The Freediver

Preamble:

This is a banter-style teasing, titillating story, written in literature nuanced prose.

The action is light, the culminating lovemaking savage, but poetic. If you are aching for bruising, caterwauling, torrenting action by rippling triathletes, this is not for you.

***

Chapter 1: Thoughts And Yearnings

Chapter 2: Vacation

Chapter 3: Air

Chapter 4: Island

Chapter 5: Café

Chapter 6: Rick's

Chapter 7: Prep

Chapter 8: Hirsute

Chapter 9: Freediving

Chapter 10: Couple

Chapter 11: Fire

Chapter 12: Nocturne

Chapter 13: Surf

Chapter 14: Playback

Chapter 15: Singularity

Chapter 16: Betrayal

Epilogue

***

Chapter 1

Thoughts And Yearnings

I look at the wildflowers in the vase on my coffee table. There is really no point trying to arrange them. The honeysuckle, the forget-me-not, the iris, they have tumbled into their symmetry.

I tilt back my chair a little, and survey the photos, mementos and books on my shelf, as one might a life.

How often do we tell our own life story? Our life is not our life, even if it seems so. It is just a story we have told about our life. A story about our life told to others, but mainly to ourselves.

I think of everything that has happened in my life, and how little I have allowed to happen.

I am fifty today. I have been married for thirty years. One son. He is twenty years old.

Fifty is a quietly tumultuous time in a woman's calendar of life. A sort of existentialist angst sets in, maybe not so different from the youthful variety. Déjà vu? Yes, but also not quite.

For the longest time, I cannot figure if I am going somewhere, or just going. Now, I am decidedly launched on a trajectory arc, on the cusp to something novel and life-changing.

But, what precisely? Is it a journey? A destination? Or, more intuitively, a journey to an end destination? A longing to be accepted for my radical new aspirations, but too old to be seeking approval.

If there is a destination, where is that? I philosophise this in my swirl of mind. The destination is the end point. But, is it in reality? More pragmatically, the destination is that point of the journey when one passes the point of no return. The rest, beyond the hump, as they say, is freewheeling downhill all the way.

I have been reading erotic literature for about two years. It is only since the beginning of my menopause that I feel a need or desire for new forms of stimulation. I have given myself the time, opportunity and permission to enjoy myself alone.

I chance upon a mature female English author in a popular erotic literature website. I am caught up by the potential reality of her stories, and the engaging way they have been crafted. I value well-written stories, imaginative language, beautifully described images, and believable situations and action. Her stories carry these elements. What I want is to have my mind stimulated and excited, dancing, pirouetting dizzily on edge, and to imagine things more than meet the eye and mind. I like the stories to focus sometimes on sensuality and tenderness. An unlikely brew of savage carnal tenderness. I enjoy her stories for these very reasons. I can feel herself in the picture. See what the story character sees. I want in on the story, and is admitted by the narrative force. Once in, that force will not let me out until the story, and hence me, is spent.

I particularly like the stories about teasing photo sessions, and a bit of mature woman and young man frisson. I find myself eagerly scheduling time to read yet another story in her collection, or a second or third instalment of a story.

Outside of erotic literature, I have a particular appreciation for women writers. I enjoy Pat Barker, Anne O'Brien, Philippa Gregory and Hilary Mantel. Their historical work has given me so much pleasure, especially so because of their perspectives. The historical novel can be a backdoor into the present, which is very valuable.

I was first drawn into this realm by Philippa Gregory's 'The Other Boleyn Girl' of book, then movie fame. An unlikely story around a woman who is a footnote in history.

So too Pat Barker's war-themed 'Regeneration Trilogy'. War is terrible and never to be repeated. And yet, the experiences derived from the wreckage, after considered introspection, are of enormous value.

And Hilary Mantel's Cromwell trilogy. Twice Booker Prize laureate, with a shot at a third.

I think women do view the world differently and being able to express that difference, not necessarily in what is said, but in the way it is said, has given me enormous satisfaction and a sense of being part of the sisterhood.

And this applies to that author in erotic literature too. Erotic literature is dominated by male authors, who focus too much on the animistic hump and grump, and graphic depiction, very much a man's lurid pleasure, when what I want is stimulation and excitement at a subtle, more abstract level.

