Chet's dead

‘Chet’s dead.’

No-one asked ‘How?’ or ‘Where?’ or even ‘Why?’ Bill, the drummer, just asked, ‘When?’

‘This morning – 3 am. Hit by a car at Taylor Square,’ said Shane. Shane was our guitarist, the informal leader of our four piece  - now three piece – jazz outfit.

We were sitting in our rehearsal space. A basement bar in Sydney’s CBD. The place where we had all met.

Chet had been on a downward spiral for six months. The booze and drugs and late nights were enough to cause anyone to walk into oncoming traffic. Other demons, including a failed marriage, probably drove our sensitive and talented saxophonist to end his life so soon.

I got a round of drinks. Shane proposed a sober toast to Chet. We’d lost a friend, someone who got ‘it.’ We were all probably thinking two things: goodbye dear friend, and … how will we ever replace you?

Our group was on the verge of something significant. And tomorrow was a threshold moment for us. Tomorrow’s gig could lead to a headline at the Byron Jazz Festival. And that could lead to dates in London, Paris, New York, Berlin. Something we’d all strived for.

‘I um … have a replacement for tomorrow night. And if she works out, she can follow us onto Byron. Maybe beyond,’ said Shane.

Bill and I stiffened. We’d played with woman before, but I’d yet (sorry to say this) come across a good, I mean a really good, female sax player.

Before Bill and I could express our doubts, you walked in. The first thing that struck me was you appeared tiny – 5’ 3’’, maybe. But you carried your sax case with such confidence and quite bravado you looked much taller.

‘Guys – this is Monique. Monique Siren,’ said Shane.

‘Sorry to hear about Chet,’ you said. Bill, Shane and I looked at our drinks. There was nothing to say.

‘Well, let’s jam, eh? For Chet?’ said Shane.

We made our way to the small stage. The owner let us use his bar as a rehearsal space before opening hours. I plugged my bass guitar in my amp. Bill settled himself behind his drum kit. Shane did a final tune to his guitar. The three of us preparing to become one.

You opened the case you’d carried in and withdrew a tarnished sax. The reed was already fitted. You did a quick warm up of your fingers. Then you said – ‘What then?’

‘Let’s do ‘Round Midnight,’ said Shane, the Miles Davis classic. While originally composed for the horn, the sax can bring a different energy to this timeless standard.

Your face lit up, but only briefly. Like someone had suggested your favourite restaurant or book. It was apparent you were being cool and guarded around us.

It was a rough and ready rendition. Us blokes were so upset about losing our dear friend. And it showed. My bass lines were chaotic. Bill’s drumming was loose, but not in a good way. And Shane’s guitar howled – really howled. Sadly.

But something surprising happened. Your sax playing came over the top of this soup and lay a calm, musical hand on all of us. You played with great sensitivity. Calm intuition. Pose and precision.

I looked at Bill, then at Shane. Out mouths were open. Stunned by your quiet virtuosity. But more than that: you got ‘it’, just like Chet had.

The song concluded and you stood with you eyes closed, the way they had been for the entire piece. No speaking. Just the hiss of the amps and the sounds for the club’s kitchen.

We gigged the following night. And blew the crowd away. A lot of our friends and family, plus a few fans, showed up after hearing about Chet’s death. Many of us were thinking about him. But an equal number were drawn to you and your playing.

You struck such a pose. Slim red pants and black high heels. A plain white t-shirt and a tight-fitting black jacket. A single-strand pearl necklace. Your eyes were shrouded in deep black/ blue eye shadow. Intense black eyeliner and heavy mascara gave you a distance, impenetrable mystique. Bright, blood-red lipstick was carefully and provocatively painted on your full lips. Your black hair pulled back tight and parted to one side.

If the crowded noticed your intense image this was secondary to your passionate and relentless playing. We were not as tight as we had been with Chet. But something else was at play here. I stood along side you all night in awe of your skill and animal understand of where we were trying to be through our music.

The night ended late as usual. Instead of breakfast or more drinking I did what I loved to do. I retreated to my home in Coogee in Sydney’s Eastern suburbs. Stored my guitar and amp, then grabbed my flippers. At the end of my street was the beach. I plunged into the ocean and struck out for Wedding Cake Island, about 500 metres off shore.

This was a morning ritual to clear my head after a night of booze, loud music and cigarettes. And as I swam this morning, in the twilight with the cool water flowing over my body, I tried to make sense of you. You’d come from nowhere. And fitted right in. It was like a dream. And you were so beautiful.

By the time I clambered on to the rocks of the island, the sun was just rising. Alone all I could think about was you.

Our hot performance with you meant we scored the Byron gig. Two weeks later, after a couple of other gigs and five or six rehearsals, we were packing the hire van for the long drive north.

You showed up like me: a case for your instrument, a small duffle bag and a surfboard in a snug cover. We looked at each other and smiled. ‘And she surfs, too! Is there anything you can’t do, Monique?’ said Bill.

