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The Mystery Baker

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A couple of weeks ago, I met a nice guy at one of the kinky London events. Let’s call him The Baptist. The Baptist was pretty funny, a good conversationalist and quite attractive albeit very tiny. I spent the next few days trying to find him online by going through the attendants of the event.  I didn’t succeed, and so this story is not about him.

What it is about is the man I found instead. “The Mystery Baker” my friend very aptly named him, for at first this was all we knew about him – that he made cake. After writing a bit online, he promised me a sample at the next event. I remember being nervous. I quite enjoyed our little exchanges, the pleasure of being challenged in my conversation. The last thing I said to my friend before going out the door was:

“Oh god, I hope he’s not a freak.”

A week later I am sitting in his apartment. It is raining outside, and the breeze from the open window is cold against my skin. I am naked except for his denim shirt, picked up off the floor. The smoke from my cigarette twirls around itself before disappearing into the rain. He is lying on the bed, flat on his back, picking idly at the strings of his guitar and singing low in his throat. My smile is unbidden. It all seems surreal. Like something out of a movie.

He’d picked me up at the station the day before. Smiled when he saw me and given me a hug. As we walked through the idyllic streets, I unconsciously reached for his hand. Warm and slightly rough to the touch. We did the coffee at a nice café, the picturesque walk and the sitting at a bench with a beautiful view – and slightly damp behinds. Later, when he asked me back to his place, I was eager as well as relieved. Eager, because I was curious about this man, and seeing him in his natural habitat had been on my wish list since I first met him. Relieved, because I was not ready to let go of his hand.

I do not remember my time in his home clearly. Not as a continuous narrative anyway. What I remember is moments. His lips so close to mine they are almost touching, the need to kiss him, his eyes as he bids me ask for it. His hand on my bum, caressing it gently.

“I am going to kiss it,” he said. “I am going to kiss it five times. Will you let me?”

I would. And he did. I remember wondering at my nervousness. It is unlike me, to be nervous around a man, but then, he was different from any man who had ever kissed my bum in the past. Or perhaps it was not him who was different, but me, the way I behaved. I wanted him to kiss me. I craved his touch, his closeness, to the point of wishing I could crawl into his skin. I thought about this when I sat by the window with my cigarette. “It’s not being in love,” I thought. “It’s an obsession.”

He made omelettes on toast for breakfast. While he was cooking, I dallied around the room, constantly returning to his side, to touch him, kiss him, or in any other way distract him. At some point he grabbed my hands and walked me to the bed.

“Sit down,” he said. His voice was dark, but there was that glean in his eyes. I sat down. He placed my hands on my knees and stepped back, admiring his own work.

“Stay like that until I am done cooking. Do not move. Do not speak.”

I stifled a laugh.

“But I have to pee,” I said. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

I sat in silence while he cooked. I like sitting in silence. Especially like this. While I am, in most situations, the most impatient person I know (except, perhaps, for my mother), there is something immensely satisfying about waiting quietly for your man’s attention. I may have just offended every feminist in the world, but no one says they have to agree with me. I find it immensely satisfying. There is this odd transformation inside me. At first I am all nerves and restlessness. I try to be quiet and patient and obedient and all those things that I am supposed to be… but it itches. In my face, on my knee, beneath my foot. And my hair is in the way and my panties are stuck between my buttocks, and there is that tune in my head, and if I don’t sing it out loud, I swear, I’ll just, I’ll go mad.

But then there is the other thing. After the gritting of the teeth and the eye watering that follows suppressing the urge to scratch every inch of my skin. I look at his back, his head bowed in concentration. There is that moment of panic, the fear that he is ignoring me because I am in the way, that really he is happiest now that he does not have to engage with me. And he turns around, and he sends me a smile, thick with satisfaction at my silence. And something connects inside me. I am silent because he wants me to be silent, and I am sitting here because it pleases him to have me sitting here. It makes me happy. It makes the silence stretch inside of me as well. And then the waiting is over, and we sit down to eat, and for just a moment I have to remember how to speak.

“Next time, I’ll have you waiting on your knees,” he says. “Facing the wall.”

I smile at the prospect.

Expanding the vocabulary

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Found the most wonderful term today, going through escort listings on a BBW site (what? It’s a hobby!): Rubenesque.

