The Long Haul (An Erotic Story)

In It For the Long Haul

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(John and Sue Mobray, mid twenties, newlyweds.)

John and I didn’t end up fucking for the first three days of our week-long honeymoon in Paris.

It wasn’t because we were jetlagged, or arguing, or tired from all that time in the Louvre. It was something much, much better.

Let me tell you what happened.


JFK has a restaurant, La Vie, and when we got off our domestic flight from Boston we had a bite there, which turned into a full meal once we saw the menu. ‘Hang the expense,’ said John. ‘Let’s start this right now.’

We drank some Bordeaux (that actually turned out to be better than anything we had the whole time we were away) and John had the slow cooked lamb, me the fish. By the time we transferred to international terminal and found our gate, we were both a little sleepy, and well contented.

The plane that night was not very full, and we had a three-seat row to ourselves by the wing, with no one behind us and a single older lady in the seats in front. Across the aisle in the middle row, a bald businessman sat entranced by his Blackberry. We could see a few others, scattered further across the aisle and on the other side.

They served us light refreshments, including a glass of champagne for both of us, and then dimmed the cabin lights at about ten thirty.

There were a range of movies on the seat console but the one that caught our eye was Betty Blue, on the Frenchy-themed channel. When it came on, we looked across at each other and smiled because early in our dating, we’d rented this, and John had eaten my pussy while I watched the opening third, where it’s all nice and happy, before Beatrice Dahl starts to go bonkers.

‘Do you want to “watch” this again?’ I asked.

‘Is it good?’ he said innocently. ‘I haven’t actually seen it, only heard it.’

‘The beginning is excellent.’

‘Ah.’ He looked down at the tiny space between my legs and the seat in front, and shrugged. ‘We’d need a mini-me.’

We giggled, and then both put our headphones on and watched the pair of them, Betty and her boy, being so very young and French and sexy. But after the cunnilingus scene, I lost interest, and noticed that I was nodding off. I yawned and summoned the stewardess to ask for a blanket.

‘Sure, honey,’ she says, and I am almost disappointed by her Georgian accent. She might have been Parisian. This is Air France after all. She is dolled up enough to be Parisian. And there are a few other French staff in the cabin crew. Why couldn’t we have got one of those? The unfairness of it all!

Anyway, she brought me back two large blankets and some of those tiny pillows they give you, which is in addition to the larger one I have brought on in my hand luggage. John and I have decided that we don’t want to waste a day recovering, so we’ll make sure to get a good night’s sleep tonight, and then hit the sights tomorrow, soon after we arrive.

(Right. Sure.)

I arranged myself with the large pillow against the corner of the seat and the window, and snuggled into the dull roar of the engine. John set himself up with his eye-mask, because the businessman and a few others are sill reading and there are intermittent flickers from the others watching their in-seat movie players.

‘Oh, damn,’ I say. ‘I forgot my mask! Can I borrow yours?’

‘Hell no. You forget, that’s your lookout.’

‘Humph.’ My bottom lip went out in a feeble attempt to manipulate him. He grabbed it between thumb index and gives it a playful tug.

‘Hands off!’ I pulled away.

‘No chance,’ he says, and prods my belly, before reclining his own seat and lying back under his blanket.

And we go to sleep.

(Right. Sure.)


What actually happened was that I lay there for about twenty minutes and then I heard the gentle sound of John snoring. He always does when he sleeps on his back, no matter what.

The businessman looked over at me expectantly. Obviously the sound of my new husband’s snoring is going to distract him from his very important work, a disruption which will lead ultimately to the collapse of the world economy, so I better do something.

‘Darling?’ I say. ‘You’re snoring.’

‘Oh. Must be the red wine,’ he says.

‘Yeah, that must be it. Do you want the window seat?’

‘No. You have it.’ (He gets that look on his face, the one when he thinks he’s being all chivalrous. Hah.)

‘Well, do you want to lie down?’ I pulled up the seat arm so he can put his head in my lap, and pretty soon, he had his legs up on the spare seat and was lying in comfort across me, totally covered by both blankets.

We stayed like that for about another twenty minutes. The smell from his neck rose up, cologne and sweat and the gentle odour of his skin, and the weight of his head caused my thighs to part slightly, to give him a fuller lap to lie in. He grunted gently as he turned to face my stomach, so the breath from his nose was directed at the lowest part of my belly, and I imagined I could feel it though the blanket. His cheek was pressing slightly into my mons.