We found ourselves together in the very back seat and used the ten hours drive to get to know each other. By the time we got to Byron some of the mystery surround you had disappeared. But there still remained a lot to discover.

Our first gig was the following night. At about 4.30 am I quietly tried to leave the hotel for a dawn surf.

When I got to the hire van you were there. Surfboard, wetsuit and towel on the ground. ‘I knew I’d find you here,’ you said. ‘Let’s go. Wind should be good for Lennox Point.’

We spent three hours together surfing. Trading waves. Laughing. Back at the hotel we crashed in our separate rooms knowing we’d need to recoup for an intense gig that night.

The gig that night was a revelation. You and I were on top of our game. I put it down to the energy from the ocean, and the gradual bond we were developing. Shane and Bill played joyfully, maybe in memory of Chet.

Happy and pumped and full of hope we found ourselves alone in the foyer of the hotel. Your mascara had run a little and I smelt of beer and cigarettes and the sea. And so did you.

Our hands found each other. Then our stomach and chests. And finally our lips.

In your room we undressed wildly. Collapsing on the bed I finally got to see your body. It was taunt and strong from years of blowing that sax. Your throat had an intense knot of muscle running each side of your windpipe. Your arms were sinewy, but dusted with a delicious layer of downy hair.

After a long, wet messy kiss I pulled my mouth down to your breasts. Pert and smooth, the nipples stood up like little rubbers on the end of pencils. I sucked and nibbled each one in turn. Your fingernails drove into my scalp urging me on.

Down further, over your stomach and into the soft forest of your pubic hairs. You took your hands off my head. Your fingers spread the velvety folds of your vulva. My tongue licked the entire length of your sex. I desperately needed feedback on what you wanted. As my warm, wet tongue massaged your clitoris it was clear this is what you needed. A low rumble – like the deepest sax note – built in your chest. As it rose to your throat it changed pitch. When it emerged from your mouth you were almost singing. A soft cooing. Your pleasure sounds compelled me to continue.

And then you were falling. Fingernails again in my scalp. Shuddering. Broken words. More shudders. Then narcotic stillness.

I fell asleep, too. Nestled into your breasts. Our breathing unison. Nothingness.

I woke to find you out of bed a getting something from your bag. Back in bed you said, ‘I want to do something to you. I have found musicians from the low register - drummers, cellists, bassists - usually like this. And I just know you’ll love it.’

‘Go on …’ I said, still half asleep and not knowing where this was going.

‘First I want to suck your cock. And when you are really turned on, I want to stroke your anus. Your asshole.’ I flinched. Because it was a hot and very intense thing I enjoyed. How did you know?

‘Then, if that goes well I want to continue to suck your cock and gradually open you up with my fingers covered in greasy lube. First one finger. Then two.’

Now I was kissing you uncontrollably between your words. My hand on my cock, massaging the head.

‘I’ll massage your prostate, and send those electric shock feelings right into the head of your cock. And then …’

You paused to reveal what you’d retrieved from the bag …

You gave me a long, slow head job. One finger, then two were slid into my ass. You probed my prostate like you played the sax – with abandon. But always looking for feedback from me, like we were a musical duet. And electric shocks did flow from my prostrate to the head of my cock. To find your mouth there to meet them – sucking, sucking, sucking.

You carefully removed your fingers from me and knelt between my legs, to prepare your next treat for me. A black, leather harness – fitted around your waist and between your legs – that held a dark, red phallus. About seven inches long and curved slightly upwards. The process of fitting the strap-on reminded me of how you strapped the sax to your shoulders that very first day.

As you drizzled warm lube over the shaft you said, ‘It’s shaped this way, with that little kick, so when I fuck you I can get to your prostate. As I fuck you, I want you to pull your cock. I want – I need - to see you cum over your stomach.’

My ass was open and relaxed but the phallus was wider than your fingers. ‘Relax, baby,’ you said as the head begun to enter my ass. ‘You need to push a little now – like you are having a shit. That’s it. Go with it. I know you want it. You low register musicians always do.’

And with that you were in. The tip right against my prostate. My cock twitched and up and down, slapping my stomach. Pure ecstasy.

From high above me you drizzled lube all over my quivering cock. And as you did you started the slow, gentle fucking of my ass. You grabbed my waist to pin me to the bed. ‘Now, pull your cock. Time for you to cum, baby, while I fuck your ass.’

These words seemed to affect us both. You upped the tempo, now fucking me with the entire length of the phallus. My hand worked my cock. I was mesmerised by the intense spectacle of my new band mate, on her knees, pounding my ass while I wanked my cock.

‘Time to cum now.’ Between pants you said, ‘Because I massaged you prostate they’ll plenty of cum. In long, warm licks across your stomach and chest. I’m going to fuck you hard now. And I need you to blow.’

