlier in the evening. She played along, crawling across the stage wherever Rump Shaker led her, his huge cock pointing the way. Watching his act was making me horny. The pre-show fluffing had been exciting. Now I wanted more.

When the performance ended, Rump Shaker took a bow. Then he collected his clothes, now scattered around the stage, threw everything into a black duffel bag, and walked backstage. I followed.

'Nice show,' I said, as I entered the dressing room. 'Would you like me to finish you off?'

He was hot and sweaty. Perspiration was dripping off his body and he was breathing hard.

'Of course.' He spoke as casually as if he'd just been offered a glass of water. He leaned against the make-up counter.

Ignoring the others in the room, I grabbed a condom from my bag and swiftly rolled it on. My mouth followed, to get him harder. Then I lifted my skirt, revealing my shaved pussy, bent over the messy countertop, and thrust my ass in the air. I put my head down and closed my eyes. Your turn to service me, I thought.

I felt the tip of his cock start to enter me, stretching my vagina. A few seconds later, I felt someone else's fingers reach underneath me to stroke my clit. I didn't look up or say a word.

'Nice ass,' said a man whose voice I didn't recognise.

'Yeah, man,' agreed Rump Shaker whilst pumping me. 'She's a beauty.'

Soon I heard more people enter the room. I looked up and saw we had a little audience.

A couple of guys and a couple of girls approached.

'That's horny,' said one of the men.

'Definitely the horniest thing going on here,' agreed one of the girls, laughing. Apparently, like me, she'd been unimpressed by what was on offer elsewhere.

We carried on fucking, oblivious to our fans.

'Suck me off,' said Rump Shaker, pulling out of me after a few more minutes.

I turned around and crouched down, like I'd done before his number. I unrolled the condom from his cock and threw it on the floor. Once again, I took him in my mouth, jerking him off with alternating hands. He was too big for me to continuously suck. I found myself gagging when he tried pushing his cock farther into my mouth. Again, I was reminded of Claire. She was right; he really was too much for one woman.

Five minutes on, I felt his cock stiffen and the warm spunk shoot down my throat.

'Thanks,' he said as he pulled out. 'That was fucking great.'

'You're welcome,' I said, laughing. Once again I rose off my knees, adjusted my skirt, and walked out the door.

I found Tania by the side of the stage, where I'd left her. She was watching a female stripper's pole dance.

'You looked like you were having fun,' she said. 'I popped backstage a bit ago and caught the end of your show. Good technique.'

'Thanks,' I said, taking the compliment. 'I think I'm gonna go. It's not going to get better than that for me.'

'I think you're right,' she said. 'I'm going to stick around for a while. I'll ring you tomorrow and let you know if I got lucky.'

I found my coat, which I'd stuffed under one of the tables. Relieved that no one had stolen it or used it as a mattress, I put it on and walked out to my car, thinking of Rump Shaker.

I wanted to see him again. It was rare to meet someone with such a perfectly formed body. Rare, too, to find someone whose cock felt so great inside me. Although we'd exchanged only a few words, I liked his laid-back attitude. I also liked the way he'd looked me up and down. Now, all I had to do was find out his real name and get his number.

I drove home and went to bed. As I drifted off to sleep, sweet, young Kafele came to mind. He was coming round mid-morning for a 'wake up'.

While I waited for Kafele to come round for a morning quickie, I put in a call to my best mate, Pat, to fill her in on the night before.

'I can't believe you, Suzanne,' she said, as I described, between mouthfuls of Rice Krispies, meeting and then shagging a stripper with a big fat cock. 'I hope you got his number.'

I told her I hadn't done. 'Don't even know his real name,' I said. 'All I know is that they call him Rump Shaker.'

'I doubt you'll find that listed in the phone book.'

I didn't think getting his real name would be difficult. There were plenty of people I knew from the Erotic Awards after volunteering for so many years, and I figured someone would come through. And if not, I could call a strip-a-gram agency and put in a request.