The hum of the engine was comforting but unrelenting against the left side of any body, and the warmth from his head and shoulders pressed into the right side of me. French voices drifted from the back of the cabin. The wine I drank was still working its magic and I began to feel dreamy, like I was a giantess, and my body was hurtling through space at many miles an hour; which I suppose, it was.

Long story short: I got horny.

Actually, very horny. So much that muscles in my stomach, legs and pussy had a few exploratory contractions, just to get the lie of the land.

‘You having fun?’ he says.

‘Yep,’ I am happy to report.

He settled back down again, but lifted his head up only a few minutes later and said, ‘You smell good.’

(He has quite the nose for me, it must be said. Sometimes he can smell when I am wet, just sitting next to me in the car.)

I smiled and reached my hand down underneath the blanket, lifting up his head, and I ran a finger along my labia.

Oh, yes. I am horny.

I placed the finger under his nose.

‘You’re lovely,’ he said quietly, and his arched his right hand over my thigh so that he can assess the situation for himself. I assisted this endeavour by pulling my g-string back out of the way, and soon, his fingers were gently probing the outside of my pussy.

John loves my pussy. If he touches it, he mostly wants to keep touching it until something happens. I know this. So, it was no great surprise or shame when he slowly worked his middle finger inside me, and then rested his thumb on my clitoris and gently nuzzled it. We do this all the time at home.

Just then, the Georgian stewardess passed by and had a cursory inspection of our row, and I wondered how obvious we were, under the blankets, John with his head in my lap, me with my hips slightly forward, and his right arm nowhere visible.

Can she see his hand in my cunt?

Apparently not. All she does is to check that his feet aren’t sticking out into the aisle too far. And then she moves on.

My hips relaxed slightly and my pussy opened. John put his mask back on, kissed me on the stomach through the blanket, and started slowly fingering me and stroking my clit with his thumb.


Sometimes my pussy has no off switch, and it was one of those nights.

John worked away slowly and steadily inside me, and after about ten minutes, I came, quietly. But he didn’t stop like he sometimes would, and after a few seconds of discomfort, the sensations turned to pleasure, and I realised I could go again. And then again.

Then, I have to get up to go to the toilet, and I gently move John’s hand and head so that I can get up. He does not say a word, just smiles at me and kisses me as I pass.

I cannot tell him what I am doing. It’s now after midnight and only the businessman is still awake nearby, but I don’t even want to whisper, which might break the perfect unspoken trust between us.

I get to the toilet and take off my g-string, which has become a genuine pain in my ass, scrunching against the join between my leg and my pussy every time John adjusts his angle. Being as wet as it is doesn’t help. I am slightly chaffed.

Then I go to the toilet. Coffee, water, wine and champagne have made this a necessity, and the last orgasm was spoiled by trying so hard not to pee. If I’d been at home, I might have…but not tonight.

After I pee, I wipe up some of the moisture that has found its way down to my thighs, and take the opportunity to explore my pussy, which is wet and open and still aching with gentle pleasure. I touching my clit and moan, and I can’t wait to get back to John.

But this is important: he can’t say anything. If he says something, it’s over.

Please don’t say anything, John. Please just put your hand back the way it was.

I come in past John, who is sitting upright, and he lies back down immediately I have the blanket in position, but this time, he steals his hand underneath my right thigh before I have a chance to put it down.

I am now sitting at an angle, with my left leg flat and my right one slightly raised. Two fingers find their way inside me quickly and wordlessly and his thumb is back on my clit, gentle but insistent.

I love you, John Mobray.

Blackberry man, still entranced in saving the economy. Lady in front, asleep. Stewardesses, all seated. Lights low. Engine loud.

We are go.


A further hour later, and I am engrossed in, dedicated to, the serious business of prolonged masturbation. The lovely, dirty man in my lap is giving me orgasm after orgasm. They just keep building, they are like waves in slow motion, breaking in the beach, and even as I’m having one, I could feel the next one, five minutes away, coming over the horizon.

I have elected to turn on the movie console to give myself some visible reason to be still awake, and making the occasional noise, and am now watching the beginning of Clooney’s Batman.