Another five or six deep thrust and I exploded. More cum than I’ve ever seen before. Onto my stomach. Chest. Neck. Face. Hair. And you cooed, ‘That’s it. Perfect. Just perfect.’

Quivering, spent, completely ecstatic I laid back. You gently wiped the cum up. And then slowly pull out of my ass.  My ass stayed open for a moment, then gently contracted like a flower closing for the evening.

Sleep again for both of us. A light sea breeze fanned the sweat on our bodies giving us the most perfect, cool sensation. As we drift away together I thought of jazz, surfing and you. 

Lipstick. Lust. Locked. Lost.

In my fourth decade I decided to get serious about toning and sculpting my body. I’d come to understand a positive attitude to my body – including how it looks – could lead to a happier and more fulfilling life.

Little was I to know how this would lead to an experience that was fun, sexy, perverse and exciting. And it involved: lipstick, lust, locked, lost.

Watching my diet and regular weight training meant my upper body was changing and looking pretty good. However, chest and tummy hairs meant the full extent of these changes were not fully revealed. And … grey hairs peppered throughout gave me a look I didn’t want to embrace, well at least not yet.

When I first shaved my chest and tummy hairs I was astonished – skin I hadn’t seen for about thirty years was uncovered. Beneath my wiry covering I found my skin soft and smooth and a bit sexy. Also, the muscle groups I had been working on – chest and stomach – were much easier to see. The whole effect was very pleasing.

I trimmed my public hairs a little, but didn’t shave ‘down there.’ Seemed like an extreme measure and just not for me.

My back remained an area of patchy, wild growth. So I booked in for a back wax. Very metrosexual, I said to myself as I arrived for the appointment.

The receptionist was about my age and looked at me knowingly. ‘Young Monique will look after you.”

You weren’t that young – about 30 years old, I’d say. But younger than the receptionist and I by at least 15 years.

You led me into the treatment room. Dressed in a tight white dress, you looked stunning. Dark, warm hair gently caressed your shoulders as you walked. Your breasts were full and firm, packed tightly into the white uniform of the beauty salon worker. Black high heels at the end of shapely legs clipped on the tiles as you led me to the treatment room.

The room was bright and warm, the treatment bed in the centre. “Please strip naked and lay face down. I’ll get the equipment.”

“Naked? I thought I could keep my, um, underwear on.”

“No. Naked. It’s essential to how I work.”

Given no choice, I underdressed hurriedly and lay face down as told. I rested my head on my folder arms, looking to one side. The smell of the warm waxing solution filled the air.

From this position I could see you standing close to the wall in front of a small mirror. Again the same lovely view of your legs, bottom, back and dark hair on your shoulders. But your dress seemed a little higher now – like you’d hiked it up. Couldn’t be, I thought. Meant I could just see the delicious curve of the bottom of your buttocks.

Then you made eye contact with me through the mirror. Warm, twinkling green eyes. With just a hint of mischief. All I could see of your face were those gleaming eyes, your nose, your mouth.

From a small table under the mirror you gingerly picked up a tube of something and uncapped it. Without breaking eye contact you brought the tube slowly to your lips. Lipstick.

In long, cool, delicious strokes you applied the greasy lotion to one lip, then the other. Really thick. It formed a rough, uneven surface. Then a second, then a third pass and your lips were coated in a smooth, cherry sheen.

And all the time you maintained that cool, cool lock on my eyes. My cock – pressed into the bed – swelled, ponderously, and throbbed in rhythm with my now thumping heart.

You spun around and quickly pushed a trolley with the waxing equipment to the bedside. Two latex gloves snapped into place.

‘This will hurt, you know,’ you said. ‘And I can control the pain …’

‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘please do that.’

‘What – control the pain up … or down? Your choice.’

And with that you applied the first long, smooth lick of wax to my back. It was hotter, much hotter than I expected. I shuddered, jerked a little and moaned. But not necessarily in pain.

‘Was that all right? I can make it hotter for the next run, if you want.’ You delivered this option in a voice much lower than before. I opened my eyes and found you’d dimmed the lights in the room.

‘Maybe a bit hotter for the next run, yes, please,’ I answered.

The paper to remove the wax (and the hair) was then quickly and expertly laid down on the strip of wax. And RIP!

‘Ouch!!’ Then you laid your cool, latex-covered hands gently onto the now bare skin.

‘Still okay?’ you asked. ‘Shall we continue?’

‘Yes … please … go on. It …feels … goood,’ I mumbled.

Another lick of hot wax, and it was hotter than the first, across the small of my back. ‘Do you work out?’ you asked as the plastic spatula spread the hot wax over my tender skin.

‘A little,’ I mumbled, struggling to get the words out. ‘Does … does it show?’

‘Mmmm. It certainly does.’ The second strip of paper was laid down. ‘How old are you?’

‘Forty-eight, in two months,’ I answered … not sure if that was my age. Unsure of many things are that moment, wondering what would come next.

RIP!

