Over the next month we saw each other twice a week. At meetings of the
Camera club, after which we’d go back to her flat and talk and I would
make love to her. And we went out on dates on the first two Fridays
and then on the Saturday of the following week. I was head-over-heels
in love with her, or lusted after her, or was compulsively obsessed by
her. My feelings were so intense that I can’t really say what it was.
But I do know that I thought of virtually nothing else but her. The
taste of her kiss. The way her eyes sparkled when she laughed. How it
felt to hold her in my arms, or even just to walk down the road
holding her hand.
I lived to share my life with her. To spend every waking moment in her
presence. I wanted to tell her everything about myself and learn
everything about her. I wanted to totally possess her. And more
important to be totally possessed by her. To live in the warmth of her
love.
But yet, despite my best endeavours, every time I tried to implement
my desires I ended up being frustrated. Every time I tried to talk to
her about how I felt for her I became more confused. Every time I
tried to get closer to her, I ended up feeling further away from her
than ever. I was taking two steps back for every step I took forward.
I didn’t understand, nor could I control, my feelings for her. Neither
did I understand what her feelings for me were. She seemed to be
saying one thing and doing the complete opposite. I was hopelessly
lost in a sea of conflicting desires and incomprehensible reactions,
both from her and from myself.
I wanted to totally process her, yet I wanted her to be free. I wanted
to be totally possessed by her, yet I wanted to remain free. I wanted
to crush her in my arms with all my strength, yet I was afraid that
even the lightest touch would mar the perfection of her skin. I wanted
to make her love me, yet I didn’t want to coerce or trick her into
loving me.
I was a mess. And I don’t think I made a very good impression on her.
Yet every time I saw her I was hooked worse than before. And she
continued to see me. She continued to kiss and hug me. She let me make
love to her. She gave me enough encouragement to let me pretend that
she could love me. To let me fool myself into thinking that she did.
Maybe she did. Maybe her love for me was more genuine than mine for
her. Maybe we were both totally confused.
All three dates followed a similar pattern. I’d phone her place on the
Wednesday or Thursday, but she’d not be in when I called. I’d leave a
message and she’d phone me from work the next day, because by the time
she got in she felt it was too late to call me back. We’d arrange to
meet in O’Connell St. outside Easons at about a quarter past eight.
I’d arrive about ten or fifteen minutes early. She’d arrive about ten
or fifteen minutes late. I’d spent half hour fretting about whether or
not she’d turn up, impatient to see her again. She’d arrive all bright
and breezy and once again take my breath away with her beauty and
grace.
We’d have a quick drink and go to a movie. Two light hearted Hollywood
blockbusters and another French comedy. I’d have my arm around her
during the film, smelling her perfume and feeling the heat of her
body, while the hormones raced through my blood stream. Afterwards
we’d go for a cup of coffee and then back to her place. Where we’d
kiss and cuddle and I’d masturbate her. Then she’d ask me to leave and
I’d end up even more frustrated and confused.
And in between all that we talked, about all sorts of things.
We talked about the movies we’d seen. And discovered that we liked the
same things, though for completely different reasons. We talked about
the best movies we’d ever seen and what we liked most about them. We
liked the same movies. Though in one I’d particularly like the plot
twist at the end, but she’d think it was the character development
made it. And in another I’d think it was the stunning photography that
made it, but she’d think it was the in-depth plot. We talked about the
worst movies we’d seen and complained about the direction, or the
inane script, or the pathetic jokes.
I told her all about my writing. How I was planning on being an
international best-selling author. Told her that I gave up a good job,
with an inflated salary, in a city of London merchant bank to write a
SF novel. She didn’t believe me, but she was not alone. Most people
can’t believe that I gave up a job earning the amount of money that I
did in order to become what society calls unemployed.
I explained to her my passion for science fiction and computer games.
And how I had to avoid games and book shops so I didn’t blow my life
savings all in one go, rather than trying to use it to eke out a life
until I got my big break. (I failed !)
