It was almost a year since I had been with a man. Nearly twelve months since I had felt lips on mine, a tongue in my mouth or hands on my breasts. It seemed an age since an erection had been pressed against me or I had held man's hardened penis. Nearly a year since a man's cock had slipped into me. It felt like an eternity since I had been fucked.
And nearly every moment of that year had been agony. There had hardly been an hour go by when I did not think about sex or when my body did not yearn to be touched, stroked and caressed. Physically I missed it so much. But emotionally I didn't. I felt better by not having sex and that is why I had become celibate.
After thirteen years of what, mostly, had seemed to be a loving marriage, as it subsequently turned out my 'loving' husband had been shagging all and sundry all through my 'idyllic' wedlock, I had to confront building a new sex life. I had tried being a 'new woman.' That is being like a man and 'fucking 'em and leaving 'em,' but late thirties was too late to start. I had dated guys to whom I felt, or developed, affection and had let them shag me because I felt I might fall in love. I had a few one-night stands and for a while I had, what the Americans call, a 'fuckbuddy.'
None of them worked. I always had a feeling of remorse, some guilt, a touch of slight disgust. My early, very English, middle class, upbringing got in the way: love and sex were intertwined; you only did the latter if the former was present.
So, after trying, quite hard, for a couple of years after my divorce, I took the radical step of going celibate. Emotionally it has been a success, physically a fucking disaster. I am like a bitch in heat most of the time; I masturbate so often and want to do it more frequently; I must be one of Duracell's best customers!
It struck me all of a sudden. The common denominator with my post wedlock sexual career was that I knew them. The men that I had sex with that is. I knew them before, during and, mostly, after the sex. Sure, the couple of one nightstands I never saw again and one guy didn't call me after he screwed me (was I that bad?), but in the main I knew them after the sex as well.
Yes, I was acquainted with them, but felt little more than that. There was no love, but I had sex with them. And after, perhaps getting up from their bed and going home, maybe putting my panties back on in a car or, occasionally, leaving a hotel room, I felt awful. The realisation that I had let them shag me combined with the knowledge that I would have to see them again revolted me, made me feel guilty and filled me with remorse. I felt that they were judgemental about me, though none said anything, that they categorised me, an easy lay, and that they condemned me; they probably didn't, but I have always suffered from tortured logic!
But now I began thinking. If it was the knowing them and having to see them again that was at the core of the problem, maybe I could do it with men I didn't know?
Over the next week or so, that idea was never far from my mind; it nagged at me. Could I do that? Could I let a guy I didn't know have sex with me? And if emotionally I could, would I and how could I arrange it?
The more I thought about it and the more I realised that after being shagged I would never have to see him again, the more it appealed. Total anonymous sex. Also, there would be no build up. None of that awful, 'should I or shouldn't I', 'will he or won't he' and 'what will he think of me if I let him?'
I wouldn't have to wonder if and how he was judging me. Whether he thought I was too forward or not forward enough? How good and sexually accomplished he considered me to be and where on the male sexual rating would I be, a fucking awful five or a nicely, naughty nine? I wouldn't have to continue with an affair that I knew after the first fuck was pointless. The advantages seemed endless. I wanted to try it, but could I bring myself to do it?
After a load of soul searching, I decided that I could do it, well might be able to. However, it would need to be with someone I didn't know, obviously. Also, there had to be a quick closure on the relationship, nothing after the sex. As importantly as the post sex was the pre sex. No build up, no getting to know each other, no preamble and no seduction.
I racked my brains to think of how I could create those circumstances. I though of three ways.
First, I could simply pick someone up, have sex and then leave.
Second, I could get a male escort and third, similar, but go for a ladies only massage.
I hit the Internet. It was so easy. I tapped in male escorts and it was purely a case of how many and where? Female massage was less productive, but I found several men offering it, although none were anywhere near as specific as the female ads offering massage to men. So I knew I could make those two work. The third was in my own hands.
I pondered for some time. Still not at all sure I would do anything, I nevertheless made an appointment for myself. The weekend of the anniversary of my last fuck would be when I broke my celibacy. Three days, a Friday, a Saturday and a Sunday. Each day I would try a different way. Friday the escort, Saturday the pick up and Sunday the massage. No, too on top of each other. What if the escort had me several times? What if I was sated or, even worse, sore, I smiled hopefully?