‘Really – I would have picked you for about thirty-five, if it wasn’t for these grey hairs on your back. But they’ll be all gone as we speak.’

And so it continued. Each new application of wax got hotter and hotter. And reach ripping got more and more forceful.

And in the midst of this: small talk – mostly questions from you. My job? My interests? The weather? A staggering contrast to the erotic pain of the waxing.

And the best bit? When you put your cool, gentle latex-gloved hands on my naked flesh after each rip.

Each lick of hot wax, each rip, and then each cool carcass with your gloves made my cock harder and bigger. I began to worry how I would dress in front of you with a raging hard-on.

You continued with the procedure. Then abruptly, ‘You like the pain?’ You followed this rhetorical question with a small giggle. ‘The wax is as hot as I can make it. And I think you like it like that.’

‘Yes … yes … it's … its making … making my …’

‘Cock hard? I know – I can see it between your legs.’ Sure enough, my erect cock had swelled and lengthened enough to be visible on the bed between my legs. The tip was moist and glistening as a bead of pre-cum flowed out.

And then: ‘That’s it. All done. No more nasty hairs – including pesky grey ones. Just get dressed and pay Marion at reception.’ And with that you left, grabbing the lipstick as you went. But before you left the room you gave me one last cheeky grin over your shoulder.

Back at home that evening I busied myself making dinner. The cool, crisp black shirt I was wearing felt good against the naked flesh of my back. I hadn’t masturbated when I got home. I was still pondering how to unleash the sexual tension the waxing and your lipstick had built up in me.

Then my phone beeped. A text. ‘Did you like that today?’

My reply: ‘Who is this? And “liked” what?’

‘You know who it is. I can finish you off – now – if you want. I’d enjoy that.’

‘Is that Monique … from the beauty salon?’

‘Of course. Duh. Who else? I have keys and I can meet you there now, if you want.’

‘Yes. Give me 15 minutes.’

‘I’ll be there.’

The street was dark and quiet. And the salon appeared locked and deserted. But as I got nearer I saw the front door was held ajar by … a tube of lipstick. A tiny sticky note on the tube said: “Come in, lock the door and meet me in the treatment room. And don’t forget the lipstick.”

The room was dimmed like before. You stood at the treatment table, equipment at the ready. I was still unsure what ‘finish me off’ meant. But I figured I was about to find out.

I handed you the lipstick. As you applied the cherry coating you spoke. “Strip. Naked, please. On your back. With hands above your head.’

In an almost trance state I followed your orders. In a smooth motion first one, then the other of my wrists were attached to the cool metal of the treatment bed above my head. With gleaming, silver handcuffs. Both ankles got the same treatment.

Then a buzzing. A battery powered set of hair clippers. “Now lay still. I just need to trim back your pubic hair a bit before I apply that hot, hot wax …”

Almost speechless, I managed to get out: ‘Is that what you mean by “finishing me off?” I don’t know if I want to …’

You turned the clippers off. ‘Up to you. I thought you’d enjoy it. I would enjoy doing to you.’ With this you hiked your white dress, the salon uniform, a little to reveal you have dispensed with your underwear. You were, of course, shaved very smooth. You stood close to my face. In the dim light I could see the velvety folds of skin and gentle brown and red tones of your vulva.

You took my silence as a tacit ‘yes’ and flicked the clippers back on. A few quick runs and most of my pubic hair – there since puberty – was gone.

‘Now’, you said as you snapped on the latex gloves, ‘let’s finish the job.’ My cock was already hard and throbbing. When the first long, hot licks of wax were spread across my loins it jumped and twitched in unison with my pounding heart.

Then RIP. And wax. And RIP. And wax. And RIP.

And after each rip, the soothing relief of your gently, cool hands on my flesh.

Throughout we maintained eye contact. When we were not looking into each other’s eyes, I looked at your lips. They shined like some erotic reef fish in the dim light of the treatment room.

The pain was mouth-watering and at times almost unbearable. Towards the end I thought I was going to black out. Then I was brought back from the edge. Your cool gloved hands worked soothing oil into my loins and scrotum. Your hands ventured up onto my hard, hard cock. Ecstasy.

‘All done. I really, really enjoyed that,’ you cooed. “But … that’s all, I’m afraid. I can’t, you know, give you the other “finishing off” you probably want right now. Perhaps, another time.’

I was left panting. Confused. But started to make sense of situation. I had just had an experience I could never forget. And the door was open for the future. I could forgo an orgasm now. Easy.

‘Now let’s get you unlocked.’ You madly rummaged in your handbag. Then stopped. ‘I am not sure how to tell you this – but the keys … I left them at home. I’ll ring my girlfriend. She can bring them down.’

Naked, shaved, hand cuffed to a treatment bed late at night in a beauty salon. Just go with it, I said to myself.

You returned from the next room where you’d made the call. ‘I couldn’t get her – so I left a voicemail. She shouldn’t be too far …’

‘How long?’ I asked.