I have never tried my hand at writing erotica. I feel that I will not know where to start, or what sort of subject or genre my imagination should inhabit.

Perhaps a mature woman being seduced by a young man? Or two young men? Perhaps stir in a little taboo, my son and his friend?

If I am really wicked, I may imagine a scene where my son and his friend cajole me to pose for them, for an art project or something artistically worthwhile in the creative sphere. I know that the idea is not particularly original, but is exciting. I unconsciously writhe my body, and then realise that I am animating my story. I blush shyly to my sentinel other self. But, I feel a stab of devilish pleasure in these private thoughts.

At a time when I am pondering the sensual order of my life, of what has been, and what can be, the erotic stories have helped in making my mind race giddily into yet uncharted dangerous and daring areas. The point of no return must by necessity be fraught with high hazards. Otherwise, it would not be a point of no return. A crossing of the raging Rubicon.

Menopause is a physical, and then, psychological marker. Since the beginning of my menopause, I have been aware of so many changes. Much of it has been flowering in gratifying bloom. I feel that the linear constrained life I have led, and being hidden away under a shell is over. I am emerging from myself in a lush of reinvention. Appreciating myself much more. Affording myself time and opportunity to enjoy things more, to satisfy demands and desires that I have rejected or ignored for most of my life.

This has gone along with an increase in my libido. I sense a different heat of fire in my loins.

***

I look at a bit of porn. I initially treat porn with a sort of fascinated repulsion. But, it grows on me. Some videos have been a big help. The ones that suggest and imply, rather than tell and recite.

But, it is the written word that satisfies me most. This has led to my exploring all sorts of genres and concepts that I would only a few years ago been shocked by, and felt were outrageous.

***

I discover that being naked around the house is wonderful. When my husband is out, I enjoy doing house chores naked. Wandering nude around the house is quite thrilling. In the hallway, there is plenty of see-through glass on either side of the door that leads to the street. The curtains in my sitting room are open.

In the beginning, getting habituated to the pleasant sensation of soothing air caressing my private skin, the tingle of naughty nakedness is overwhelming. I get moist. That soon builds up deliciously to copious dribble. I have to wipe myself.

And soon after, a noticeable wet spot builds all over again. At first, I use tissues. One day, I run out of tissues. I use my panties as wipes instead. The sensation of sheer material grazing my delicate nether flesh creates as much fluid as it soaks up.

And there are other sensual innovations to fire up little pleasures.

***

I am tidying my son's room. I am nude as usual. My son has his own apartment. But, my hubby and I maintain a room for him, his former room, for him to use on days when he stays over.

There is a portrait of my son on the shelf. An artfully posed intent, a little brooding, sort of observing look, yet softly engaging. I just cannot suppress the impulse to reposition the picture a little each time before I begin to clean the room, so that it surveys the room, his room, properly.

I am tidying, ordering his drawers when I discover a stash of briefs. Male thongs to be precise. Effectively cock socks, I muse in muted wonder.

Is he a hipster? Or, maybe gay? Or both? I do not follow male fashion fads, let alone male intimate wear. I don't know. It doesn't matter. He is who he is.

Hmmm... so this is his male measure. I raised him. Is it sized to full flourish? Or, sedate normal form?

My moist has turned to flow. Instinctively, I pick up one of his thongs to soak up my piquant excitement. I gaze guiltily at the portrait picture. Is that a smirk on his face?

His brief is the exact opposite of my sheer panties. Even though economical of textile, it is rough, raw and male. A muscularity to the garment. I close the drawer as if to shut out my thoughts.

I wipe up the inside of my thigh, soaking up the rivulets of feminine fluid. But, his minimal thong is too small to soak it all up. My thigh is still wet. I'm going to shower shortly anyway after my chores.

I leave my fluids be. It feels so wrong walking around naked with my fluids on my leg. I feel deviant.

Hereon, I will dispense with wiping up my fluids. They are what they are. A part of my constitution and bodily self-expression that I must not deny. But, only in so far that it does not dribble down to the floor.

***

On an inexplicable whim, a whim whose time has come, I put on my fuck-me high heels one day when I am naked in front of the bedroom mirror. It elevates me to a whole new level of high. Physical, psychological and sensual.

Footwear is not worn just for the benefit of men. It is to tease and please both the woman wearer and observers.

