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arm-legIt took me over three hours to write this account. The actions and words remain clear in my head as if they have just happened. I close my eyes and I can still smell the salty muskiness of him, and feel the soft rasp of his chin hair against my cheek.

He had a very cultured and educated way of expressing himself, and an accent that showed hardly any hint of the country in which he was born. I think of him often and with great fondness, despite the incident that brought about our final parting.


I recall that the room had an echoy quality, in which murmurs and squeals and sighs built up, each stitching itself harmoniously to the next, producing a long string of erotic melody; the sound of the wet piston moving in a drenched well, the slap, slap of our groins joined in with our rasping, air hungry breathing creating a cacophony of sound.

My heart hammered in my breast, as if it was trying to escape its cage.
I could hear myself, every sigh and moan and cry for God. But God couldn’t save me from myself.

When we were chest to chest I clawed at his back, by fingers sliding through the droplets of fine perspiration.

His kiss crushed my mouth, bruising my lips, his tongue trusting, fucking me.

The rhythm of his hips metronomic as he pounded up and down; my legs straight feet pointing at the ceiling, tightly clamped around the sides of his head; then my knees bent, his hands pressing them out; then wrapped around his back, my heels pulling him into me.

There was no thought of anything and anybody else, only the need to be filled and refilled, pierced and pierced again.

“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!” My fingers pulled at the tight skin above his shoulder blades. “Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”
The steady climb – the sudden urge to go faster – the need for more friction.

But he slowed, elongating the ecstasy, drawing it out. He pushed his hand between our bodies, his thumb stroking my erect clitoris, as his sheathed penis drove slowly in and out of my swollen vagina.

I could hear the pleading words in my head, words that almost came out of my mouth. But I quashed them. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing.

He was close. I was closer. The waiting was an ecstatic agony.
I could feel him growing inside me, pressing out against the elastic walls, his pelvis moving with more urgency. I pushed my hips up to meet his downward thrust, my hands circling his waist, pulling him in – pulling him in.

His arms and chest muscles tensed as he fought to control the inevitable. Suddenly I could see the surrender in his eyes. The race was on. But I was already ahead, hurtling headlong over the edge.

My leg muscles twitched, locking into spasm, back arching, eyes bulging, lips curled back; fluid gushing, spraying past the plug that kept ramming and ramming. The blackness opened up and swallowed me.

Afterward, as we gasped for air, there was a kind of quiet that made the thoughts in my head sound like loudly spoken words. I didn’t speak; I didn’t want to speak, or to hear anything said.

I looked down at my hand, innocent of my engagement ring and marriage band. They lay in the small well under the handbrake in my car out on the street. It’d been a struggle to remove them; as if they’d known what it mean, and were putting up a fight to protect my chastity. But they’d forgotten that I’d surrendered it already; the cause had been forever lost.


“I didn’t think you would come,” he said eventually, laying on his back staring up at the ceiling.
“Yet I did – twice.”
“I meant, I didn’t think you would come here, tonight.”
“I know – I wasn’t going to.”
“Why did you?”
“Why do women ever drive across town and end up in the beds of men like you?”

“Some do because that’s just how they are, and they enjoy variety; some because they are bored with their lives or their lovers. But you – I can’t quite make you out. Which is why I find you so intriguing.”
“Intriguing? Is that why you wanted to fuck me again?”
“It might have been. But even though we made love once before, I still had the feeling that you’d be different this time.”
“And was I?”

“Last time you fucked with a kind of wild desperation – which was probably because of the alcohol and marijuana flowing in your blood. That combination does have a way of letting out the wild beast in all of us.”
“And this time?”
“This time it was like making love to a shy, horny virgin on her wedding night.”

“Which do you prefer – the wild cat or the shy virgin?”
“I like it that you can be both.”
“Nicely done. Diplomatic as well as complimentary. Quite a skill.”
“We Italians did invent diplomacy.”
“I thought that that was the Greeks.”
“Horrible and unjust rumour put about by our enemies. Generally men like women who can be both virgin and wild cat in the bedroom.”

“As usual men like to eat their cake and have it too.”
“Sorry, it’s a peculiar English saying; it means that they want to consume what they have, but still have it there after they’ve finished, so they can eat it again and again.”
“I see. That’s probably true of men everywhere- especially when it comes to women.”
“Even Italians?”

“Especially Sicilians. Even though we prefer to marry virgins and take their virginity, it is ours, and while no other man makes love to our women, she remains our virgin.”
“And what about women like me? Fallen women?”
“There are no other women like you.”
“There you go with the diplomatically correct rhetoric again.”
“What I mean is, you are unique.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Of course, But that doesn’t make any less true.”
“So how many virgins have you deflowered on this magic carpet, in this ivory tower of yours?”
“That would be telling. If I did I’d have to kill and eat you.”
“Well, you’ve already done the eating part, and I did experience what the French call ‘La Petite Mort’ at least once. So, you’ve already killed me….. ever so slightly.”
“In that case, the answer is none. You are the first virgin.”
“But I am guessing that I’m not the first non-virgin who has died a little on this bed.”

“Truthfully…..no, you aren’t.”
“Thank you for not lying to me.”
“Would you have believed me if I’d said that you were the first?”
“No, but I would’ve thought less of you. On that note, I do have to leave. Do you mind if I shower?”
“No, I don’t mind, but I think you owe me something.”
“What, do I have to pay for your services?”
“How much?”

He pulled away the light silk sheet that had been covering his groin, revealing his penis, slowly awakening, rising out of its nest of jet black wavy hair, its circumcised head still shiny and slick; hardening until its eye was staring at the ceiling.
“Just a very small contribution,” he joked, wrapping his fist around the now solid pole. “A few kisses, a little tongue, some suction. He’ll be very grateful, and so will I.”
“Ooooh,” I sighed. “Since you ask so nicely.”


I picked up my wedding ring and slid it slowly back onto my finger. Until that moment I’d managed to blot out the enormity of what had happened since I’d started the day by lying to my husband about working late. Even as the words spilled from my mouth it sounded exactly like the trite, adulterers cliché that it was.

‘I’m going to fuck some man tonight, darling, so I’ll be a little late home.’ That wasn’t what I said. The other had been a plausible enough lie.