‘Five minutes? Maybe thirty? Who knows? I suppose we could use this situation to our advantage.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This whole thing tonight has made my nipples pulsate and my pussy warm and wet and it … aches a bit …’

As you spoke these works you slowly undid the gold buttons that held the front of your dress shut, giving me my first view of your breast, trapped inside a tight black bra.

Without another word you climbed onto the table and put one foot on either side of my head. And gradually lowered your pussy into my face. It was open and warm and smelt earthy and sweet. My tongue searched desperately for your clitoris. And you swivelled you hips, your clitoris search out my tongue, too.

Gripping my hair, you smothered my face, riding me until my nose and lips and chin were covered in your moisture. I looked up to see you pinching one nipple then the other – over and over again – through the black bra.

You then slid off my face, sliding your wet pussy down my smooth chest. Finally our faces meet. We kiss, you licking your moisture off my lips.

‘I want to come. And I don’t cum getting fucked,’ you moaned breathlessly. ‘I want to ride your cock and use a vibe on my clitoris. I love cumming with a cock inside me. Ok … is that ok with you?’

I nodded. Sounded great.

From a drawer under the treatment table you drew out a large vibrator – a Hitachi magic wand. It was plugged in the mains power, ready to go.

First you sat on my stomach, leg spread and ran the wand up and down your sex. I was helpless – hands still cuffed to the bed. But the view was wonderful – like nothing I’d experienced before. And then, you positioned yourself over my cock. One hand held the wand. The other gripped the base of my very stiff cock and slipped it in.

You slid right on, taking the whole length. The build up meant you were very wet. My stiff cock fitted perfectly, deep in your body. Then you gradually crumpled forward, your head fitting into the crook of my neck. Breasts – still trapped in the black bra – pressed hard against my chest. The magic wand now on your clitoris and also pressed hard onto my public bone. The wand sandwiched between us.

‘Suck my nipples. It will make me cum,’ you said, half ordering, half pleading. You peeled back your bra and put one nipple in my mouth. I sucked greedily. I began thrust my cock up. The sensation of being pinned under your breasts took me over the edge. I came deep in your body, still with a mouth full of your nipple.

You came, too. Gyrating hard into the wand. Shuddering. You pulled your nipple out of my mouth and bit me hard on my shoulder. You moaned, sounding almost pained. Like the sounds I'd made when the wax was the hottest. Then a calming, and stillness ... akin to when you gently stroked my naked flesh with those cool, smooth latex gloves.

You flicked the switch to turn it off and threw to the ground. Panting we laid together. Smooth skin on smooth skin.

And then, a woman’s voice: “Marion – I’m here. Where are you? And tell me: what are you doing in the salon with our handcuffs, anyway?” 

In Her Eyes I See The Sea

In Her Eyes I See The Sea

It wasn’t the way it usually happens. You don’t usually meet a lover for the first time and find them naked.

But that is how I met you, Monique.

Well into my 40s I found myself alone, but not lonely. Children grown up and left home. And a messy divorce that was now just a bitter memory.

The divorce meant I bought a small flat. And for the first time in more than 20 years I had time and freedom to do what I liked.

I reduced my work hours to three days a week. At the start I really had no idea what to do with myself.

Then one day I was cleaning up some old school books of my eldest daughter. I came across some life drawing she had done in the final year of high school. The school was progressive and brought in nude life models for the students to draw.

As I flicked through the charcoal drawings I remembered my earlier passion for art. I had been a keen photographer, had tried painted and even a little sculpture. But the demands of work and family meant my passion was suppressed.

I googled ‘life drawing’ lessons and sure enough the university art department nearby were offering lessons to beginners on Thursday mornings. I enrolled on-line, bought the prescribed materials (papers, pencils, charcoal sticks) and waited for the first lesson to arrive.

It was mid-winter when the lessons began. The students, including me, sat at our easels in a semi-circle around a small raised platform. Each week, while the bitter winds of winter swirled outside a new model would disrobe, mount the small platform and strike poses for us to draw.

I wondered whether this spectacle would arouse me. I hadn’t had a lover since the divorce and that was now five years ago.

In the first six weeks the models stirred no sexual interest. Young skinny blond woman – barely out of their teens, middle aged male body builders, woman in their 60s and 70s with beautifully ruined bodies. None of them did anything for me.

Then spring arrived. And so did you.

We sat as usual waiting for the model to arrive. Always a bit of anticipation among the students – who would we see this week?

You wandered into the room and the very, very first thing that struck me was you eyes.

Green. Stunning green. Like the sea.  

Your eyes floated like brilliant jade stones in the drab art studio as you walked to the platform. They sat in your face like radiant stars nestled comfortably in the deep expanse of space. The contrast to your skin was staggering – white and warm and with a delicious scattered of freckles. I found myself inhaling quickly, suddenly, unexpectedly impacted by your eyes.

