The Not So Invisible Woman (9 page)

'Because I wrote it.'

'Think you can you get me some weed?' VZ asked, pulling me aside after the last picture was taken. Everyone was in the suite, getting their things together.

I shrugged.

'We don't really need to stick around, do we?' asked the manager.

'No, it's fine,' I said, hoping I sounded nonchalant. 'I think we're all done here.'

VZ changed back into his torn jeans and crumpled striped Nicole Farhi T-shirt. His manager and agent cleared out soon afterwards, as did the photo crew and stylist.

I picked up the phone. 'Sorry to bother you, Carl, but could you spare a little grass?'

I'm a media whore. I've pimped for a dancer who wanted a date with an attractive journalist who interviewed him. I've served as personal shopper to actors who needed something flash to wear. I've run for macrobiotic snacks for Hollywood directors, and cigarettes for practically everyone. And now I was a drug dealer. There was no end to my talent for pleasing a client.

'Great, Carl, you're a star. You've come through twice today. I owe you,' I said. 'I'll have a bike come round.' I hung up and turned to VZ. 'Shall I hang around and wait for the package?'

'Why don't you sit on the edge of the bed and lift your skirt up instead.'

I smiled and walked over to the bed. I sat down, hitched up my skirt and spread my legs.

He crouched at my feet, pulled my legs up and onto his shoulders, and began lapping my pussy with his tongue. I leaned back, suddenly noticing the open curtains and the view into an office block. 'If people are lucky, we'll give them a show.'

'Mmmmm. Your pussy tastes delicious,' he said. 'So beautiful.'

I let him linger there for a while, tasting me, licking my clit. I enjoyed watching the top of his head.

'Put your fingers inside me,' I said. After a few minutes of having my clit licked and rubbed, I wanted to be filled.

VZ pushed two fingers inside me, moving them back and forth while his tongue licked and sucked on my pussy. My head sank into the fluffy white pillows. I felt myself get wetter and wetter, and I desperately wanted to feel him inside me. That's when I remembered I hadn't brought any condoms. Suddenly, the likelihood of giving him anything more was nil. I had a hard time imagining any rock star sensible enough to pack condoms; it didn't fit the 'live fast, die young' image.

'Come here,' he ordered me, moving away from my crotch and out of the bedroom. I followed, and found him on his knees in front of a 1960s-style chair. It was the shape of an egg sliced in half, hard silver plastic on the outside, hot-pink mock leather on the inside. VZ pushed aside the matching hassock and said, 'Sit on the edge.' I did as ordered, leaning back on my elbows and tilting my pelvis up to give him a better view.

Once again he dived into my pussy, then quickly shifted position to facilitate pushing his fingers in and out of me. I could feel my pussy start to throb and, as it did, VZ pushed harder and faster.

'Get down here, you dirty bitch,' he said, and I obeyed. After all, he was a rock star. I laughed to myself.

I went to lie on the carpet as commanded, but first checked to make sure I hadn't leaked onto the chair. The hotel had only been open a week. Plus, I didn't want to make a mess in a suite I'd scammed for free in exchange for a photo credit. That would have been rude.

A streak of clear oily juices was on the seat. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wiped the chair. Then I got down on the floor.

The wool carpet was soft, a brown swirling pattern set off against a biscuit background. Nice to look at, but, I feared, perhaps not ideal for disguising stains. As soon as I felt VZ's fingers re-enter me, and the throbbing resume, I stopped caring.

'Mmmn. This is the spot I was looking for,' he said. He continued to push against my G-spot. I felt the pressure build. I'd never ejaculated before but, as my pussy throbbed, I thought of Carol, a girlfriend from college who, after years under the thumb of New England Puritan repression, had learned to enhance her new life in sleepy Baltimore with violent orgasms.

'Fantastic new boyfriend ... best sex I've ever had ... amazing orgasms ... best lover ever ... makes me gush, and I mean
gush.'

That last bit got my attention. 'What do you mean, gush?'

'Just resist the temptation to hold back when you're getting fingered. Instead, push, and, Suzanne, I tell you, it'll just happen
naturally.''