I did attempt to watch Amelie on the Frenchy channel but I found it stupid and incomprehensible. I wanted to pull Amelie’s hair. I also felt sorry for Amelie, because I knew that Amelie will never know the wanton thrill of being gently fingered to massive, shuddering climaxes in a cabin full of sleeping people. She is just too pretty. Poor Amelie.

I cannot actually follow Batman either in my current state, but I know it has something to do with trying to prevent an explosion. (Most of these films are, nowadays.)

George Clooney himself, I can comprehend. I know he is not Batman. He is George Clooney, pretending to be Batman by wearing a sexy mask, and getting paid lots of money to do it. Some of which he would surely like to spend on me.

Can he see me out of the corner of his eye? Does he notice as my faces creases up into yet another searing, delicious wave of pleasure? I bet he can. I bet he would be very interested in me, right now.

Let’s face it, any man would be interested in me right now. Feel how fucking wet I am! I am the superwoman of sex!

I grind down, and my husband responds. The fingers inside me build up the pace again.

I look at George. I look at his chin, and the lines around his eyes, and the lovely touches of grey in the sides of his…



And, now I gently tug the finger of the lovely man with his head in my lap.

We have a system. If I pull the finger, it means stop for a bit. Then when I pull it again and he keeps going.

He has stamina, my husband. He will do this for as long as I need. He is in it for the long haul. In fact, it is highly possible that he has been specially trained in this task, and hired by George Clooney to make me feel good, for the rest of my life.


Somewhere over the Atlantic at an unknown hour, we are partly reclined, with my skirt hitched fully up around my waist. The lights are all out and there are gentle sounds of sleep all around. Even Blackberry has switched off. We are all still covered in the blankets.

I am watching (sic) a movie with a blonde actress in it who is very stupid, and a top lawyer, and this is fine by me. I am not in the mood for finding discrepancies in things.

My new husband now has three fingers inside me, or maybe it is four. He is not moving them at all. Instead, I am slowly grinding my hips so that my cunt makes circular motions around his hand. The middle finger of my right hand sits on my clitoris, which feels as though it is about the size of a wine cork and aches to touch, but I can’t keep off it. There’s just no end to its demands, this evening. In almost total silence, I am coming again, and again, and again.

But something tells me that soon, this is going to have to stop. They will put the cabin lights on. They will come around and check on us. Blackberry will wake up. George Clooney will pull the funding for the project. John’s wrist will break. Or maybe, I will have a climax so big that I will finally feel that enough is enough. Something is starting to give. Something is starting to hurt.

I decide to put my foot down. It must be two o’clock in New York by now, and we land in a few hours. I am going to have one, last, orgasm, and then that will be the end of it.

I grind down hard on the lovely husband-man’s fingers and hear him gasp in pain, but there’s no way I’m letting him out. I rock backwards and forwards on his hand, and feel the ends of his fingers deep inside me, and then I rub out an absolutely huge orgasm, long and joyful and painful and exquisite, and I hold my breath for far too long, and lose control of my body.

My legs start shaking and I stamp them all over the floor like an epileptic having a seizure.

Fuck, I really have put my foot down.

I come to, and notice there are more cabin lights on than there were a while ago. Blackberry is looking over at me, scowling, and John has his mask up and is staring at me anxiously.

‘You OK?’ he says, and the sound of his voice breaks the spell.

‘Uhh…yeah. I’m OK.’

I move his hand out and close up my legs, and that is when I start to become aware of how much pain I am in.

The next thing I know, the Georgian’s voice comes over the loudspeaker.

Good morning, ladies and gentleman. We will be arriving in Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris in approximately one and a half hours. The local time is just after eight am. We will shortly be coming through the cabin serving light refreshments.

So that’s…um…

My brain can’t work out the time difference. I find I have no idea how many hours John and I were at it, or, how many times I came.

But my cunt is starting to tell me it was too many.



‘That was a genius move, spilling the milk and apple juice on the seat,’ said John as we waited at the baggage carousel. I was leaning on the trolley so people would not see my saddlesore limp, and ask if I need assistance.

‘Thanks. Those stains needed some explaining.’

‘I know. You were like a fire hydrant for a while there! I was most impressed.’

I laugh, then wince slightly as I shift my weight. My whole vagina from labia to cervix feels slightly raw, and some spots are worse than others. My g-spot feels like someone punched it.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks again.