Ok then, three separate days over a three-week period. I recalled that the last sex had been on a Friday, so decided that would be the day of the week when I would break my celibacy. Three Fridays in a row.
Still not at all sure I would go through with any, let alone all three, of the ideas; I decided that using an escort would be the first so I started to plan that.
It was actually quite good fun and, surprisingly, exciting. I must have looked at a couple of dozen websites before narrowing my choices down to a short-list of three. I e-mailed each of them and heard nothing from one, but got an almost instant reply from another and a reply the next day from the third. I exchanged mails with both of them before deciding on Grant.
He was thirty four, which I felt was old enough not to embarrass me, but young enough to have the sexual vigour I had missed dating men of my age and older, basically forty five year olds and up.
I had been tempted to indulge one of my fantasies and go for a nineteen year old or so toyboy type, but resisted that. With Grant I was, though, satisfying another fantasy; he was black. His photos and the video I had seen of him portrayed a tall, well-built guy, with short hair, a lithe muscular body and, I have to admit, even though it's not something I would usually concern myself with until undressed, a great cock, both flaccid and erect. See why the website search had been mildly exciting?
On the selected day just after noon, I could hardly believe that I was checking into a hotel not too far from where I live. Everything had been arranged by e-mail including the two hundred pound fee, which covered 'all afternoon and evening' and within reason 'as many times as you want.'
I had chosen a 'superior' room. It was large, by London standards, had a small balcony with floor to ceiling glass doors leading to it and a great view over one of the old docks. I had asked for a king size double bed and simply looking at it, as I dropped my bag, made me tingle as I realised that was where my escort would have me: it all seemed a little cold and sterile, but also very exciting.
I had arrived early, for Grant wasn't due until 2.30, so I had a long soak in the bath, redid my hair and make-up and slipped into the dressing gown provided by the hotel. Room service brought the salad and the bottle of Chablis I had ordered at about 2.00. I nibbled bits of the salad, but was really too nervous to eat, and had a glass of wine to settle me and, hopefully, release my inhibitions a little.
When planning this I had thought about what to wear. I was undecided whether I should, perhaps, just wear a dressing gown or, whether I should be fully clothed? If the dressing gown, with underwear or naked under it? And if fully clothed what sort of underwear, sexy or normal?
I had no idea whether Grant would undress me or, whether we would simply undress ourselves and go to bed.
In the end, I decided to wear a pale grey, silk dress. The loose skirt was just above the knee and slightly flared, although it fitted snugly over my tummy and bum. The top was fairly tight emphasising my boobs, and somewhat low-cut, showing a lot of them and there were, what I thought were, inviting looking buttons from the scooped neckline to the waist.
After much deliberation, I had opted for sexy underwear. Why? What was I trying to prove? For whom was I doing it? God knows. However, standing before the mirror at 2.15 I felt very nervous and even more excited. The white lacy bra and thong looked good against my, pretty much, all-over tan. The bra was ridiculously flimsy, but somehow coped well with its 33 B cargo providing the slight support it needed, but really hiding nothing. My nipples had, as they always do when I am sexually aroused, exploded and were standing up hard and straight and were very visible through the diaphanous, net and lace. The white, lacy thong covered what it needed to at the front, had a gusset that contained my lips and a slither of silk that snaked between the full cheeks of my bum. I hadn't chosen stockings on the grounds that they would probably be a bit OTT. I wore my shoulder-length, blonde hair down.
As the 2.30 deadline approached, I still couldn't believe what I was doing. That I was going to pay a guy to fuck me: it just didn't seem possible. However, the phone ringing and a voice saying. "Hi, is that Christina, it's Grant here," showed me that it clearly was not only possible, but was actually happening.
Waiting for him to come up in the lift, I was actually shaking with nerves.
I was relieved that Grant measured up well to what I had seen on the net, for I had no idea what I would have done had he been vastly different.
"Hi Christina?" He asked when I opened the door.
"Yes, yes I am Christina and you're Grant, right?"