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Most certainly.

Man of Sin

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Today, I am going to talk about Antichrist. Not the apocalyptic über-villain, no sir. My very own personal flavour. This may not be very interesting for the rest of you, but I am desperately trying to collect my thoughts. Maybe. Just a little. You will have to bear with me.

So what did he do, this man, to deserve the name of a BBG (Biblical Bad Guy)? I am not really sure. He is kind in his own way, I suppose. He is relatively dependable and not easily angered. And he scares the ever living crap out of me.  I mean, seriously. How is it even possible to be so frightened by a man who is not in the immediate business of trying to kill me?

We met online a few years ago, on a relatively vanilla site. Did the dance.

“Don’t be fooled by my eloquence. I am a perverted bastard. The nice kind.”

“Eloquence is the only thing that can sweep me off my feet. As for the rest, I am not convinced.”

“Read my blog entry about fantasies. It’ll give you a hint.”

“Intrigued.”

“Interesting. Wonder if this might scare you away, then…”

It didn’t. Not then, not now. I was shy when we met. He laughed. Took the lead. We did not see each other again after that one night. I was not in the best of places and, as it turned out, had no room for perverted bastards. He, on the other hand, had no room for distressed and confused bitches. Occasionally, he would drop me a line. Nothing consistent, just whatever came to mind, whenever he felt like it.

“I want you to fantasize with me.”

“I don’t.”

“I’d love to force you to do it.”

“I really can’t do that.”

“I’ll pay you.”

Then six months without another word. Maybe a year. It makes no matter. Sooner or later there would be another message from him, a drop out of his stream of consciousness.

“I’ve bought a share in a tantric clinic.”

“What?”

“You want to be a student?”

“What?”

“If you take the course, we can offer you a job afterwards.”

What?

Not another word. Three months. Six. Then twelve. Sixteen. I do not have his number anymore. I have stopped frequenting his profile to see what he has been up to. Just another man. Maybe he could have been interesting, but the timing was bad. It does not really matter.

“We should write a book.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

We start talking. Online, on Skype, as geography is working against us. About the book at first, where we could take it, how our different forces will complement each other. I am wary. No doubt there are possibilities in the project. It could be interesting. He scares me. I say as much and immediately regret it. He is a journalist. Thrives on conflict. His questions are direct, imploring and relentless. For a while, I avoid all venues where I might run into him. Checking Facebook becomes a speed run, quickly in and out before he realizes I am online. Skype is left to collect dust. It makes no difference. I can run, but I can’t hide. He does not even have to chase me. I am drawn back.

“What makes you want to avoid me?”

“Why are you scared?”

“How come you find it so hard to disobey me?”

“Why not give in to it?”

“Why do you deny the darkest parts of your desires?”

“Does it make them go away?”

“How can you decide what is right and wrong?”

“Are you scared now?”

“Are you aroused?”

I am.

I call him my Antichrist. Man of Sin. It amuses him. Sin does not exist, he says. Nothing is ever wrong. He contemplates becoming a priest. I fret for his parish.

Then he is gone. Days become weeks. The contact is scarce and waning. Part of me is disappointed. I had grown accustomed to his presence, invading and persistent as it was. Part of me is relieved.

I sit down to write a blog. Trying to get my thoughts in order. I wonder if he is still involved in that tantric thing, so I google him. The first ten results are from newspapers.

Journalist accused of smuggling cocaine.

Journalist taken into custody.

Journalist is tried in court.

Confesses.

Sentenced.

Six years.

Cleaning out my closet

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I am (attempting) cleaning my apartment. It has turned into an interesting game of “is that a curled up sock or a sex toy?” More often than not, it’s a sex toy. I’m glad my siblings haven’t been visiting recently. Also, I should probably try keeping track of my stuff. 

I do not have much for you right now, just wanted to share my perils. I bought a bunch of new toys recently (all scattered on the floor, of course), but my test drive was prevented by that blood curse only inflicted on females. Tonight, though. Tonight will be a great one. 

 

Aand I just found a box of puppets and condoms. Welcome to the life of Eva. ’tis freaky shit sometimes. 