I decided to put her advice to work. As VZ's fingers pushed harder and harder inside me, I pushed against them. It wasn't long before I felt the trickle of liquid between my legs. Getting wet wasn't usually a problem for me, but this was different. It was more like a river, as opposed to the usual drip. When I looked down, there was a puddle of my come on the carpet.

'Wow!' I said. 'That has
never
happened before. I can see the headlines now: ROCKER MADE ME GUSH. Hand me my mobile, will ya? I'll call the
Sun.'

VZ had already moved off the floor and onto the supersized sofa. 'Lie down,' he said. He stood over me and pulled his cock out of his pants.

My head was just below crotch level. 'Lick my balls,' he demanded, and started wanking. He had a skinny cock, about five inches long and circumcised. Not quite the monster I was used to, not even half the size of the one I'd had earlier in the day. But I wasn't planning on fucking him, not without a condom, so it didn't matter.

I licked VZ's balls whilst he jerked off. He wasn't totally hard, so I nudged my tongue past his balls and began to rim his ass.

'You like that, you dirty bitch?' he said.

'Mmmn,' I moaned. I'd like it a lot more if you had a big hard-on, I thought – you've been watching too much porn, guy.

He put his hands around my throat and gently squeezed. I didn't feel threatened. He was so slight, I could easily have pushed him away had I wanted to. Definitely watches too much porn, I thought.

'Like it rough, slut?' He grabbed my ass and rolled me onto my side. He spanked one buttock hard, then squeezed the flesh. I hoped it wasn't going to leave a mark.

The rough stuff wasn't really my thing, but I thought if that was what it took to get him off, I'd go with it. I'd already had my orgasm and now just wanted to satisfy him. But I wasn't sure I was: he was having trouble staying hard.

The doorbell rang. VZ jumped up, pulled up his trousers, and went to the door. I hid behind an antique Chinese cupboard.

'Sorry, man,' I heard him say. 'Yeah, we're almost finished with the shoot. We'll be gone in twenty minutes.'

'Fuck, I was so close to coming,' he said as he walked back into the bedroom. I reached for his cock and started playing with it.

'I'm really sorry,' he said after a few futile minutes. 'I spent all last night jerking off and watching porn, and I guess I'm all dried up.'

'Don't worry about me,' I said. 'I've had
my
fun. That's the first time I've ever gushed like that. That was quite an achievement.'

'I love coming, too,' he said. 'But I haven't slept for twenty-four hours, so . . .'

He promised he'd make it up to me the next time he was in London. Then he walked into the toilet. 'Come into the bathroom,' he said a minute later.

I got off the bed, pulling off my top and throwing it on the pillows.

'Sit there and play with yourself,' he said, pointing to the toilet.

Charming, I thought.

'Lift your leg so I can see those sexy shoes.' I lifted my leg and rested it on the toilet-roll holder. It wasn't the most comfortable position, and I felt my leg begin to cramp as VZ moved between my legs. He grabbed my breasts. 'You've got amazing tits,' he said. 'Stick your finger in your pussy.'

I did as ordered, feeling more and more like a player in one of his porn movies. He was trying to recreate the scenes but couldn't quite get there in his head, whether from too much booze and coke, a lack of Viagra, or impotence, I wasn't sure. Or perhaps the bullshit didn't fly for him, either. I couldn't help thinking the dirty talk didn't come naturally to him, that it was just part of his rock-star persona, and that in reality he was still the little boy from some hick town in the States.

The door bell rang again, and once more VZ pulled up his pants and went to answer it. 'Yeah ... really sorry,' I heard him say. 'We'll be gone in fifteen.'

'We've really got to go,' I said, putting my clothes back on.

'You give great head,' he said.

'That's because I really enjoy it,' I said. 'It's weird, but when I wank, I come while thinking about a guy coming in my mouth.'

'I think about kissing,' he said.

We kissed – our first kiss – and walked out of the room together.

I'd grown used to Pat wagging her finger when I described my exploits. She liked hearing about threesomes at Rio's and gang bangs at Torture Garden, yet I suspected, deep down, she was more uptight than she let on. After she sobered up, she got all Catholic on me.