You gradually disrobed, shedding an old black sweat shirt and black gym pants. Your underwear was so unglamorous: a sensible skin tone bra and Bonds cotton tail undies.

For the next 90 minutes I had an uninterrupted view of pure beauty. As you changed poses I made sure to follow your eyes. My mind was saying: “You might never, ever see anything as extraordinary as this again. Consume it in like it is your last drink.”

I was drawn to your eyes, but gradually I started to study your body. Objectively it was a very gorgeous body – soft and curvy and flowing effortless from one area to the other. The way your neck joined your chest, joined your breasts, joined your tummy and so on was seamless and perfect. Each element, in of itself, was stunning but the whole package was overwhelming.

But I had seen bodies as compelling as yours before: in paintings, photos and movies. What gave you an edge was the confident and shameless way you choreographed your head, shoulders, limbs and torso into delicious shapes.

By the end of the session I had hardly done anything on my paper.

Once, just once, our eyes locked. I tried to look away but couldn’t. The connection lasted less than three seconds. It ended with you giving me bold, sweet smile.

The weeks after this I wondered how I could find you. I couldn’t ask the art school – that was forbidden. I tried googling ‘nude models, green eyes, CITY NAME’ etc. but it did not find you.

Disappointed, I gradually accepted I would never see you again.

But I couldn’t let go. And in my longing something very odd happened: I began to collect the colour green.

Green pencils, green paints, green paper, green fabric. Fruits and vegetable – limes, apples and avocadoes.

I was looking for the thing that best captured the colour of your eyes.  

Then one Sunday afternoon I was walking aimlessly through the big public art gallery in our town.

I walked into one of the rooms to view some impressionist painting I really like. And there you were.

You were alone in this part of the gallery. And you were studying a huge canvass with a vibrant picture of lush grass peppered with beautiful, vulnerable spring flowers.

Gone were the sweat shirt and gym pants. Instead a cool and sheer black cotton dress hugged your body stopping just above your ankles. The neck line plunged but a light green t-shirt worn under the dress hid your cleavage. Your hair- black, deep, lustrous – bounced gently on your shoulder as you moved your weight from foot to foot.

As I approached near, you turned towards me. Your green eyes locked once again on mine.

‘Oh hi,’ you burst forward, shattering the silence of the gallery. ‘You remember me? I was a model at your art class.’

I was staggered and a bit speechless. Beyond our three-second connection I had no idea you’d noticed me or would remember me.

‘Of course,’ I answer trying to be a bit cool. But my heart was racing.

‘I’m Monique.’

‘I’m Simon.’

We exchanged small talk and agreed we’d share a tea together in the gallery café. Over tea, my nerves gradually settled.

At an uncomfortable silence you said quietly, “I’ve done a lot of modelling but – and I hope you don’t mind me saying this – I’ve never been studied so closely as I was by you on that day …”

Before I can stop myself I say, “It was your eyes. It is your eyes. They … they … they’re inexplicable.”

You are genuinely shocked. “My eyes? Mostly it’s my breasts. Or my hips that people remark on … Tell me then, what is it about my eyes?”

I try to explain. It goes badly -  I am not clear or concise or even vaguely understandable. Finally I get to the bit about my green colour collection. And this lasts for a solid ten minutes.

Once I am done, I am exhausted. You say, “That must be the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

We end our teas, exchange phone numbers and have vague plans to keep in touch.

And we do keep in touch. Every week or two we head out to a different gallery or art show. Very platonic. And then some interstate trips to catch blockbuster art shows at a State galleries. If it is overnight, we always have separate hotel rooms. Through these outings our friendship and bond grows deeper and deeper.

One weekend we travel to Sydney to see the extraordinary Francis Bacon show on loan from the Tate Modern. It is packed. And charged. The paintings are so powerful (I get a chill down my legs now just remembering).

Maybe it is fear the paintings generate or just the mad crush of people. Either way we find ourselves walking very closely together. Finally the back of our hands brush - our first contact a full nine months after we met in the life drawing class.

Our fingers, with our hands still back-to-back, reach out like little tentacles and gradually become entwined. My heart is in my throat. I cannot bear to look at your face for fear of what I might see.

By the time we leave the gallery our hands have flipped and they are locked in a tender, tender embrace. We do not speak. We walk silently towards our hotel.

Back in the hotel in your room the space is bathed in orange and red light as the sun sets outside. We stand face to face. I reach out to unbutton your top. But you gently grab my hand. “We need to even the score,” you say quietly. “After all its only fair. You’ve seen me naked. Now it is my turn.”

You sit on the couch under the window that is letting in the red-orange glow. Light a cigarette. The end glows the same colour as the sun set. The first time I’ve seen you smoke. “Just now and then,” you answer anticipating my question. “It helps settle my nerves.

“Now, please turn your back to me and undress.”

I do as I am told. As my shirt falls to the floor your cigarette smoke fills my senses. I haven’t smoked in 30 years but now desperately want one.