'I'll find him,' I said. 'How many six-foot-tall, totally ripped, ten-inch-cocked black strippers with a diamond in their front tooth are there? It's a niche!'

'I don't know how you do it, Suzanne. I wouldn't have the guts to proposition someone I didn't know,' said Pat. 'Or afterwards be able to say goodbye, come to think of it. I mean, a guy with a body like that, how do you disconnect?'

'It just felt right,' I explained, 'closing off the fantasy by walking out when it was over. Except I wouldn't mind connecting again, I must say.'

'That's what I mean, Suzanne.'

'Well, I don't know anything about him. He could have a girlfriend, be married. But I'll give it a shot, Pat, and let you know.' I laughed.

'What about Kafele? I thought you really liked him.' Pat's question was a jolt, reminding me my kora player would be ringing my door for a rendezvous at any minute.

'C'mon, Pat,' I said. 'That is never going to be serious. The guy's just a kid. He's only twenty-seven. I'm just a pit stop until he finds a girl closer to his own age.'

'Have you two talked about this?'

'Not really. It is what it is,' I said. 'Anyway, we don't really talk much. He doesn't know much English, remember?'

Kafele and I had settled into a pattern. We'd get together every few weeks for dinner and sex at my house, and afterwards usually watch an action movie from my sons' collection of plot-lite, big-bang Hollywood extravaganzas. It worked out all right, at first. As a musician, he didn't have much money, so my dinners helped him out. He liked American movies, so the few words he heard over the guns and car crashes probably helped his English. And I got at least one orgasm out of each rendezvous, which helped take the edge off.

After a while it became almost tedious, though. Kafele wasn't adventurous in the sack. The sex became monotonous. So I tried to spice up our trysts.

'Would you slip your cock up my ass?' I asked one night.

'Excuse-moi?'
he asked.

Here we go again, I thought. Another game of charades. I pointed to his cock. Then I pointed to my bum.

'Oh,' he said, pulling away from me. 'No. No.'

I knew nothing was going to change. Yet, just as I'd find myself ready to call it off, I'd think about how Kafele would grow hard as soon as he walked through the door and stay hard through the night – even during the obligatory movie, when I fondled him – and then I'd end up giving him a ring.

Meeting Rump Shaker at the Erotic Awards after a couple of months with Kafele confirmed for me that, sweet as he was, my kora player would never play a big part in my life. He was like a wholesome vacation in the country, a temporary break from the real world – my world, anyway, which was oral and anal, full of toys and boys, and swinging clubs and saunas and orgies and one-night stands. Kafele would never go for that, or even understand it; besides, I didn't even want to introduce him to the scene. Up until the Awards, I'd kept that other side of my life worlds away from him and tried playing the perfect girlfriend. But it was just an act.

'I knew a guy like that,' said my friend Aidan as I described our relationship. Aidan was a music promoter, and I figured it was likely he'd come across a few African musicians whilst touring with bands over the years, so I called him up and invited him to lunch at the Electric, a members-only restaurant on Portobello Road which is popular with arts-and-media types.

'I would never take him to the clubs or things like the Erotic Awards,' he said. 'They're too outside his own experience.' Aidan told me about being on tour in the 80s with a famous band that had recruited an African drummer as part of their show. He said the drummer had never had an alcoholic drink before the tour started, but by the end of it, he was wandering the streets, crying and miserable, having got hooked on vodka and cocaine. Aidan had to fly him back home to his family.

'Just have a nice time together,' he counselled. 'Stay at home. Cook for him. Watch the telly. Take it from me. Anything else is not a good idea.'

It depressed me a little that, even before hearing Aidan's advice, I'd been following it. I'd kept quiet about the Erotic Awards, gone on my own, and that's how I'd ended up blowing Rump Shaker. And wanting to see the stripper again.

Till that happened, there was wholesome, vanilla Kafele. I sent him a text message. 'How's your day going?'