 

/Over and out

My Russian Tale

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Dashing and daring, courageous and caring, faithful and friendly with stories to shaaaare. All through the –

“Hello?”

“Who were you talking to, woman? Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

“Uh…”

“Well?”

“The Russian,” I mumble.

“Who?”

“You know who!”

I hung out with Flynn yesterday. Of course, his name isn’t actually Flynn, but it will be on this blog, for the sake of anonymity and because he kind of reminds me of our new favourite Disney hero. Except gay and a lot cuddlier.

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And he really didn’t know who I meant when I talked about the Russian. I must say, I was surprised.  How could I not have told him one of the most comical tales in my arsenal? Amends had to be made. So as we made our way through the numbing cold that seems to be the world now, carrying way-too-heavy bags of wine, I began the story.

“So, the Russian…”

“Yeah?”

He wasn’t really paying attention, not yet. The bags were dragging us down and the rain felt like tiny little needles on the skin. But I continued anyway. He would listen alright.

“I met him online a few years ago. We chatted for a couple of weeks, and he came over here to see me. We had coffee and stuff, and it was really nice. He was staying at this fancy hotel, so I went back there with him –“

“Boo, you whore.”

I snorted.

Anyway. We played around some, ordered room service – I’d never tried that before, it’s so cool! – and played some more. “

“Was it good?”

“Yeah,” I said, grateful the cold hid my blushing. “He had this really large dildo. And I mean really large. Vanessa has dubbed it The Arm.”

As I said the last part, I raised my hand and put on my best doomsday voice. Flynn lifted one eyebrow. He didn’t look at me, but I knew I had his attention now.

“So, the next day we said goodbye. I was still living at home you know, so I had to get on my way, and he had to drive all the way back across the country. It was that winter some years back, the one that was so freakishly cold, remember?”

“Oh yes.”

“As I’m slushing through the snow, I’m freezing my ass off. And that’s when I realize I forgot my cardigan. So I text the Russian, ask him if he has my cardigan or if I need to go back to the hotel for it.”

“Did you?”

I laughed.

“Not for the cardigan, no. Russian texts me back that he has my cardigan right here, but if I’m keen on seeing the hotel again, maybe I should ask if they found the dildo.”

Flynn stopped dead in his tracks.

“Noo!”

“Mhmmm.”

“Nooooh!”

“I wasn’t really going to go, but then he started saying that he totally understood if it was too embarrassing for me. And you know you can’t say that to me. No way. So I dragged Vanessa with me up there the next day. We’d only known each other for a couple of months then. I guess that was kinda awkward.”

Flynn made half a nod in my direction. Apparently all the snarky comments had fled him for a moment.

“So we enter the lobby, and there is this really young guy behind the counter. I go up to him and say Hey, I was here this weekend, and I happened to forget my dildo. I wondered if you had found it?

“What did he say?”

“You won’t believe how professional he was. Completely stone faced, he says that personal belongings have not been gathered from the rooms yet, but if I want, I can come back tomorrow and ask again. And I, in exactly the same tone, say thank you and I will.”

“Well, did you?”

“Yeah. The Russian told me that if I managed to retrieve it, I could keep it. All five ton of it. But I had to go alone the second time, because Vanessa was busy.”

“Hah! Sure she was.”

“Pfft! This time, there is a young blonde girl behind the counter. And people waiting in line behind me, which I do my best to ignore. Same routine. I was there that weekend, lost my dildo, have they found it? She is just as professional as the guy from yesterday. Gives me her most pleasant smile and says One moment, I just have to make a call. She goes into the office next door, and I stand as straight as I can, trying to ignore the dead silence from the elderly couple behind me. And that’s when we hear her on the phone, voice carrying as clear as if she was right in front of us. Hi, she says. It’s that girl with the dildo again!

Flynn erupted into laughter. I allowed myself a smug smile as I waited for him to finish.

“But uh… did you ever get the dildo?” he asked when he had calmed down.

“No,” I sighed. “Not that it could just disappear, you know. I imagine it is the trophy in some office. Either that, or a cleaning lady somewhere is very, very happy.”

The young men

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”…. But you know nothing is going to happen, right?”

He didn’t. I had been so careful. Kept it strictly friendly. Refused his compliments. Made him aware that he was too young. With those exact words. You. Are. Too. Young. For. Me. But he only heard what he wanted to hear. Don’t we all?