‘Yeah I’ll be all right. It wasn’t your fault.’ I say.

And then I realised he wasn’t being at all apologetic, and was smirking at me.

‘In fact, fuck it. No. I’m not all right. You’re a bad man. You should have known I couldn’t handle that.’

‘I thought a big girl like you could look after yourself,’ he says. ‘So, first stop the Muse Picasso?’

‘Oh, fuck off. First stop a nice flat bed and then possibly a trip to the vagina transplant ward. You’re a bastard.’

‘I know, but loveable,’ he says. ‘Of course I will be expecting a return of the favour when we get into this nice flat bed of yours.’

‘You want to feel like this?’

‘Oh hell no,’ he grinned. ‘Unlike you, I know when to stop.’

‘I thought I did too!’ I whine. ‘But it just felt soooo good. Seriously. Incredible.’

‘And to think, it was all because of my snoring!’ John said, and winked.

The penny drops. He wasn’t snoring. He’d done it deliberately, to get onto my lap, and into my pants.

He’s a very bad man, my husband.

We got to the hotel and I slept all day, and was sore for three.

Then, we finally “made love” on the Thursday and again on the Friday, and it was fine, but we both always knew that the real moment of honeymoon bliss had happened well before the City of Love.

It was high over the Atlantic, on the long haul flight to De Gaulle.

Joanne: The Call

bih-10-05I woke up at 8.30 on Saturday morning. Even with only four hours sleep, I still felt good. Last night had been great, just what I needed to take my mind of things. I could still feel the pounding energy of the dance music, and I could still smell the vodka, the dry ice, and James’ cologne. I had danced with James, a lot.

Then I stretched, and the tangy aroma from my armpits hit me. I had sweated a lot, and I needed a shower.

But as I sat up, I realised something else. Last evening’s brief adventure with the dildo, while being fun, hadn’t really done the job. Either that, or a new course of desire had begun as I danced with James and he stared at my breasts.  Whatever the case, my vagina now lay between my legs like a huge exotic flower, demanding special care and attention. Every move I made, I could feel it tremble.

I placed my hand down there, moved a finger in amongst the hair, and found myself wet and slippery, like melting jelly.

I knew exactly how I wanted this situation to end, and so I got up and put some music on, Portishead’s first album, loud enough so my neighbour would not hear me in the final phases.

But the question was, how to begin?

I put an experimental finger on my clitoris, and found after a couple of gentle passes beside it that I was probably only a few minutes away from having the first in a string of light, lovely orgasms. I could get my small vibrator and settle back for a half- hour or so. Why not?

But then I toyed with my labia for a few seconds and they broke open with eagerness, leading me inside. With two fingers I played gently with the opening, and immediately felt a dark hunger welling up in the back of my vagina, and also, in my breasts. This wasn’t a clitoris type of a day, after all. I wanted to be taken care of in a different way.

So I walked to the dresser and got out a large vibrator, big enough to fill me nicely, and I eased it inside on a medium setting, putting my pants back on as a way to keep it in place.

Then I got some massage oil for my breasts, and I lay down and made love to them, thinking about how they had been the centre of attention the previous evening.

I placed my fingers underneath them and gently smoothed them upwards, teasing my nipples on every second or third pass, but never pushing downward, and never moving them in a circle. I removed the pressure after each stroke was completed, and returned my fingers to the place just below each breast, to start the upward motion again. I built up the pace slowly as the minutes ticked by and the vibrator slowly built up a huge pre-orgasmic glow in my pussy. This was going to be a big orgasm. Like, “visible from space” type big.

The Portishead album was about two thirds over when the phone rang, on my bedside table. I still hadn’t come yet.

I saw a long number on the screen, maybe international, and panicked. Was it about the fellowship?

It took me almost a minute to get myself together, switch everything off and pick up.


‘Is this Joanne Marsh?’ The voice was American, and older man, slightly reserved.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Hi. My name’s Davis Malone, from the New York Design School. I just wanted to let you know that we made our decision earlier today. I know it’s a Saturday over there but I thought you would want to know.’

Oh My God. It was about the fellowship.

‘Yes?’ I said excitedly.

‘We’d love you to come over to New York and work with us, Miss Marsh. Your portfolio was great and you were strong in the interview. You will get an official call on Monday but I figured you’d want to know. Congratulations.’