She told me about her passion for tennis. And how she planned to work
her way up the rankings of the club she’d just joined. That she loved
the thrill of competition and was really quite a competitive person in
all aspects of her life.
She described her work and told stories about the people she worked
with. She loved making fun of her boss. Some of the things she told me
made me glad that I no longer worked in a office. All that politics
and back biting.
We talked about photography. Since we’d met in a camera club it was
obviously something we had in common. She had just taken it up as a
hobby and her enthusiasm reminded me of how I used to feel when I
first caught the bug in my early teens. I tried to explain something
of what I’d learnt over the years, but I felt as if I was patronising
her so I stopped.
And all the while I was trying to persuade her that I really loved
her. Holding back my passion, trying not to push her too hard, trying
to build up her trust in me. Yet the taste and smell and feel of her
in my arms marked the highlights of my relationship with her. I made
love to her because I loved her. And I wanted nothing back, but what
she could give me.
And yet I did. I wanted her to make love to me. It was natural enough
that I should want to come as well. But more than that I wanted her to
love me. I wanted her to worship me the way I worshipped her. I wanted
her to desire me. I wanted her to make me whole.
But I also wanted to prove to her that I wanted more than carnal
pleasure from her. I wanted to share my life with her. I wanted to go
to sleep with her in my arms and wake up beside her. I wanted to eat
with her. I wanted to live with her. I wanted to get to know
everything there was to know about her. And I wanted her to know
everything there was to know about me.
So I didn’t insist that she return the complement every time I made
love to her. So I didn’t demand to know why she left me frustrated and
alone at the end of every date. Firstly because I didn’t want to
appear as if I was begging for it. Because I felt that if we were
engaged in some sort of fucked up power struggle that she would have
won a victory over me.
Secondly I didn’t want to acknowledge that it was that important to
me. I didn’t want her to think I was ruled by my balls. And I didn’t
want to admit to myself that I was just lusting after her. In some
weird way I was proving to myself that I really loved her by not
forcing her to do anything that she didn’t want to do.
And thirdly I didn’t want to appear as if I was blackmailing her, a
sort of I’m not going to make love to you until you agree to make love
to me. Because she might have called my bluff. And I wanted to make
love to her so badly that I couldn’t risk not being able to.
So every night I made love to her and every night she sent me home
frustrated. I didn’t even unzip my jeans to remind her that I was
getting aroused and would have liked something done about it. Until on
the forth date when I finally managed to ask her to return the
complement.
I was lying on my back. She lay across my stomach. Her arm across my
chest her head resting on top, with her legs curled up under my left
arm, as she relaxed in the afterglow of her orgasm.
My right hand was under my head and with my left I was caressing her
thigh. “So are you going to give me a blow job, then?” I asked softly.
She looked up at me and smiled. “No,” she giggled. “Of course not.”
And that was it. I didn’t want to make her do it, I wanted her to want
to do it. And I didn’t want to argue with her. I didn’t ask her why.
It made no difference why. Oh I’d like to have known. But I didn’t
think I could ask her to explain without her thinking that I was
trying to argue her into doing it. The fact she didn’t want to do it
was enough for me.
I wanted her to want to love me the way that I wanted to love her. But
she didn’t and even then I think some part of me realised that she
would never let me love her the way I really wanted to.
And yet the problem of sex still bothered me. I thought I was head
over heels in love with her. And I thought I was expressing the depth
of my love by making love to her, by trying to please her, by giving
her pleasure. Oh I enjoyed it as well, I wouldn’t have done it if I
hadn’t. But I was getting no feedback from her. When I told her that I
loved her she would just smile, or kiss me or some such. And when I
made love to her she wouldn’t respond. I mean she’d respond to my love
making, but she wouldn’t actively make love back to me.
So how was I expected to know how she felt about me. If she didn’t
love me would she let me make love to her? Yet if she did love me why
wouldn’t she make love to me? I didn’t know if it was because she
really didn’t know how or she just wasn’t bothered. And yet I got a
real kick out of making love to her. Was it just that the excitement
of the physical acts made it that much easier to pretend about the
emotions behind it.
