For how long would you stay away from a list like "Les Désirs des Femmes"?
It all depends how much you love sex and the adventures that go with it - the seeking and the finding, the seduction, or the being seduced. And erotic outcomes, just as you want them to be. And pleasure is always the goal.
So, my libido and I fired up my laptop again last night and we were soon back at that all-giving, all delectable, magical, mystical online list of all the women who have ever desired me.
Not long ago, and thanks to the list, I had had an amazing two hours in a Thai massage parlour with three very willing women who all took me to twenty-year-old heaven before, during and after I had made them all come in ways I didn't even know I could.
Before that, thanks to the list, I'd gone up to London and was soon tongue-deep in a beautiful older woman I bearly remembered, in the room above her stylish leather boot salon. She won't forget the lead-up to that climax, and neither will I.
And before that there was the prettiest of them all, back at my local bookstore, just after closing time. Her face was almost a picture of pain as she came, but afterwards she reassured me that it had been quite the opposite of pain. The very, very, very opposite of pain, she said, as she buttoned up her blouse again and kissed me goodbye.
All thanks to "Les Désirs des Femmes."
I raise a glass to those guys, whoever they are...
So, tonight, the list fills my laptop screen again, but there are names here I now know I won't explore again, or at all, for this and that reason, but mostly because I have a taste for the new, the novel, the unknown. And there are enough unvisited names left on the list to allow me plenty more fun. And that's turning me on again, just thinking about it, especially with the lust I have for hot women, and in particular for hot older women - it's an itch which I love to scratch.
Little did I know that the next three days would become a blur of everything from gentle love-making, to hard rutting, to willful sex-slavery, to bondage, to laugh-out-loud hilarity, to... well, you will see.
For absolutely no reason at all, I now went for the shortest name remaining on the list, one which gave me no clues at all as to why it was there. This has become one of the great joys for me about my list; I have no idea who 90% of these women are, and in what ways they might have lusted after me in the first place. But there they are... Let me at them!
So, to the list... Shortest name... shortest name... it looks like it's going to be... Holly Beck.
Oh, Miss Holly. Who art thou? And where art thou hiding? And what kind of lustiness goes through life with you? What, deep down, do you wish a man would do to you to make you grind and shudder? Miss Holly, Miss Holly...
I am coming to get you.
Half an hour later I was pulling up in my car outside a smart address in a town I had always had a soft spot for; for its open spaces, perfect riverfront and air of calm. It is near where I grew up, and coincidentally it's the town where I first kissed a girl, or rather she kissed me, and I smiled inwardly at the fond memory of me as a shy buck, wondering what might happen after that first kiss. But now, back in the present, I locked the car and paced over to Holly's front door, now in shadow as night was falling. There were no lights on at home.
I hadn't even phoned in advance, even though the list gives contact details for all the listed women. Now I just wanted a raw adventure, and if there is a man or a family in Holly's life, well, I was in the kind of bring-it-on mood that meant that whatever I came face-to-face with here... well, I was going to ride the wave, whatever. Better to try and fail than not try at all.
There was no doorbell, just an ormamental bronze knocker quite low down on the impressive pine-finish door. The house itself was a little way back from the other houses in a small, chestnut-lined cul-de-sac, with a neat front garden, leaded windows and room for three cars to park at the front. There were no cars there right now, but there was a whiff of money in the air.
No car? Maybe my Miss Holly's not home.
Shame, as I really, really was in the mood to walk into an intriguing female stranger's life and see if I, or we, could get something gloriously erotic going ASAP.
No overthinking now, mate, that's the rule... so I clanked the bronze knocker three confident times, and stood back to see what the Fates had in store for me.
I waited, and waited some more.
Nothing. No light came on, no sound - and my heart sank a little. I waited a full minute more - still nothing.
This was the first time I had gone out on a 'Désirs' mission, and drawn a blank, and, dumbly, I almost started to blame the list for nor delivering a hot woman there and then right into my lap.
But a moment later I snapped out of that silliness when a car's headlights panned into the driveway where I was standing in the half dark, and I felt that instinctive panic you feel when you're caught red-handed doing something half-odd or half-guilty.
The headlights went out and a figure got out of the car - then a quite prim female voice said:
"Well, that's a trip I never want to repeat! Bloody middle-Englanders! So petty, so unimaginative..."
I thought to myself - Do I stay or go? And what's she going on about? Is this Holly Beck? And why is she not bothered, arriving home to find me in her driveway, with the house empty, at 10 at night?
I took the chance: "Holly? Holly Beck?"
The woman paused and looked at me for a second.
"No, Holly will be here tomorrow. Now, who are you?"
I made the instant decision to go through with this and find out more about the place, the situation, the chance of adventure... I gave her a made-up name and then I said something that surprised even me as the words came out of my mouth.
Crazy, I know, but people with a lively mind, like me, often have both a dislike of the mundane, and a lively thirst for thrills - and here was me spontaneously going for a big thrill. I said:
"Holly doesn't know it yet, but whenever she gets here, she and I are going to have the fuck of our lives."
There was a deafening silence. Then a look passed over the woman's face which I just could not interpret at all. Surely she's going to get mad and scream me right out of the driveway... That's what people would do, right? ...hearing the words I had just said.
But she paced towards the front door, now visible in an elegant trouser-suit. Looking for the right key on a large key-ring and, in a voice almost too soft to hear, she said:
"Cheeky fucker, you'd better come inside."
Reader, I will spare you the full details of the next hour but this is where the story gets even more whacky.
Minutes later, the woman (let's call her Lady M) was sitting across from me at a large dining table. You could see some ageing-lines on her face, but she had style, with long, well-cut blonde hair, and now looking much more attractive indoors in the light. With our two glasses of red wine now mostly empty before us she was looking at me with a smile which was as impenetrable as her earlier look had been.