I thanked him profusely, not a thing I normally do, but he told me that I was the strongest applicant by far and that I’d be very welcome in New York. We talked for a while about how long it would take me to move over, and he said they wanted me there as soon as possible.

Then, the call ended. I cued up Portishead’s other album and then I lay down again and kept going. But I couldn’t finish. I was too excited. And also, still a bit worried about what had happened last night.

Super Wifey Says: Behave!

‘You proper Super Wifey,’ say I as I sit down to the table. ‘You make food taste good.’

‘Your fake Japanese accent is terrible. And, I am not pretending to be a geisha girl for you,’ says Super Wifey. ‘Just eat the noodles’

‘You such a terrific lady,’ says I. ‘You so good proper real wifey lady make noodles.’

‘Stop it! And if you say me so horny I will go out for the evening,’ she says.

‘Why so mean?’ says I. ‘You should be real nice wifey lady.’

‘I am real nice wifey lady,’ she says. ‘Now behave!’

But of course, I will not behave. She just started talking in the Super Wifey voice. Now I know I’ve got her interested.

Later, she is Super Wifey in a different way.

Joanne: Testing

Time to talk about men, again. That’s the pattern of this, by the way. Masturbation, men, and my life as it was last year.

When I go out with a guy, I like to test them out. I partly do it to see if they can defend themselves. But there’s also a few things about sex that I really need to know before I will consider going out with someone.

I went out on a single date with this guy Bill, a barman, earlier on in the year, because he’d asked me out while I was in his pub. We went to another place, a gastro-pub, one of those ones with booths around the edges, and he’d made sure we got one. He was decent looking and confident and quite funny, and I thought I might be interested in him, so I got down to the testing pretty much straight away, as soon as we’d ordered.

‘Can I ask you some questions?’ I asked.


‘Do you find me attractive?’

He laughed. ‘Yep. You could say that.’

‘Do you want to go to bed with me?’

He laughed again. ‘Wow. You’re pretty direct. Yes, I definitely want to go to bed with you, Joanne.’

‘OK. Do you masturbate? I know that’s direct as well, but I’m just interested.’

‘Um. Yes, I masturbate. Do you normally do this on dates?’

‘Yes, I do.  What do you think about when you masturbate?’ I asked.

Now he stopped laughing and lowered his voice. ‘Wow, you really give a guy the third degree, don’t you? Why do you want to know that?’

‘I’m just really curious. You don’t have to answer.’

He puffed out his chest a bit. ‘No. OK, I’ll answer. To be honest I usually think about women, and being in bed with them.’

‘What’s happening in the bed?’

‘This is the most intense first date I have ever had!’ he said. ‘What’s happening in the bed is that, um, the girl I am with is having a really great time.  And before you ask, yes, I have thought about giving you a good time.’

‘I wasn’t going to ask that. Do you think about the girl giving you a good time?’

‘Um…no, not as often. Hold on a second. What do you think about? Do you masturbate?’

‘Yes,’ I said, poker faced.  ‘I do it all the time. I did it before you picked me up actually. And I usually think about how good my vagina feels.’

(That last part wasn’t actually true. I think about men all the time. I just don’t think about them giving me a good time.)

eng008779 - Copy‘Hmmm. That’s hot,’ he said. You’re wild, you know that?’

‘Thanks, I guess. Anyway, do you still want to go to bed with me later?’

‘Definitely,’ he said.

‘I want to give you a blow job,’ I said. His eyed widened for about the fourth time in the conversation.

‘Wow. Great. I’d like to return the favour.’

‘Hmmm. That won’t be necessary. Like I said I already sorted myself out before you came to get me. But thanks.’

His face fell, and I knew I couldn’t be with him. That was confirmed afterwards. I gave him the blow job, and then he started asking me if I wanted to come.

‘No, I already said. Thanks, but no thanks.’

‘You’re sure? You might find that if you tried for a while, you’ll get horny again.’

And there it is. The attempt to take my vagina away from me, and use it to give me “a good time.”

I am definitely not interested in this guy.

Super Wifey is Go Penis Go!

I say: Oh Super Wifey! Your face has grown rounder. Your lips are fuller. Your hair is lustrous. Your skin is glowing and you are warm and soft and you smell like pine and spice. And, you just spent eighty dollars on low cut tops even though you already own about thirty of them.