'I just don't understand how you can enjoy casual sex, Suzanne,' she said not infrequently. 'How can you separate the physical from the emotional?' Then she'd ask me for more details about my romps.

She spent day after day on Match.com or MySingleFriend.com trying to find 'The One', and most of her nights at home, alone. She was frustrated and often complained about the lack of available men in London.

One time I gave her the number of a favourite funboy, Anthony, a handsome cop who used to fuck me from time to time and who was hung and horny. 'He's available,' I said. 'And he's cute. And nice. And he'll fuck you.'

She took his number. They had a chat over the phone, arranged to meet, and then she called it off. A few weeks later, she called again, then cancelled again.

'She's a complete time-waster,' Anthony complained the next time he came over for a playdate.

'Sorry about that,' I said. 'Pat's got a few hang-ups. But she's kinda cute and you would have liked her.'

My buddy Jack had. He was an ex-boyfriend who became pals with Pat after I introduced them during our brief but intense relationship. They shared a love of dogs and took turns looking after each other's pet when one went away on holiday. After our split, Jack would ring me up from time to time, asking if I knew any women who'd sleep with him. I'd hoped he and Pat might pair up but though she adored his terrier, she didn't fancy him.

One day, I had a work meeting in the West End, then popped over to her flat for a cup of tea.

'Almost called you the other day, Pat. I drove by on my way back from the Mayfair,' I said. 'But I was tired and just went home.'

'What was on at the Mayfair?'

'Work. Remember that band I told you about? I fucked the lead singer.' I laughed.

Pat smiled. 'Was he any good?'

'Couldn't get it up. But it wasn't all bad.' I told her how he'd made me gush. She was a gusher herself, and I'd always been a bit envious, because, even though I was the one getting all the action, Pat's party trick had eluded me and made me feel inadequate.

'Anyway,' I continued, 'I'd already come earlier that day, so I didn't need another hard cock.'

Pat's expression darkened. 'You know, Suzanne, two guys in one day, some people might think you're an addict.'

'Are you crazy?'

'It's OK to admit you have a problem.'

'I don't have a problem, Pat. I just enjoy sex. Besides, aside from the occasional lunch-time or breakfast bonk, I only get laid four days a month. Four. Days. A. Month.'

'Well, Jack and I have been talking,' she admitted. Suddenly it struck me that this was something that had been on her mind for some time, and I'd just given her the opener she needed. 'He thinks that some elements of SAA might give you food for thought.'

'What's SAA?'

She went into her bedroom. 'Here.' She handed me a brochure for Sex Addicts Anonymous.

'It's nice to know you're both so concerned about me,' I said, trying not to sound pissed off. I hated when others made assumptions about my motives or behaviour. 'But I'm fine. Really.'

'Just take the brochure, Suzanne,' she said. 'You never know.'

I thought Pat had been judgemental and intrusive, and I wondered what role envy played, however subconsciously, in her purification campaign. I was still fuming a few days later when Karume came by the house.

Ever the hustler, he'd found a new way to pull money out of my wallet. A few months earlier, after he and I had wound down as a couple, I'd discovered that the woman I'd hired to help me around the house had also helped herself to my favourite earrings. Confronted, she stormed out the door in a huff, just in time for my ex to walk back in. Karume was a major fuck-up as a boyfriend, so it was inevitable that I'd fire him from that job. The surprise was that I hired him to be my cleaner right after we split. So he came round every week, dragged a mop around the house a bit, then, if I felt like it, took me up to the bedroom. Usually, as long as there were drinks involved, he was game. He'd mix his special Golden Angel concoction – a big shot of vodka mixed with a little apple and orange juice – if he didn't have a date that night, he'd then slip his cock up my ass and talk my tits off. I'd stopped worrying about his other girlfriends, and he'd stopped asking about my other guys.

Pat hated him because she saw through his hustler act, and he hated her, I suspected, because he knew she saw through his act. And because I'd told him she didn't like anal. I was never sure which one he thought was the bigger crime.

I told Karume about my visit with Pat.

'What were you doing talking to that bitch, anyway?'