I kick off my shoes and socks and begin to unbuckle my belt. “Turn around, please.” Again, I do as I am told.

Your legs are crossed and I notice for the first time you are dressed in the same clothes from the day we reconnected months ago in the art gallery. Same black cotton dress. Same green t-shirt. Same black, beautiful hair.

My belt unbuckled, I unbutton the fly on my jeans. I shimmy them down my legs. I am left in by black underwear, which is rather brief for a man of my age. I hook my fingers in to start a slow process to remove them. Partly to tease, but mostly because I am scared.

You are on your feet, cigarette in mouth and coming towards me. You gently spin me around and standing close behind me you whisper in my ear, “I’ll help you with that.”

Your fingers peel my underwear down to my ankles, short sharp nails gently scratching as you go. I kick them away.

Your body, still fully dressed is now pressed into my back. Your breasts press firmly into my shoulder blades. I feel your pubic bone pressed hard against the base of my spine. Your hands around my waist. Chin pressed into my neck. Time stands still.

I grab your hand and lead you to the bed. I undress you swiftly but with great care. Just your underwear remains.

Gone is the sensible bra and undies from the drawing studio day. A matching pair of black, silk panties and bra now wrap your body. The bra straps are impossibly thin. And contrast with your milky, smooth skin is overwhelming.

“Lay down and put your hands over your head, Monique.” You obey. Your breath is coming in short, hard stabs now. It causes your breasts to rise and fall rapidly. “I have a treat, but it requires me to tie your wrist and ankles to the bed. But I will only do this is you agree.” You nod and entwine your hands in the wooden slats of the bed head and position your ankles – with legs slightly spread – over the end of bed. Quickly and gently I bind your wrists together, first wrapping them is some velvet cloth, is soft cool smooth rope. Once bound together, I tie your wrists to the wooden slats. The grip is tight and strong but also snug and warm. One ankle and then the other gets the same treatment.

I leave you and busy myself with some other preparations. You settle into the soft bed. The pillow is soft, covered with a cool, white pillowcase. The sheets are also white. You look down at your body, wrapped in black silk and ankles bound with black rope.

I return. “What do you have there?” Your voice is dreamy and low.

“Six types of chocolates. And a bowl of champagne sorbet.” You look over and see six silver plates each arranged with small, dark spherical chocolates. A silver goblet shows the signs of its cold ingredient – the sorbet – with water droplets forming on the outside. Freezing cold mist rises out of the goblet.

“I’ll feed each chocolate favour to your one by one, Monique. And then we’ll have some fun. After you’ve finished a chocolate, a teaspoon of champagne to cleanse the your taste buds. And then another chocolate. Then repeat. Until you’ve savoured all six.”

“I … don’t really understand …”

“You will. And oh, the chocolates are the very, very best money can buy. Imported from France. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then open up.” I place the first tiny chocolate on your tongue. You are a chocolate lover and this little bundle of bliss doesn’t disappoint. Mint. Intense. Creamy.

As the chocolate baths your mouth my hands gently stroke your shoulders, your neck. Fingers work up the back of your neck and into your hair. My thumb strokes you lips. The back of my hands on your cheeks. It goes on and on.

A final swallow and chocolate is gone. A cold spoon on your lips and a dob of champagne sorbet into your mouth. It cleans the mint chocolate away.

“Open again.” A second chocolate. A different favour. Orange this time. As the favour spreads through your mouth so do my hands spread over your body. It is your breasts that now receive my attention. As you suck down the delicious citrus taste my hands drink in your breast. Gently stroking each nipple. Drawing light circles around and around. And as the last sliver of orange chocolate melts in your mouth I clamp my lips around one nipple and then the other. Sucking hard and withdrawing with a delicious ‘pop’ sound.

The sorbet again, and then, “Open please.” A cherry chocolate now. My hands on your tummy and waist now. Down as far as your hips. You are thrusting your groin gently up now, my hands linger just above your pubic bone. Short fingernails scratch you gently. The chocolate melts and is gone.

Sorbet. Now a fourth chocolate. Rasberry. Tangy. Sweet. Wrapped in a very dark chocolate this time.

The voyage of tastes has taken us this far. As you linger on the chocolate, rolling it around your mouth, my fingers gently spread your vulva and find your clitoris. My fingers are moist (more chocolate, you wonder). As you pass the chocolate from one cheek to another my fingertips fall into a smooth and unhurried rhythm. Your body responses – nipples swell, red flush across your chest, your breathing is deep and slow. A low, low moan escapes your lips.

As you swallow the last of the raspberry chocolate you find the cool spoon at your lips again. “This next chocolate will come to you a little differently, Monique.” You look at me, and find me naked. You’d forgotten about my strip tease and me being naked this whole time. I have a chocolate held lightly between my teeth and a small pair of scissors in my hand. As I lean into your lips, the scissors slip under one bra strap. As the chocolate touches your lips, a tiny ‘snip’ and one bra strap is severed. The chocolate is pressed further into your mouth until our lips touch – for the first time. Another ‘snip’ and the other strap in gone. Your breasts swell forth as our lips entwine.

