by LS Harteveld
Lauren’s 100 Day Tutelage has ended and she has concluded she’ll go on a 100 Day Anais Nin quest writing erotica and diaries. Read how she came to this conclusion on the previous post and here on her yoga blog. Oh who am I kidding! Dive right in 😉
I have been sober for two weeks, praising the clarity of my mind and embracing my new identity as social saint. I am beyond suspicion when it comes to matters of good character, disciplined living, and other traits hailed in yoga teachers and other balanced professionals. I gave up drinking to gain full control over my mental powers and my old personality fell of me. Like lizard’s skin. My white winter coat, that I am still wearing these cold days this May, has become a white cloak of innocence. Not drinking has provided me with a VIP Saint card that will let me off the hook till eternity or until my first wine. Whichever one comes first.
I ring the top bell to the penthouse and stay in front of the camera even though I will have to leap to get the door. The buzzer always seems too short. His “hello?” always disturbed, as if he didn’t expect company. The hallway is quiet like an insurance office with succulent dark green plants and luscious ferns in brick planters with terra colored granules. The elevator is waiting for me on the ground floor and will take me to a home cooked dinner: steak and salad. He will have extra dark chocolate mousse from the caterer and will feed it to me before dinner and I ll say: “You know that’s cheating, right?”
And he’ll answer: “I do.”
For a while we switched to daylight. The dates became more frequent and never caused the withdrawal of our nightly encounters. Nor did they invoke the insatiable need in me to be held, to be comforted. Which had proven to be problematic since his after-sex service stopped at the door. Daytime sex was neither remembered for its epicness, nor for its disruptive backlash. It merely touched the surface of what we were capable of. They probably stopped because he too preferred agony – in his case a guilt ridden heart – to barely feeling anything. It was a price we were willing to pay.
A wave of nervousness flushes over me, mixed with excitement and arousal. A big smile, feeling so deliciously alive, still in awe over the purity of this. Wholeheartedly being in love is miraculous in its simplicity. You can’t believe you’ll ever settle again. Maybe on availability. Or justification. I ll settle for social shaming, or other forms of exclusion because I am the other woman. For that I will settle. But not on feeling anything less than this intoxicating thrill.
His tall physique blocks the door. I kiss the shaved cheek and receive the hug of the sturdy torso. It’s the familiarity between our bodies that always surprises me. I like role playing and sex games, and have done that with all of my boyfriends. But it’s the uncompromising love our bodies have for each other that makes this intoxicating. My body lead me to this one, an unreliable married man. And it was the purest choice I ever made.
The friendly wrinkles near his bright blue eyes. The husky How are you? It’s all equally enchanting. Craving that first moment our lips touch and then controlling myself because I don’t want to admit how much I want him. Or how much more I want. Progressive and addictive as wine. Maybe that’s why I stopped drinking because no way I could sober up on this one. The deeply seductive Mister Big.
He’s wearing one of his pressed white shirts, top buttons loose, sleeves rolled up. I never understood how a man my age could be so potent and yet still have a full head of black hair. Where does he leave all that testosterone? He has moderate chest hair like a twenty year old. And I know what that looks like. But the cute eye wrinkles and sun tanned skin put him right up in his forties. I suspect he has never been more stunning than he is now. And he has never been more dangerous.
“So no wine I guess?”
He throws me a devilish smile before taking a sip from his red in an elegant oversized glass.
He prepares our meal without putting on an apron. Thank God. Not that I ever detected one here but with a business shirt like that and my broad experience with dating, part of me still expects he’ll get anal on moments like that. And not in a good way. Considering the flaws I neglected in other men, insecurities I healed, egos I mended and the gallons of unrepresentative outfits I tolerated, I forgive myself for being cautious. Those poor lovers probably had to put up with my quirks as well. Nothing as tiring as imperfect love. It’s the flawless ease of being together that gives him away. His true feelings. The ones he’ll rather choke on than share. I’m convinced never speaking of love is his way of staying loyal to his wife. A successful one, as far as I’m concerned.
The table is already set and he serves me a medium steak without asking how I have it.
“They turned out perfect.” He cuts through his own work. His is thicker and rare.
“Why did you stop drinking?”
“I got you to make my head spin.” I tease him. “And I like the saint status. I can do no wrong now. It’s like I won a zillion karma points. I could play out my darkest fantasies and still look at myself in the mirror.”
“How about your darkest fantasies while looking at yourself in the mirror?”
His time to smirk.
“There is only one way to find out,” I suggest. I play cool but this makes me nervous. Part of me still fears he’ll reject me. Before, during or after. And that’s not counting his regular 48 hour post-coital fall-out. “Maybe the bucket list? It’s been so long since we did one.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I thought the doctor one.”
“Okay.” He gulps down his wine. “Give me a minute.”
He leaves the candles burning, music on, and walks to the bedroom.