'I threw the brochure away,' I continued. 'I could never go without sex. Do you think that's an addiction?' Shit, I just answered my own question.

Karume said no, it was not an addiction, but that a period of celibacy might not be such a bad idea, for either of us.

'What for?' I asked, whilst secretly knowing the answer. I knew what was coming: he didn't want to fuck me any more.

There are three ways a guy dumps his partner: he can say he's fallen in love with someone else; he can move away; or, he can take a vow of celibacy.

'I want to conserve my vital fluids,' Karume explained. 'Think of all that extra energy if I cut out sex for six months. I'll be able to get so much more work done.'

Not housework, I knew. 'What work?' I asked. 'What are you doing now? Other than drinking all the vodka in my freezer, I mean.'

Karume fancied himself an artist these days. He said he was creating a new sound sculpture.

'Six months is a very long time,' I said. 'What about six days? Just as an experiment.'

'I really want to concentrate on my work,' he said. 'Sex is just a distraction.'

'Maybe for you,' I said. 'Not for me. What is it about you guys? When your cock goes up, your brain shuts down? You can still, um, make your art.'

'It would be good for you too, Suzanne.'

'Why?' I asked. 'Sex isn't like drugs or alcohol. It's not harmful.'

'Maybe not harmful, but it can be a distraction,' he said, as he stirred another Golden Angel. 'You'd be more focused if you went without it.'

My prediction came through. Karume's trips up to my bedroom came to an end. He claimed he was giving celibacy a chance, for the sake of his art. But I knew that was total rubbish. He'd begun dropping a new female name into his sentences, kept referring to an artist friend named Kathy, so clearly he'd taken up with someone new.

After his first visit without a sexual pay-off, I thought, Fuck it, why not give it a few weeks, even if he's not. I relished the challenge. And I was keen to silence my critics.

I figured I could still masturbate – as long as there wasn't a real cock involved, that didn't count. And meanwhile I could tone up my vagina with floor exercises. Jahnet, a Maida Vale tantric teacher I'd been to see, had taught me that if I clenched my pelvic floor muscles for fifteen minutes a day, after a month I'd have the tightest pussy in town, and the biggest orgasms, too. And it was true. When I did my exercises regularly, I'd get so tight, I could have scored a job in a Bangkok girlie bar shooting ping-pong balls out of my pussy.

I set my mental alarm for one month's time. Then I called Pat and told her I was giving celibacy a shot. 'I've tried everything else,' I said. 'Why not a month of celibacy?' I realised I wasn't sounding pious enough, and was making it seem like an only slightly more attractive alternative to getting pissed on or having a fist shoved up my ass, two other things I'd not tried before and didn't want to.

'Oh, I think that'll be good for you, Suzanne.'

I cleaned the house, top to bottom. I helped my boys with their homework. I caught up with girlfriends. I kept myself so busy, I hardly had time to think about fucking.

Then, just as deadline approached, I went on a two-week holiday to India, alone, as my kids were in school and I couldn't find a friend who could take the time off. Arriving in Kerala, I looked around and saw happy, smiley couples everywhere. No unattached men. I was the lone single person at the resort, aside from the waiters and bartenders.

Fortunately, the staffers weren't sexy enough to tempt me out of my dry spell. I was slightly disappointed, as the idea of banging a waiter or bartender was kind of hot, just a dumb fantasy I'd had while packing and thinking of Tom Cruise in
Cocktail.

I hadn't dated anyone who worked in catering since 1984, when I'd haunted the Soho Brasserie, one of the first cocktail bars in London. I'd go down to Old Compton Street and scam free bottles of Moët from Yan, a bartender my age who, after closing, used to take me back to his West End council flat and fuck me. He was cute and tall and hunky, with a big cock and a tiny brain.

I loved running my fingers through Yan's spiky dark hair, loved looking into his puppy eyes, holding his high cheekbones in my hands. And I loved having his thick hard cock inside me. I can't remember much about our relationship aside from the hangovers, and being underneath him, and drinking the cups of tea that he made on his old upright cooker.