Most of the pleasure of buying shoes involves a private fantasy that begins with the woman, and ends at her feet. And that is the case with me.

The stiletto becomes a part of my naked repertoire. And on particularly productive days when my feminine arousal runs down to my feet, and then collects a little at my high heels, I experience a curious queasy sensation that is repulsively pleasurable.

***

I love walking naked in my, mostly private, garden. My very own secret garden.

In Frances Hodgson Burnett's novel, 'The Secret Garden', the garden is a metaphor for self-discovery and wondrous rejuvenation. A thing that is neglected withers. But when it is worked on and cared for, it thrives.

I cannot think that I am an exhibitionist. But, I can understand that delicious thrill of being seen fleetingly naked to unsuspecting eyes.

It begins mundanely, if not perfunctorily, with gardening. Naked bliss or not, those earthly chores must be done. Watering, trimming, culling, weeding. Oh, the heady smell of turned earth!

Once, when I felt the urge to ease myself, I decided to just do it, rather than beetle indoors.

A small defiance of rule. So small as to be undetectable. Such are the petit rewards I hold out for myself.

The garden nook that I most want to fertilise with my personal stock of urea is also the most vulnerable to neigbourly eyes. But, a pee is fleeting. And no one is the wiser. To the best of my knowledge...

***

Chapter 2

Vacation

Shit happens!

Three days before our departure, my husband, who works in an adequately awesome Investment Bank, wins a megadeal. The biggest ever.

He has to cancel his leave to get started on the project. I have been a corporate animal before. Lived the drill one too many times. They will go through the workplace human drama of formin', stormin', normin', performing, before a sort of functional sanity is bedded down, to execute real work. Tuckman's theory. Time is of the essence. In a sense, it is a happy problem. A nice hurrah to top my husband's career before he contemplates early retirement.

We can get a refund for one pax, but not for two. I have to go without my husband.

I have mixed feelings about this turn of event. Annoying and liberating.

***

Chapter 3

Air

The plane is half full. No, more like half empty. Just when I think that I will have two seats to curl up luxuriate, a late boarding blustering lad treks up the aisle. I hear him shaft his bulging worldly sausage of backpack into the overhead luggage compartment.

Gazing up from my cellphone screen, I suppress a gasp.

Uncanny. No. Surreal. A near clone of my son, except for his darker hair. Twenty. Maybe twenty-one max. My tribal instinct tells me he cannot be anything but English.

I recompose myself. He settles down on the aisle seat. He smiles. His gleaming teeth betrays a startling over consumption of calcium.

***

The plane soars above time and space. The sky is a drifting canvas of sun and clouds. Of brilliant and filtered light.

I think of the Joni Mitchell song. A fave of mine. A folk anthem of my era which came to my consciousness in my teens. It resonates with me like I have written and composed it myself right off my head, unbeknownst to Joni Mitchell, one inspired morning in time. Some songs do that to you. Most songs sing by you, seeking its listener to fasten on.

"Rows and flows of angel hair

And ice cream castles in the air

And feather canyons everywhere

I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun

They rain and snow on everyone

So many things I would have done

But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now

From up and down, and still somehow

It's cloud illusions I recall

I really don't know clouds at all"

Art songs, they call these. Poetry on wheels.

Such beautiful words! No words can describe these beautiful words. And that is me on song. A cloud illusion I am. I don't know me at all.

***

"I'm Sebastian. Seb. Pleased to meet you."

I smile in widening increments, "Sophia. Sophie. Soph. Pleased to meet you too."

Short light brown hair. Dark eyes. Light nuances of Mediterranean, mystified with hints of Levantine. He sports a little arrow tail of hair at his nape of neck. The only outward badge hint of what I suspect is his artistic bent. Good shoulders. Tops six feet. He bears the marks of a racing swimmer's arrow of V-build. Or, maybe a sailor, or some watersport. Bronzed toned arms. Lean. Mean. Fresh faced. Exactly what a young Englishman named Sebastian should classically look like. A lovely young man in our Brit vernacular.

I am a watersports fiend too. A champion swimmer in my glory days. As is my son, in my wake.

I think we will get on swimmingly on this flight interlude.

"You look like you're on the cusp of backpacking through a gap year?"

"I just finished uni. Backpacking six months before I begin work."

