The Writers 2

I recently attended a writers' convention in the rather snooty Guildhall in London, where I got chatting to a reasonably nice chap called Robert who claimed to specialise in politics and economics. Yes, I know! (Yawn). I proudly (and rather provocatively) mentioned to him that my forte was erotic fiction, imagining that he would be either shyly embarrassed and politely acknowledge me before quickly excusing himself, or be over-enthusiastic and press me for more lurid details. However, he seemed to take a genuine creative interest, and we ended up discussing writing styles, plot devices, techniques, target readership, editorial and other relevant matters that authors need to deal with. Like, in my case, what constitutes 'erotic', what is titillating, what is juvenile lavatory-wall graffiti, and what is just plain bad writing. I freely admitted to him that I would be useless waxing lyrical about politics or economics, suggesting that he would be equally inept at producing well-written commentary on the vagaries of human sexual behaviour. But he seemed to believe that to become proficient in his particular field necessitated skills and knowledge of the subject far more demanding than writing 'saucy stories', as he put it, which was a trivial pursuit requiring scant literary skill.

I bristled with indignation, but judiciously resisted the urge to knee him in the groin. Instead, I rather rashly challenged him to write some decent erotica and compare it to my attempt at explaining economics. Fortuitously, and before we could actually come to blows, the event photographer came between us and snapped us both displaying hurried polite smiles. For no particular reason other than for social networking, we eventually exchanged email addresses and went our separate ways - in my case, towards the bar.

I thought very little more about the occasion, until a few days later I received an email from Robert, the young academic in question, who apparently had taken up my challenge. I can say no more about it, than simply reproduce his pathetic effort verbatim, hoping you, dear reader, will excuse the crude nature of it and the coarse vocabulary. Expletives are deleted. My comments are in parentheses:

Oh Kara (the name I owned up to), I have become obsessed by your photo, and stare at it almost constantly. I drool over it even as I write. It's the one that photographer took of the two of us. You remember the one? Where you are wearing that blue sparkly low cut top with what looks like a leather skirt. (It IS a leather skirt, I don't do imitation.)

My **** twitches every time I view that picture, and goodness knows how many times I have ****** off while fixated by it. I imagine myself screwing the **** off you - my firm **** sliding up your juicy ***** and your fabulous **** inviting my hands to massage them and my mouth to suck on those gorgeous *******. Your long hair, wretchedly unkempt, (excuse me?), falls wavily down and over your shoulders like some wanton gipsy woman and you leer at me, open mouthed, encouraging every thrust my rock hard **** can muster up. My ambition is to fill you with hot ****, until you overflow and it oozes back out of your hairy **** (!!) and onto your tummy and thighs. Then you take my wet *-****** into your mouth and deep throat it, as deep as you can without gagging, licking it clean and swallowing the tasty remnants of my ***-load. Then you stuff your silky used panties into my mouth and sit on my face forcing me to breathe in the intoxicating feminine aromas from your delicious *****. You beg me to eat you out and my tongue responds by massaging your ***-hole then pummelling the sweet spot around your ****. Your moaning drives me wild, so I am determined to cater for all your needs, and drive my tongue into your *******.... Even as I write I am ******* off, just thinking about you lying on your bed, on your back, legs apart, knees in the air, begging me to totally **** your brains out.

Yours sincerely, Robert... ps. How did I do?

My immediate reaction, besides breaking into a cold sweat, was to move the email straight to the 'trash' folder and go have a shower. Was this guy serious? It was like some pubescent half-brain had been let loose with a dictionary of crude insulting expressions and unleashed his verbal diarrhoea directly onto me. It was neither erotic nor literary. It was just drivel, and rude. But... Somehow I couldn't get it out of my brain.

I needed at least to acknowledge receipt of his awful attempt to produce a suitable adult narrative, but at the same time, did not want to encourage him to continue soliciting my attentions. I decided a stinging, but witty put down, would fit the bill. So I replied...

"Robert.. One should not split an infinitive. ('to totally **** my brains out - tut tut. ')."

And left it at that, anticipating that my terse reply would be interpreted as an aloof 'don't call us, we'll call you' rejection, and that would be the end of it. Admittedly, were I to spout forth on economic forecasts and government debt, my efforts would also justifiably be trashed by anyone knowledgeable in the subject. But... I still couldn't get it out of my brain.

He subsequently wrote back, seemingly blissfully unperturbed by my curt comment, and suggested we meet up for dinner somewhere, and signed off 'yours lustfully, Rob.'

'Yours lustfully'? Again, he was being presumptuous, and, to be honest, inexcusably insulting of my moral standards. Or was I over-thinking it? Adult sex is normally the end result of a series of dates, romantic encounters and fun together. Even then, things tend not to get down and dirty until after a couple of wines and the lights go low. Knowing already all his waking thoughts about the desire to ingratiate himself with my lovely body (understandable, I grant you) seemed to nullify the spontaneity of any lustful union.

However, a girl should never turn down the offer of a free lunch.

Nearing the end of our meal at Fresco del Forno, I felt my eyes beginning to glaze over. I wasn't sure whether it was the explanation of the effect of mortgage interest rates on the cost of living index, or several glasses of the rather nice Chianti on offer there. Strangely, Robert seemed unfazed and unperturbed by my lack of attention, or by the fact that all his explicit desires to ravish me continued to be doused without any reason given. Out on the pavement, as we waited for a taxi in the cold air of the evening, we got up close and face to face. I suddenly had one of those rash now-or-never moments a girl often lives to regret.

"Do you really want to come to bed with me?" I whispered, pouting like I was competing in a pouting competition and oblivious to all my previous misgivings. He was a young, handsome, well-paid man, after all. And it had been some while since I last had any attention paid to me. His response brought me down to earth.

