"My guest tonight, the first guest in the Rant Room is a writer, dramatist and social commentator. She was brought up in the deep south of America, a childhood she describes as 'tense for a black kid.' She has written a great deal about her experiences as a child and says that, if she has a mission in life, it is to forget most of them. Carmen Jenkins, welcome to the Rant Room."
"Thank you, Catherine, it's great to be here."
"So tell us, what are you going to rant about?"
~
I first met Sally Watson at a gay journalist meeting in our fair city. I normally wouldn't go anywhere near a meeting described that way but my good friend, Rosie, told me that Sally would be there and that she reckoned we'd get on. Rosie is a close friend, occasional bed-mate and wise counsellor. So I went. It seems she had briefed Sally who made a beeline for me during the drinks reception after the meeting and embraced me and, to my slight consternation, kissed me. I knew who she was but, well, it seemed a little forward by any standards.
"Why fuck about? Rosie told me you're enjoyable and she is always right."
I mulled the word, 'enjoyable,'. "Is Rosie passing me around?"
"Shit, that came out all wrong, and, no, she's not passing you round, she meant you were great company! Foot well and truly in my mouth there, sorry."
You couldn't get mad with Sally. She was like a big puppy, full of energy and affection and I warmed to her immediately. I took a little longer, however, to get into her bed.
Sally has what Rosie calls the 'misery face.' She means she looks like she's sick of everything until she smiles when it transforms into a lively, happy countenance. Framed with mousy, quite short hair and with uneven teeth and a short neck she is not immediately appealing, despite a nice body and legs which she tends to dress in jeans and hoodies. A 'tom boy' as my mother would have described her.
My initial concerns dissipated and, over the next few weeks, I saw Sally for a beer a couple of times and grew very much to like her. She was quick-witted and amusing and clever. She ran a local radio channel and had a liking for output that challenged her audience.
She also had a penchant for sex, sex in all its lesbian varieties. "Men are great,C," she always called me C. "I actually prefer the company of men in social groups, just as long as they know it's social and ends there. I mean, they don't do the girly thing when the bill comes, 'I had this, you had that blah blah,' they talk about sport most of the time and most of them drink well." Well? "A lot, but without getting pissed." Ah.
The first time she fucked me, and that is all it was, she fucked me, I was visiting her flat over her studio for a drink and, after our second bottle of beer, she said, "You know, it's really time we fucked, darling," and took me there and then on her sofa. She'd worn a long, black T with, 'This way down' and an arrow pointing at her crotch, over faded blue jeans. The T came off to reveal large, firm breasts with dark pink nipples that were indicative of her state of arousal, not unlike my own. She pulled me to her and kissed me, hard and, without moving her mouth from mine, undressed me skilfully, demonstrating plenty of previous experience. Her hands wandered freely over my body and she sucked my tongue, held my nipples, and, finally, entered me, her fingers curling inside me.
Breaking the kiss, her fingers still busy, she entertained herself, licking and sucking my nipples. I was getting pretty worked up and she seemed to realise because she stoped, stood and peeled her jeans down, a glimpse of white panties at the crotch as they descended, revealing good, firm, shapely legs.
She straddled me and fed me her tits, pressing her cunt down on me while I sucked her nipples. Then she dismounted and sat on the sofa and spread her legs and, pulling me gently by my hair, guided me to kneel between her feet and feast on her. Wet, and slick, her cunt tasted divine. Her orgasm was a roar of delight and release, music to my ears.
My own followed shortly as I rode her thigh and kissed her, her fingers playing with my nipples.
~
It was a few weeks later that she invited me to host the Rant Room. I'd floated the idea as a possible programme format and she'd said she would think about it. It had never occurred to me she might invite me to host it. At first I resisted, having no experience of broadcasting but, well, Sally could be persuasive and, post orgasm, I am malleable.
And so, at 11pm that first night, I was hosting a 15 minute slot with Carmen Jenkins.
"I'm going," she said, "to rant about apologies."
And boy, did she?
"No matter what the perceived sin committed by any company, institution, political party or whatever, they seem to think an apology with atone for it. The Church apologises when a vicar abuses a child, a school likewise. A nation apologises for being involved in slavery and, lo and behold, it's fine?
"People claim they want an apology. But the truth is that, even if they get one, they will want more or they wont accept the apology given.
"Apologies are a waste of time and energy. Action is the only thing that makes a difference.
"The government, your government, apologises for health service failings. But, they don't DO anything. Anything, except throw more money down the same drain.
"I'm not knocking your country, merely using it as an example. Every country, with a couple of noticeable exceptions, apologises for something. Those that don't usually have a lot more to apologise for."
She continued in this vein for all of the remaining time of the programme.
I walked out of the studio, led Carmen to the hospitality room and poured us both a large brandy.
Sally burst in and hugged me. "Pour me one too." She turned to Carmen, hugged her as well and, doing her bouncy puppy routine, told her she'd been fantastic.
She kissed Carmen who seemed slightly put out if not actually appalled.
"She does that, Carmen," I said. "It's like shaking hands for her."
When Carmen had gone, Sally invited me up to her flat. It was more of a command than an invitation really. "Get that arse upstairs. I always get horny when things go well."
And I have to say she did not lie. The door of her flat closed, she pushed me hard against the wall and as her moth closed on mine, firm and intrusive, one hand massaged my breast while the other went up under my dark blue, full, leather skirt. Pulling my knickers aside she invaded me, two fingers curling firmly into me. I wasn't so much a participant as a sex object. No complaints there.
She almost dragged me to her bed and I sat down on it and watched as she undressed and then, to my intense delight, strapped on a lovely, blue, soft leather harness with a matching blue dildo dangling merrily from it.