"Ah! A missionary looking for a theology."

"Hmmm... this is one way to think about it."

"Do you mind if I ask what you majored in?"

"Philosophy. A minor in Lit."

"Ah! A humanist!"

"I'll probably do something which puts pen to paper. Packing and unpacking words. Publishing, journalism, creative writing, and the like. If they would have me."

"And your ambition?"

"An accomplished creative writer. Maybe a Julian Barnes, a Kazuo Ishiguro or a Zadie Smith, but increasingly with my own imprint as I assert my craft. I give myself five years."

He continues, "That said, there is the writer, and there is writing. I want to write because I'm enamoured of writing. Not because I like the idea of being a writer. People romanticise the idea of a writer."

He has a clipped public school precise way of speech. A little courtly.

I offer, "You can't force creativity. But, you need to force the start of your creativity."

"That's a good tip. I'll remember that."

"So pray tell, how does a writer go about his craft?"

"A writer is obsessed with inventing stories for people he comes across. An overwhelming curiosity makes him ask himself what their lives might be like. He wants to know what they do. Where they are from. Their names. What they may be thinking of at that moment. What they regret. What they hope for. Whom they have loved. What they have dreamed of. And if they happen to be women, then, the urge becomes intense. How quickly he will want to see her naked. Naked through to her heart. Learn where she is coming from. Where she is going. Why she is here and not elsewhere. While letting his eyes wander all over her, he imagines love affairs for her. Ascribes deep feelings to her. He thinks of what her bedroom might look like. And a thousand things besides..."

"So, what's my story?"

"I'm still figuring..."

"And you..., errr..., Soph? What do you do?"

"Do you feel uncomfortable calling me Soph?"

"Kinda..."

"But why? Because I'm old enough to be your mum?"

"That's a third of it."

"Oh? A third?"

Smiling, "Mum's name is Soph."

The right corner of his mouth slants upwards, and his eyes half-close, almost owlish if in dim light. It is the smile of someone who knows he is the luckiest person in the world, and trusts that you are generous enough not to resent him for it. Cocky. Yet, somehow winning.

Piqued, "So, what's the final third?"

"This is uncanny. Surreal. You look like mum."

Teasingly, "Would it be easier on you if you call me mum?"

Quipping, "No, mum. Soph is fine."

An icebreaker. We laugh a little too spiritedly. The stewardess casts a glance in our direction with fascinated alarm.

"You know, Seb, I don't want to spook you. You look like my son."

"Oh! What's his name?"

Lisping, "Seth"

Laughter. A reverberation through the cabin. Did the plane just traverse an air pocket?

Emboldened, he ascertains me more closely. He puts his hand in his pocket. Is he starved for it? I feel my clothes tighten on my body. Is that my brassiere tightening its clasp on my bosom?

He has a quality of interpretability. You can find in him more or less whatever that you are looking for. Clever but not cynical, involved but not aggressive.

Finally returning to his question, "I was a raging, raving, ranging corporate warrior. Tech. The archetype of the species. Retired a year ago from the insanity. Living up my belated gap year. The gap year wasn't invented yet in my time, you see."

"Which are the places you'd like to immerse in?"

"The places that drove me nuts during my corporate road warrior days, where I could never get anything done. Hawaii, Tahiti, Latin America, Spain, Greece, Portugal, Thailand, Indonesia. I saw a great many things in these places, but always from afar. They say living well is the best revenge. I want to go back to these places to do just that."

"Soph, you're so devastatingly rational."

Admiring his clamshell burst of chest, "You're a competitive swimmer, aren't you?"

"How can you tell?"

"Because I was one too."

We look at each other as if searching for ourselves.

"I'm intrigued by your creative writing ambition. Is there any particular theme that captivates you?"

"Transcendence"

"Your inspiration for that?"

"Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being."

"I've watched the film, but not read the book. What's it about the work that so inspires you?"

"Challenging Nietzsche's concept of Eternal Recurrence. The idea that the universe and its events have already occurred and will recur ad infinitum. The story suggests the alternative. That each person has only one life to live, and that which occurs in life occurs only once and never again. Thus, the "lightness" of being. This lightness also signifies freedom. The characters, Tomáš and Sabina live this lightness. Whereas Tereza's character is weighed down."