"I do think you are terribly attractive," he said. "But I have a confession."

Bang. Stun grenade. Story of my life. He's got a wife who doesn't understand him. He's engaged. He's gay. He's an ordained minister of the Church of the Nineteenth Pentecost. Why do these things happen to me? Maybe it was retribution for me displaying such a sad lack of moral character.

"It's just that, well..." He seemed uncomfortable.

"You're married with six kids and a golden retriever," I suggested.

"No no," he said. "It's just that, well, I don't have any experience like that. With my background, I don't come into contact with too many girls, and those I've met seem to lose interest quite quickly for some reason. I've never been good with women, you see? And I wouldn't want to let you down."

Then why did he pursue my affections, I wondered? Was ours to remain a platonic association? Or was I to eventually become the benevolent auntie who shows her shy virginal nephew the ropes? (As in a typical erotica yarn).

"But as I said," he continued, "I do find you amazingly attractive and warm, and sexy. I just feel it would be wrong for me to make assumptions."

"Life is too short to stand around debating the issue," I said. "Are you coming back for coffee, or what?"

So how exactly do you seduce a thirty-year-old virgin without seeming like a sex-starved old maid? I guess Mrs Robinson could have told me, but then that affair did not end well. I had to make it up as I went along.

Coffee and McVities digestive biscuits out of the way, we nestled comfortably on my sofa. Using my iPad, I showed Robert some of my published works. They didn't seem to elicit as much interest as I had hoped they might. Moreover, he took me instead to a website where some of his technical articles were prominent. The first one lost me at the 'impact of fiscal policy on GDP'.

We had a kind of awkward silence, where you really don't know what to say or do next. Robert, bless him, relieved me of the task. "May I kiss you?" he asked.

It's not often in this day and age that a girl actually gets asked that question. My first reaction was 'will my Max Factor lip gloss be up to the job?'. I took a chance and puckered up.

Suddenly, a strange sensation came over me. No, I wasn't transported to paradise by a choir of angels on gossamer wings - it was the fact that this encounter, if it ever got consummated, was not only Robert's inaugural full-on sexual experience, but I, despite my history of previous indiscretions, was sharing that particular intimate occasion with him. Thus, I would achieve unique status in 30-year-old Robert's conceptual book of life - the woman who triggered his sexual awakening! Conceited of me, I suppose, but a boost to one's self esteem. The kiss was sweet and tender. He was a gentle man.

I took the lead, hitched up my skirt and sat on his lap, astride him, face-on. I unbuttoned his shirt. Mmm... hairy chest too. I playfully raked my nails over his pecs, tweaking his nipples for fun. He flinched a little, but offered no complaint.

"You could unbutton my blouse," I said, fluttering my eyes like a Barbie doll. "All good practice." He fumbled a little, which I always find funny. But give him his due, job done, my top half was now naked apart from my bra. I thought it best to leave the three hook challenge for another time and unclasped it myself. My tits rolled out. "Aren't you going to kiss them too?" I complained. Again, Robert was most compliant and without hesitation gently planted his lips on the upper of each breast, as though he was politely greeting a line-up of female relatives via a customary peck on the cheek. I could only guess it was shyness that prevented him giving my nipples any attention. After all, according to his first letter, he should by now be 'sucking on those gorgeous *******'. I provocatively massaged each of them myself between finger and thumb until they displayed signs of arousal. He cottoned on, and kissed them both in turn. I like having a lover who flicks my erect nipples with their tongue, but I chose not to be too demanding on this occasion - one can overdo foreplay. Unbutton your pants," I said. It was time to get down and dirty.

Flying into one another's arms on a king-sized bed when each of you is naked is not a challenge. A challenge is where each of you is wrestling on a narrow sofa and are still availed of underclothes. You have to be assertive and decisive. Break! as a boxing referee would say, stand up, kick shoes off, pull down tights, pull down panties. Step out of said undergarments. Continue bout. Which is what I did. Robert was a little slow on the uptake, and by the time I was back in position straddling his lap, tits in his face, he remained with pants and shorts pulled down to just below the knee. It looked ridiculous, but didn't matter.

I suddenly became aware that his penis was looking ominously twitchy. Was I overdoing the charm offensive? I had a little panic attack - he had said he'd never been good with women, and he wouldn't want to let me down. It certainly wasn't a size problem or an erectile malfunction - was it a premature ejaculation issue? I carried on regardless.

At last we had shed a sufficient amount of clothing to enable an unhindered vaginal entry procedure, (which, I know, sounds like a NASA status report), but with me still astride and on top, and Robert with his shorts round his ankles, which was so funny, but I daren't laugh. I took one of his hands which was caressing a breast and led it downwards and onto my lady-parts. Holding his middle finger, I led him in through my pussy lips and to my clitoris, hiding under its little hood, and by now swollen somewhat and moist. I explained that massaging a lady's 'pleasure button' was never a bad idea.

I was in a position where I had full view of his manhood, and his glans which was exhibiting that tell-tale glistening sign of exploding. I carefully guided him up through my pussy lips and on into my damp smooth vagina. I bounced. He gently thrusted and fondled my tits. We did what came naturally for a short while, then Robert moaned and gasped, and shortly afterwards I did too. My little climax was sweetened by the satisfaction that my protégé had ascended another rung on the ladder of male life development, and I was the beautiful object of his desire. And you always remember your first time, don't you.

His passivity during our love-making was in stark contrast to the aggressive nature of his written 'erotica', but then, that's erotica for you.

Our little fling never came to anything - our interests were never going to be compatible. But I hope he will always remember me. I will certainly remember him - he did have a rather impressive *-******.... Mmmmm....