My phone vibrated when he replied. 'I not eating.'

God, I thought, things must really be bad if he can't afford food.

I debated inviting him round for a meal, but it was a weeknight, my kids were home, and they had never met Kafele. After Karume left our lives, I'd stuck to my pledge not to introduce boyfriends to my boys. I didn't want them growing attached again to someone who might not stick around for long.

'Why aren't you eating?' I texted back.

'I am Muslim,' he replied.

It was a relief knowing he wasn't skint.

'I'm a non-practising Jew,' I shot back. 'Maybe together we can sort out world peace.'

I hadn't figured Kafele for the religious type at all. I'd never seen him pray. He'd never mentioned any Islamic religious festivals. He didn't smoke or drink, but that hadn't struck me as particularly unusual. His staying sober all the time had seemed to reflect an impressive dedication to his music. He was non-stop horny and spent most of his time in bed whenever he was with me. He worshipped my body, so porking a Jewish woman old enough to be his mother didn't exactly seem . . . observant.

Never having dated a Muslim guy, I went on Google for some Ramadan 101, which led to Koran 101.

I worked out that, as a divorcee, I was considered impure. That didn't bother me, as I assumed it meant he could do pretty much whatever he wanted with my filthy body, short of fucking me up the ass. I was fine to screw, but not to marry. So I figured I was a pretty safe bet for a young horny Muslim guy.

Except for the Ramadan bit. It turned out that the start of Ramadam meant that, firstly, he was not allowed to eat from sunrise to sunset, and, secondly, 'lascivious thoughts' were forbidden. That might prove problematic, so I rang him up.

'Is it true that for the next thirty days you're not allowed to have naughty thoughts?'

'Naughty thoughts?' he asked. I loved hearing his charming French-African accent.

'You know,' I said, wondering how to put it in simple English, 'thinking about sex. That sort of stuff.'

'Oh, it is OK,' he said. 'Just not in the day.'

Did that mean he could fuck me from sunset to sunrise, just not in the morning?

'Yes. That is right.'

'Oh, that's cool then.' Sort of. I was thinking how much I really liked morning sex.

'Sometimes, I have those thinkings after the breakfast.'

I smiled at Kafele's cheeky confession. But there was something about our conversation that got to me. As I hung up, I realised I wanted action, not
thinkings.
The scrambled syntax was cute, but it reminded me of what I'd been missing over the past three months. And it wasn't just sexual spontaneity. It was the ability to really communicate. Being with someone who was simple and honest and sweet was just what I'd needed after Karume. But suddenly I realised that I had moved on, from both of them. I needed a man who could tell me a joke, a guy who didn't need me to play charades in bed. I needed kinky.

I thought about Rump Shaker. In his business, being naughty came naturally. He was uninhibited, obviously, and fit and beautiful besides. Maybe not boyfriend material, but I wanted to taste something other than vanilla for a change. I wanted chocolate.

I called up my girlfriend Hannah. She's a stunning Australian who looks like a 1940s French movie star and reminded some of my friends of Kate Moss. She used to book acts at Torture Garden and had a Rolodex full of strippers and pole dancers.

Trying to sound innocent, I asked if she knew a stripper called Rump Shaker.

Knowing me like she did, she saw through my act in about two seconds. 'Oh, you mean Carl?' she said. 'Horny are we, Suzanne?'

'I don't know his name,' I said. 'He was called Rump Shaker at the Erotic Awards. He's got a diamond in his tooth.'

'Yeah, that's Carl'

'You don't happen to have his number, do you? I sucked him off at the Awards and I would kinda like to do it again.'

She laughed. 'Nice guy, big cock. Been fucking around for years,' she said. 'Hold on, I'll get it for you.'

'Perfect!' I said. 'I've been playing goody-two-shoes for months and really need, you know, to let rip.'

'Good luck, babe,' she said. 'By the way, he usually likes to drag along his friend Paulie, too. Wild. Just don't say I didn't warn ya.'