“What do I say then?” I suddenly panic.
We French kissed in the kitchen half an hour ago. And although I could feel myself getting turned on making out on the countertop, legs spread, it didn’t count as real foreplay. But this does. That domineering voice telling me:
“You figure it out. It’s your fantasy.”
He walks calmly to the bedroom and closes the door lightly. Nerves flare up with an intensity of a thousand butterflies. Fuck. We’re gonna do this.
My mind races with options. A non-sexual ailment and leave it up to him to make it sexual? That’s not my fantasy. That’s a porn script. He might as well have been a pizza delivery guy. I decide to take responsibility for the way we start off. He’ll take it from there, I know he will. But he will be more bold if I stand up for what I want. And not be shy or dodgy. I will say I have a new boyfriend after a very long time of being single. Intercourse is painful and I have no idea what’s going on. I walk to the shut door of the familiar bedroom, with the man I’ve been seeing for 18 months yet with whom I feel it’s the first time every time. Knowing him seems to vaporize during the long periods we don’t see each other. I always start new and fresh, he remains a stranger. I’m suddenly scared but I knocked already. I don’t know if I can do this. And then he opens the door. He’s wearing his glasses. I’m so stunned I forget to introduce myself and weakly shake his hand.
“Please take a seat.”
The room is brightly lit. The bed is bare, with a white fitted sheet. He routinely goes through a set of questions, without showing any interest. He tells me to undress.
I take my pants off. He stays on his chair occupied with his notes. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen it all.” Bored. Arrogant. I can feel the thrill of this fantasy unfolding. Like I’m unwrapping a present knowing what’s in it, and yet I get more excited with every new layer of see through paper. I know I ll be wet when he examines me. I can protest and complain as much as I like without him thinking I want him to stop. We never have safe words. Our role play is light as a feather on the scale of S and M. Not having a safe word provides it with a little extra edge. His natural limit for inflicting pain comes before I’ve reached my desired level of it. I know that. Maybe we should have agreed on a code word for when I want more.
He looks over his glasses: “You can lie down now. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
A towel is waiting for me, laid out horizontally.
I stare in the mirror above me, my knees drop out, ankles crossed. I’m still wearing a red top. I can hear a pen scratching the paper. A dry cough. Absentminded noises. Maybe it’s the lack of alcohol but I get this heightened sense of awareness. I hear clearly, see, taste, smell. The tension in my body builds up in a way that becomes unbearable. The only choice is to let go but it’s like it’s wringed out of me. The face of the woman staring back, close to tears, reflecting an uneasy bunch of mixed emotions. I’m okay. I’m going to enjoy this. No shame. It will only rob me from pleasure. No shame.
“It can be a bit cold.”
He’s here. Where was I?
I let out a moan, startled by the coldness of his fingertips and my burning desire.
He spreads my labia. “Just try to relax as much as possible.”
A second moan. I close my eyes. No more mirror.
I answer questions about what I feel. I follow instructions. When to push, when to relax. When to brace myself. I don’t protest when he announces he will now do the back, and he goes through the whole script again. And I welcome the final phase. The build up to examining both. I squeak and can’t resist looking in the mirror. No matter how much shame forbids it. He leaves for the bathroom and I hear him wash his hands. I smile at the bashful woman. She’s blushing.
He returns, still drying his hands with a soft white towel and I give him a “That was fun!” glance. But he looks serious. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He puts the towel on the table and sits next to me. “I need to do one more examination.”
A shock of horniness immediately flows to my pussy. My mouth stays open. Stunned. How am I supposed to respond? He ignores my off-key response.
“You need to stay present for this. You can’t shut your eyes and you will have to look at me. Can you do that?”
Another rush. I nod. Yes.
He extensively walks me through what I can expect. Every detail, every calmly explained invasive act makes me shiver, desire, and fear in the most delicious way. A growing urge to drop out of the role of the victimized patient and share my enthusiasm. But I don’t.
I only smile once, but he rewards me with quick wink.
“I need your permission,” the serious voice closes everything he just told me. “It will be painful but if you can’t take it anymore, you have to tell me immediately.”
Blue eyes. Stern glasses.
“Okay.” I whisper coarsely.
Our session goes on for another hour before we lie in each other’s arms. Fully satisfied. I can finally tell him how amazing this was. I already got a taste of it with a playful lover, years ago.
“I never went for pap smears after that,” I say.
“Why not?” Big asks. “You would actually enjoy it.”
I explain my pragmatic view on illness and early diagnoses. Something we have opposing views on. But that’s not the only reason. “Until I played doctor with that boyfriend, I didn’t know how much I appreciate this. I love this. I really do.” I let past experiences and what we just did melt together. Like I’m accumulating treasures. “I think I love it more than life itself.”
He tightens his arms around me, and squeezes me even closer with a warm hugging leg.