Super Wifey replies: I know! It’s my other time of the month. Yay! Sort of…um…

I say: Oh Super Wifey! You bring penis to you like pin to magnet!

Super Wifey replies: So bring it already. Jeez.

I say: Super Wifey is Go Penis Go!

Super Wifey rolls her eyes and giggles.

And then I fuck her.

In an ideal world, I would have an other time of month too. Insta-stubble. Sudden temporary increase in arm and chest size. Voice lowers by half an octave. Musky armpit odour. Bigger wallet pouch. Just to coincide with her sudden increase in desire…

instead, I just have to make sure I fuck her really good and hard.

(It’s really not a bad problem to have.)

Joanne: Friday Night Part 2

(Back to the previous episode or back to the start…)

I get a little steamy and romantic when I talk about masturbation. Back to the pub scene, that Friday night, in November 2012.

‘How come you’re so late?’ said my ex-boyfriend Gareth, sneering a little. He was drunk, but still basically in control of himself.

‘Did I arrange to meet you?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘Weird.’

The ox grinned a little wider but said nothing.

‘No,’ he scoffed. ‘But it’s twenty past ten. Place closes at eleven.’

‘Well, I’d better skull nine pints so I can catch up with you,’ I said. Mike actually laughed aloud but still said nothing.

‘This is my fourth,’ Gareth said. ‘So anyway, what have you been doing this evening?’

He still asked me stuff like that, even after eight months, longer than we were together. Obviously I could not possibly be happy without him, but he still needed to check, to make sure this was definitely the case.

‘Having a bath,’ I said.

‘Alone at home on a Friday night, having a bath!’ he crowed. ‘How exciting.’

I wanted to tell him: I have been eating sushi, reading, and then having a large orgasm, with my dildo. It reminds me of your penis, only, it is really hard.

But that would be telling, wouldn’t it? And the truth was, I had spent much of the time worrying about if I was going to get the fellowship or not. The encounter with the dildo had only accounted for about ten minutes.

Besides, it was pretty clear that I had not been having a bath. My hair was unwashed, and tousled at the back from lying on the couch, and my work make up was still on, and smudged from sweat. My deodorant was struggling to cope with the smell of my arousal, and in general, I was far from fresh.

But Gareth was blind to all of that.

‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’ he went on. ‘Baking?’

‘Shut up, Gareth,’ said James. ‘She’s probably had more fun than listening to you all night.’

joanna2Gareth had no comeback, and he saw it was going to be three against one, so he just sneered again, and sauntered back off to the group from his own office, a rival firm.

‘Sorry about him,’ said James. ‘He’s a grumpy chump because we got the Paolini contract again, and not them.

I smiled at James and sipped my drink.

(Oh, James, my valorous protector, you do not know how right you are. You may stare at my tits and armpits all you like.)

Then Pauline came over. She was a rather nice-looking girl from my office who is also quite the bimbo, work-wise.

‘Hi, Joanna,’ she says.

‘Wotcher, Pauls,’ I say. I can smell her perfume, sweet and girly, and her drink, the same. If she can smell me, she is nice enough not to say anything.

Pauline has not really come over to talk to me. She has come over because she likes James and they have slept together a few times, off and on. Part of me wants it to work out, because I know she is basically a nice girl, and he is lonely.

But I also know that he prefers the stronger flavours of a woman like me.

So, I’m torn. I want him to be happy, and I like his company, but I do not actually want to be with him. I want him to be with a nice easy girl like Pauline.

But that night, I was in need of company, to take my mind off things, and I decided to take what I wanted.

‘James,’ do you want to come out dancing with me?  To the Eagle Lounge?’

‘Sure,’ he says, excited.

‘I’ll come too,’ said Pauline, and before James had a chance to throw her of the scent, I said:

‘Sure. More the merrier.’

So the three of us went to the Eagle Lounge. And something happened there…

The Man from Alibi

The Man from Alibi is that other man you’d want to have sex with, if you were not married to your husband.

He pops into your head sometimes. Most commonly when you are taking care of yourself, but also, when you are with your partner, or when you’re doing laundry, or driving, or just doing nothing at all.

He is a shape-shifter, a different face for a different day.

man-walking-away-from-womanYou can imagine him looking something like a combination of several of your favorite actors. They are all shape-shifters too, playing different roles at different times.