In Kerala I clocked in two hours of Ayurvedic treatments a day, letting myself be pampered by a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl who couldn't speak a word of English. She'd coat me in warm oils, from eyebrow to toenail; walk across my naked body with her tiny feet; sprinkle powders over my skin. The oils and powders smelled bad, but the treatment was the perfect antidote to weeks without sex. Despite being touched so intimately every day, she never got any closer to my pubes than my upper thigh and she circled her palms around, not over, my breasts. She was a tease. It was horny, but I knew an Ayurvedic spa in an Indian resort wasn't likely to offer the kind of 'specials' one can find in the back of a 42nd Street massage parlour. So, back in my hotel room, I made do with the little plastic leopard-print vibrator I'd brought with me from England. It was quiet and didn't take up much room in my bag. And it was efficient, always bringing me to climax in minutes.

When I returned from the trip, I realised six full weeks had passed without any fucking. That was the longest I'd gone without sex, not counting the last four years of my marriage.

I knew I could do it –
ha!
I felt a real sense of accomplishment. I also felt really horny. I called Pat with the news.

'Guess what, I haven't had sex in six weeks! And you thought I couldn't do it.'

'Wow. I'm impressed.' Her tone was cynical. I wondered if she didn't believe me. I decided not to tell her I'd had to masturbate every day to get through it.

During the first month of my celibacy phase, before I left for India, watching men wank on-cam became my second job. Once again, I returned to my one-stop shop for quick cock: Swinging Heaven. I'd found the site a few years earlier whilst searching the web for play partners. It was free, and it always came through for me, so I'd bookmarked the link on my computer.

Not only did I meet a number of guys on Swinging Heaven who'd remained my regulars, some for years, but also it had lots of busy chat rooms. My favourites were the Bi, Bi-Gay, and especially the Bi-Curious ones, because that's where most of the cock shots were and people willing to go on webcam. I didn't want the shy types. I didn't really want to chat, either.

I'd get a little obsessed – if one can be obsessed only a little, be obsessed and not be an addict. Usually, I went straight to the temples of cock, but sometimes, for kicks, I'd go online just to pop into rooms with fun names or amusing activities. Small Gang Bang showed groups of average-looking guys taking turns pounding an overweight woman. Watch Me Fuck My Wife, Big Beautiful Women, Big Black Cock For White Girls – those rooms had names that said it all, like a
Sun
headline. And then there was Claire's Room.

I heard about it after popping in to my local Borders and running into my friend Marc, who worked at the bookstore. We'd met a year or two earlier, when he'd asked me to come in and sign copies of my first book. A writer on the side, and a perv in the making – I'd corrupted him by telling him about my favourite erotic websites – he appreciated Swinging Heaven because the site gave him plenty of stories to tell. But I got the sense he stopped work on his novel when his fingers started tapping the keyboard.

'Thanks for Swinging Heaven, Suzanne,' he said, sarcastically. 'My girlfriend really loves you for that. She says she never gets to talk to me any more, coz I'm always on the computer.'

That sounded familiar.

'The other day she found me poised over my laptop, fingers at the ready over the keys,' he continued. 'I told her I was playing a computer game, but then she walked over and saw this chat room I had open. I was on Claire's Room – know it? Some gal in Yorkshire sits in a room, stripping.'

'No,' I said, 'but glad to hear something's going on in Yorkshire.'

'It's a game. It's genius. This couple has this chat room, and it's really hard to get into really popular. The woman gets all dolled up in sexy underwear and fuck-me heels, and then her husband asks quiz questions – it's like a pub quiz – and whoever answers right gets to choose what she takes off. She has on, like, ten or twelve items, so it can go on for half an hour. Everyone's at home jerking off and looking up stuff on Google or Wikipedia. It can get quite competitive.'

'I bet,' I said. 'Did you ever get one of the questions?'

'Yeah, just the once, but only because it was about the Sex Pistols.'

'So what'd you have her do?'

'I had her take off this choker-necklace type thing. Not the knickers. That's the last thing off, always after some really hard motherfucker of a question. And then she does a little dance and a tease and slowly peels the knickers off, then the couple fuck on the bed in the corner. And then they do it all over again, sometimes five times a night. Poor sod. Or is it lucky sod?'