So I had to get to it. Sit him down (or the virtual version of it). Make him listen. Explain that I enjoy his company. He is fun conversing with and I like knowing he appreciates me. But I am not interested. Not now, not tomorrow, not in a year. Just no.

He asks me why. It surprises me. I don’t think anyone ever demanded an explanation. Why? Why do I wrinkle my nose at boys my age, no matter how sweet, fun or smart? Because they are just that, to me. Boys. If they are 20 or 12 doesn’t make a difference to me, for in my eyes they are just children. It’s hypocritical, perhaps, but changing your preferences is hard. I like older men. I like the lines in their faces, the greying hair. I like the way a man’s voice becomes deeper as he ages, the way his body hair becomes denser. I like the way the skin moves on his hands and how the tendons in his wrists become more pronounced. I like that he is the experienced one and I the young girl. I like that he feels the need to lecture me about life and I like showing him that he’s mistaken. I love that I am the small one. That I am inexperienced almost no matter what I’m taking with me. And I enjoy it doubly, because I know it is borrowed time. I will not be the young girl forever. And damn if I will waste it on some kid who has neither too long nose hair or is referring to TV shows that were extinct before I was even born. It’s not a question. Not for me.

And I’m thinking. What, exactly, is it this kid should do? I know many young girls in the BDSM community, and while they do not all share my fascination with worn out males, they all search upwards. Once a girl has taken those first, wobbly steps, what is she supposed to do with a guy who doesn’t know which end of the whip to strike with? We want a man who knows something we don’t. Someone, who can show us something new. So what is the boy to do, who has never struck a girl before, and who, time and again, is hitting the same wall?

I told him to look for an untried girl. Someone who still hasn’t taken that first leap. Take it with her. Learn together. I cannot imagine a better way to do it but I also know it’s a utopia. Because 9 out of 10 girls would prefer to start with a man who knows what he’s doing. But of course they would. If you were to climb a wall for the very first time, who would you like as your instructor? The one who’s made a living of it for ten years or the one trying it for the first time? It’s not a question. Not really.

The Real Fifty

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”How old are you these days?”

“Forty,” he said.

I blinked. Wow. Time has passed.

An hour later I was in his bedroom, gasping, as he worked an impossibly large dildo inside me, and I couldn’t care less about his age.

“Who are you?”

“I’m… uh… I’m a little girl?”

“Whose little girl?” he pressed. My cheeks were already flushed, but I knew they turned darker.

“Yours.”

“That’s right.”

He smiled, and I could see that hint of predator that had scared me so much the first time he forced me down. His fingers found my nipple and twisted, making me whimper.

“What do you want?”

I looked down. He twisted harder. I was not getting away from this one. What did I want? When did I ever know what I wanted? I sighed and closed my eyes, willing myself to stop worrying. Not care about right and wrong answers, silliness or clichés. What did I want, really, right now? The answer was so simple it almost made me giggle. I whispered it to him, gazing up from between the purple pillows, lips dry, eyes glazed over.

“More.”

 

I was sitting in his kitchen, sipping my too-hot coffee. It was a wonderful kitchen. Almost as memorable as the sex. Don’t tell him that, though – I’m not sure any guy would take it the right way. I could hear him tapping away at the computer in the next room, checking e-mails and doing that Facebook thing. Once, he came to the door. He just stood there, looking at me. Smiling.

“What?”

“I never thought I should see you in my kitchen.”

“Oh.”

“It’s nice.”

I couldn’t help smiling too. It was just that. Nice.

“Did you read those Fifty Shades-books?” I asked.

He frowned and shook his head.

“I know a lot of women who like them,” he said. “Why?”

I shrugged.

“It’s just… everyone talks about them as if they are oh so kinky and daring. But it’s really just vanilla sex with a blindfold. I was so disappointed. I thought I was going to get some dirty details.”

He laughed.

“We make our own dirty details, don’t we?”

We did. I thought about it all the way home on the train. Fifty Shades of Grey is a cute little love story with cute little sex scenes. But it has nothing to do with the kind of kinky fuckery I know. This. What I write here. This will be my kind of kinky. The real Fifty.

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