Sometimes he just looks like a handsome man that you have never met.

And sometimes he looks like no one at all.

It is not his appearance that counts. It is his potential to express a part of you that lies elsewhere.

And it is his power, the power to lead you into a places and situations that you have never been, and give you leave of absence from from the familiar world you have made around yourself.

(And also, he’s like, crazy good in bed.)

Joanne: The Discovery

So, you will see I can get a bit dark and controlling when talking about men. Better get back to the masturbation.

I had no boyfriends to speak of before the age of sixteen. This is partly because my mother sent me to an all girls’ school, and also I think it was because I was so pretty that none of the boys I knew had the courage to come near me. So, before that time, it was all solo action.

When I hit sixteen, I stopped being a tomboy. The journals I was keeping were longer filled with fantasy islands made for exploration, and drawings of the strange creatures that lived there. Instead, I began to be interested in fashion, and also, in my body, even more than before.

I kept one drawing journal that was about all the clothes that I thought I would design one day. Mostly these were copies of things I had seen in magazines. One, from the year 2000, has lots denim and leather, and the women all have long straight hair, and when I look back, I realise they were all a kind of new age bikie chick, who would probably have to change in order to actually ride a real motorcycle.

Then suddenly, it all changes to vintage dresses. I was sixteen. I was into femininity.

The other kind of ‘diary’ was all online, and in my head, really. I looked on the net, on sexual health sites for teenage girls, I and found a lot of information on what masturbation was about, and how other girls did it, and I checked out what worked and what didn’t. Systematically.

For the record: pillow humping doesn’t work for me. Nor does lying with my pussy under the bath spout. Putting things in my ass doesn’t do anything for me. Rolling my clit hood back and directly touching my clit just makes it feel sore. And, the thing with the hairdryer? What was that about?  Etc. Etc.

In fact, most of the newfangled methods I came across didn’t work out and after twenty minutes of frustration I would end the session as normal, on my back with a home-made dildo inside me and my middle finger on the hood of my clitoris, writhing and straining to come, and thoroughly enjoying it. I thought I was in ecstasy.

Then, around the time I turned sixteen, I came across something else.

I read this post on a website (called The Clit dot com, incidentally), by an older woman, saying that if she just left the tip of her vibrator on her clitoris, and relaxed, she could come over and over again. The first few times, she said she had to push through a little discomfort right after she came, a kind of electric feeling, but after that, she could go straight onto the next one. Once she had gotten used to it, the orgasms just kept coming, like waves. She said she could have as many as forty.

Forty? Christ. I didn’t believe her, of course. Up to that time, I could only have about ten, and that was really unusual. Most of the time I would have two or three, and then my clitoris would get sore. And, I always had to wait a few moments before I could start again. I knew the electric sensation she was talking about, where my clit retracted and just didn’t want to be touched.

But I wanted to check out if what the woman said was possible, so, I got my first vibrator, a small purple number, which cost ten dollars, ran on two small cell batteries and had a simple dial to turn it up. (It stopped working after two sessions. I guess the connections must have corroded.)

And that night – in fact it was Tuesday, June the 20th, 2000 – I tried it out, doing just what she said.

eng008934And it worked.

It really, really worked.

I can still remember the sense of amazement. It was like waking up. I don’t know how many times I came, because that wasn’t really the point. It was the sense of rolling along effortlessly, from one to the next.

I still sometimes go back to that post and read it, it’s still there. I even sent a reply, years later, thanking her, but she never replied, I guess she had just logged in and posted, and forgotten about it. But it made a huge impact on me. And I wonder how many other girls read it and tried it, and made the discovery.

Older girls at school taught me how to have a few. The older woman online taught me how to have many.

What would Susie Singleton do?

Susie Singleton is your wife, only single.

She never married you, or anyone else. And she never had kids. You know her, as a friend. You fancy her a little. OK, quite a lot.

What does she do? Is she getting any? You’d like to know.

Well, there’s story going round that she turned up at a bar called the Universal one Friday night, still wearing her work clothes. She picked up a guy called Brad, and took him back to her apartment. (She lives in the city, close to her work.)

Brad described the encounter to one of his work colleagues and that’s how the story got out:

‘She was intense. She hardly said anything, she just jumped on me. I really enjoyed it at first but she got really carried away when she started coming, and she bit me. Really hard. Right here.’