We kiss, tongues and chocolate and lips meshed together. We pass the sphere of chocolate between our mouths, sharing the delicious praline taste. I expertly and carefully cut the fabric on the sides of your panties and they fall away from your hips. The kissing and sharing of the chocolate continues.

My hands now reach for the fifth zone of your body that this chocolate represents – the opening of your vagina. My fingers – moist, smooth, gently –stroke you with the fingertips. I slowly lift my mouth from yours to view your mouth and eyes to detect signs of whether you want this or not. Your eyelids flutter. A chocolate-coated tongue licks your lips. A deep, low moan comes from mouth but has been generated right down in your chest.

It is my first time touching you there, so I move slowly and surely. You are moist and open. Over the chocolate and sobert and cigarette smoke (still burning on a sauce near the bed) I smell the sweet, earthy odour or your sex. My index finger pushes deeper. You grab my wrist and pull my finger in deep.

‘Do the … “come hither” motion … with your finger …’ you coo through chocolate coated lips. ‘I want some stroking just there … my g-spot.’ I obey and you writhe erotically, still roped to the bed.

‘A final chocolate now, Monique. And this is your choice. Tell me what you want as we share this final sweet.’

‘I only want one thing now. Your cock. In my mouth.’

I learn forward and place the final truffle chocolate in your mouth with my lips. Again, we pass the coffee to and thro. Kissing. Wet and warm.

I stand up. My cock is heavy, but not fully erect. You turn your head to one side, mouth open. I guide the purple head into your mouth. Your lips and tongue coat my cock with chocolate. I press forward and your lips clamp firmly over the head. Bliss.

We spend an eternity mixing chocolates and play. You demand an orange and raspberry chocolate and that means ceaseless attention to your breast and clitoris. You demand a praline and mint and my finger are in your vagina again, stroking your g-spot while I run my hands through your hair. You demand a praline and truffle treat and I am between your legs licking your clitoris with two fingers in your pussy.

At this point you moan, “I forget … what comes after desert … could it be being fucked by you?”

I kneel up and smile into your eyes. “That’s what I want too, Monique.” My cock is hard, but still not fully erect. But as I bring it towards your pussy it stiffens and lengthens. The purple tips brushes the moist, warm opening to your body ….

Suddenly – water, spraying down on us and a fire alarm. The sprinkler system is showering the entire room and us. In our quite passion we did not notice the cigarette and tumbled off the sauce. Now one of the curtains was now alight. Mad scramble and confusion. Hands untied. Sorbet tossed on the fire. More water from the bathroom.

After being evicted from the hotel, for smoking and causing significant damage to your room, we finally find rooms in different hotels. We are grumpy and disappointed about how such a perfect evening had ended. We travel home the next day on an early flight.

That evening I am in my flat. My phone beeps. A text from you.

‘Are you free right now?’

‘Yes – of course. Why?’

‘Come to me.’

‘Where?’

‘The art studio.’

I text asking for further details. When you don’t reply I phone you but you do not pick up. I figure my only option is to go to the art studio where this all began.

I arrive and find the entrance door slight ajar. A small note on the door says, “Lock the door behind you and come to me.”

I found you where I first met you: laying naked on the small platform. The room is warm and bathed in the light of about ten candles. You recline on one hip, propped up on an elbow, smoking. As I walk you, you carefully extinguish the cigarette. And double check it is out. “I am certain we will not be interrupted by fires and sprinkles and alarms this time,” you say.

As I reach you, you kneel up. Quickly you have my shoes and socks and jeans off. Again you slowly pull down my briefs with great intent. Meanwhile I shed my shirt.

And then suddenly we are together. Side by side. Skin to skin. For the first time.

My hands through your hair. You teeth bite gently into my shoulders. My mouth on your breast, your tummy and then once again between your legs. Long, smooth strong licks to your clitoris. Your hands in my hair – urging me to keep going and going.

And then back facing each other – side by side. Your top leg slightly raised. I move in close. My cock hard and straining now. Twitching with anticipation. And then …

Bliss. Warm, warm bliss. Still and silent. Our breathing in unison. Just the sound of the wind through the trees to keep us company.

You first, then me. Gradually moving. My cock gradually being withdrawn further out, then pushed back in. You moving with me. Your breathing suddenly changes and so does your movements. More desperate now – both of us. The entire length of my cock now – in and out. Sweat beads on our lips and foreheads and chests. As we move our sweat mixes together.

You come, then me. Deep inside you. We desperately catch our breath. I laugh, for joy. Then you do, too. Noses pressed together. Feet entwined. Bellies, touching melting into one. No need for words just yet.

Or chocolate.