Maybe she really loved me and she was just too shy and inexperienced
and repressed by her Catholic upbringing to be able to admit it. To
herself or to me. And then again maybe she really was just using me.
Maybe I was just being the gullible fool that I normally am. The truth
was that I didn’t know. I couldn’t figure out how she felt. And I
couldn’t get her to tell me. And to be completely honest I really
didn’t know how I felt myself. I was knocked totally off balance by
the ferocity of my desire for her.
I was in a right mess. I loved making love to Alexandra. I loved
making her come. It didn’t bother me in the least that we weren’t
having what might be called “normal” sexual intercourse, That’s is the
penetration of her vagina with my penis. Using my fingers was enough
for me.
Yet it did bother me that she didn’t make me come. That she didn’t
seem to want to make me come. And it bothered me that she wouldn’t
sleep with me. I mean that in the literal sense, that is to curl up
and go to sleep in the same bed. Or even let me sleep on her floor. To
have to get and leave after having sex seemed like rejection to me.
It all boiled down to this. If we were just going to have a casual
relationship, then surely I should be entitled to get some enjoyment
out of it. But yet if we were going to have a serious deeply committed
relationship then why wouldn’t she talk to me about it. Either way I
was beginning to feel used and abused by the current situation.
It shows the measure of my confusion that it was over a month before I
thought of contraception. One Wednesday afternoon it suddenly dawned
on me. Obviously she didn’t want to have straight sex with me because
she didn’t want to get pregnant. So buy some condoms and then we can
ride all night long. It further shows the measure of my confusion that
fear of pregnancy didn’t explain why she wouldn’t give me head or
masturbate me. Perhaps I thought she didn’t want to cause a mess on
her carpet.
It was only much later that I thought of Aids. I recently discovered
that some teachers use fear to discourage teenagers from having sex.
Fear of pregnancy, fear that some future husband won’t respect you
because you aren’t a virgin, fear that you’ll catch some deadly
diseases. And now the deadliest of them all, Aids. (With no known cure
at time of writing.)
Anyway, going to the chemist and buying the condoms proved a lot less
embarrassing than I’d thought it would. It was my first time and like
all things the first time can be a bit nerve racking. But it was quite
simple. I just walked into the shop and asked the assistant if they
sold condoms. She smiled and said “Yes. There they are.” and pointed
to the display I was standing in front of. I looked down and found
myself confronted by an array of half familiar names. I did a quick
scan and selected, almost at random, a packet. I handed over my money
and she put the packet into a paper bag before handing it to me,
along with my change. And that was that.
Now all I had to do was talk to Alexandra about using them.
I decided to ask her after the next time I made love to her. It was
after our next date. We were lying half naked on the floor of her
flat. She was lying across me wearing just a T-shirt and panties. I
had on just my jeans and underpants. I could feel her breath on my
skin as I caressed the back of her head with my right hand. The
fingers of my left were still damp from being inside her.
“So would you let me use my penis if I had a condom on?” I asked.
“What?” she looked up.
“Would it be OK if I used a condom?” I repeated.
She sat up. “Why would you want to use a condom?” she didn’t look at
me.
I thought for a second, unsure what she meant then decided to
interpret her question literally . “So you won’t get pregnant and so
we’ll not pass any diseases to each other.”
She stood up, “I think you’d better go now.” She walked to her closet
and put on her robe.
I watched her move and thought how beautiful she was. One part of me
wanted to call her a fucked up little bitch, but the other couldn’t
get over how beautiful she was. So I got up and got dressed, after
once again being fucked.
At the door I stopped and kissed her. I’d meant to walk out with out
doing so, but she was still irresistible. Once my lips were on her’s,
my arms went around her automatically and I ended up hugging her
tightly. Ever so tightly . She hugged me back and I was in heaven for
those few minutes. Then she stepped back.
My hand went to her breast again. I could feel her nipple through the
silk of her robe and the cotton of her T-shirt. “See you next week at
the club?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said and kissed my cheek.
I turned and walked out and didn’t see her for another month.