There was still a big purple bruise on Brad’s cheek when he told the story. He sounded believable.

A few weeks later, you get talking to Jane, a mutual friend, about the biting incident.

‘Susie is super embarrassed about that. She hasn’t called him back. Actually I don’t think she would have called him back anyway. But still, the poor guy.’

So why did she do it?’ you ask. ‘Was he threatening her?’ You feel an urge to protect Susie.

Jane laughs. ‘Hell no. He’s a decent guy. She says she just gets these urges sometimes. But she hasn’t done it in ages.’

‘So, she’s done that before?’

Again the laugh. ‘Yep. Back in her twenties she used to do it a fair bit. She’d have a big week at work, and then a few drinks, and she’d be right in there. One guy even had to go to hospital, thought he was going to need stitches, He didn’t, though.’

‘Jesus. I had no idea. I always thought she was kinda stright-laced.’

‘She is, mostly.’

You meet Susie in a bar the following Friday night and she seems on edge. You do not ask her about Brad. You go home early before she has her second drink.


Joanne: The Ox and the Fox

At the time of this story, I was working designing graphics and layouts for a large publishing company that specialises in travel and adventure books, and also has an imprint of pseudo-factual kids’ books about Pirates and Zombies and Mummies and so on.

You know when people talk about their career and they say “I know it sounds glamorous, but…”? And then they play it down and tell you about all the bad things about it? You end up thinking, “you actually want us to think it’s glamorous, don’t you,” or, “actually I never thought it sounded glamorous in the first place.”

Well, illustration actually is really glamorous. Even if you didn’t think it was. It is.

To start with, the books we do are pretty cool. The thing I’d been working on that week was a series of maps illustrating Scott’s exploration of the Antarctic, and the main editor Mr Peterson said I could totally go for it with the whales’ tails and other cartouches, which I still love to do. I even did a squid with a beady eye, which made him laugh.

In between working up drafts of those, Mike would come and show me his layouts for the Werewolf volume we were doing, which had a series of very neat drawings showing exactly how the man’s body got ripped apart by the inevitable full moon transformation. I’d told him they needed to be more colourful and flamboyant and less like something out of an anatomy textbook, and he’d made a rumbling noise, and wandered off back into the fields to eat grass, um, back to his desk to keep working.

I made a mental note to replay the little rumbling noise a few times in my head, when I got home.

I kinda like Mike in that way, you see. I haven’t slept with him. But I do like him.

After that encounter with the bear, I went into see my boss, Mr. Peterson, the old fox.

Mr Peterson is about fifty five, but very well preserved and quite attractive. He is a talented artist too, but he barely gets to do much of it. He’s too busy looking after the business. I admire that, and I’m grateful. I’m not sure that I’d want to be in his position, though.

‘Ah, Joanna’, he always says, in an avuncular tone. ‘What’s happening?’

I walk into his office and sit down with my legs crossed. His gaze is not drawn.

‘This isn’t about my work. It’s about Mike’s,’ I said, shuffling forward on the chair a little further. My work attire is pretty respectable up top, but down below, the skirt is short and the stockings are sheer. How is he not looking at me?

‘Ah, indeed. Tell me?’ He sounds intrigued.

I lean forward. ‘Well, John, I just wanted to say that his work has really been great lately. He’s reliable and he’s creative and he’s hardworking. Best on my team, for sure. So…’

‘Yes?’  Mr. Peterson raises his eyebrows and seems almost amused. I have managed to take him by surprise, at least. It’s just not with my legs.

‘So, I’d like to support his application for a promotion to senior illustrator. I know he’s been working on one.  And we used to have two here. We get on very well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem if we are both on the same level.’

‘I agree, that is a good idea,’ said my boss. ‘But, I’m afraid that Michael has not made any such application to me. If he does, it will be favourably received. But it may be the case that whatever he has been working on, it isn’t that. Now, is that all?’

I left his office.

Is that all? No one ever says that to me.

Mr Peterson and I have been playing this game ever since I started working here a few years ago.  I’m pretty sure he wants me. And sooner or later, he’s going to slip up. An invitation to work on something with him, alone. A gaping stare at my chest. A moment of hesitation as I raise my arms before I get something from a shelf.

And then I will know.