I have moved to a large city in Europe to work for one of the world’s largest companies. It is a resource company that deals mainly with oil and gas. I work on environmental protection matters.
The scale of company’s headquarters is staggering – 2 000 people work in a series of high-rise buildings in the centre of the city.
I settle into work, make some friends and begin to explore the surrounding coastal towns and villages on the weekends. I am a surfer and getting out of the city and into the waves keeps me sane.
One Monday morning I hop into the elevator to travel to my floor. As the door shuts I hear a voice, ‘Hold it please.’ I open the door and in you walk.
Immediately I am struck by you. I am sure this is a common reaction from men who meet you. You are slim and stylish, dressed for a day in the office. But something else shines through. A understated glamour not usually seen in office settings, even here in Europe.
We say hello and then both stare at the numbers as they tick towards our floors. The lift stops and you get out. I am gripped by a desperate urge. This workplace is so huge. I might never see you again, or at least not for months. I resolved when I move here I would take more risks. So I follow you out onto your floor.
I walk along behind you trying to look as if I am going somewhere. It gives me a good view of your back, bottom and legs. The way you walk – measured and sultry – confirm my impressed of understated glamour.
You turn on me, ‘Can I help you? I see you selected floor nine but got off here.’ It is like you know what I am doing. You probably do.
‘Yes. I am lost. What department is on this floor? I am only new.’
‘This is international legal. My area. What are you looking for?’
‘Oh, my mistake. Wrong floor.’ There is an uncomfortable silence. ‘I am Juan,’ I say. We shake hands and you introduce yourself.
‘Muriel. Muriel King. Very nice to meet you.’ You smile knowingly at me. Now I am sure you have caught me.
We say goodbye and I head to my desk. Now I have your name, floor and department I find you on the company’s intranet phone book. Your mobile number is there.
Throughout the day I draft and redraft a text message to you. I want to invite you for lunch. I want to get it just rights. I do not want to appear as some desperate stalker. Finally at 3.30 pm I send:
‘Hi there. Got your number from the intranet. Very nice to meet u 2day. Was wondering – are you free 4 lunch one day? How about tomorrow 12.30? Cheers’
I press send expecting a reply maybe tomorrow, or never. My phone beeps.
‘That would be lovely. See you in the foyer at 12.30 tomorrow. MK’
I am surprisingly restless at home that night thinking of you and our lunch date. I have no television. Just an iPod loaded with songs. I select my PJ Harvey play list and cue up my current favourite song, My Black Hearted. I love the opening line to the second verse and sing along (tunelessly) at the top of my lungs:
When you call our my name is rapture/ I volunteer my soul for murder/ I wish this moment forever.
I spend too much time selecting clothes for work (and the lunch date) and then try to sleep. As I lie in bed I begin to speculate about you. What are you like? What do you want? Could we get along?
Lunch the next day is a bit of a disaster. I talk too much trying, I think, to impress you and interest you. You share a little about yourself. Towards the end of the lunch you say, ‘I see you are a surfer?’
‘How did you work that out?’
‘Oh, just some of the things you said and I see it is in your skin, your eyes. They are a bit damaged by too much time on the ocean waves. I surf, too, you know.’
I am really shocked. I cannot imagine this refined, control woman surfing. You sense immediately my surprise.
‘It is true. I grew up on the coast and my father taught me. It is an enduring part of my life. I get to my beach house once or twice a month.’ I would like to continue and talk about surfing but you say, ‘Well, best be going. This has been very enjoyable. Maybe again one day.’ You stand and give me a kiss on both checks. Then you are gone.
That day I resist the urge to text you to suggest another lunch or dinner. What I really want is to suggest we chase some waves together. On the next morning I send to you:
‘Great to get to know you a bit better. How about dinner one evening? Also, I am heading to the coast this weekend. Maybe it is near your beach house. We could catch up down there. Cheers’
Well, the reply is immediate but sadly very cold:
‘Lunch was nice. Dinner is not possible. I am sorry. Not the right time for me. I am not getting to my beach house much these days. Take care. MK.’
I am gutted. I send other texts in the coming days. No reply. I gradually come to accept you and I will not go anywhere together. On Friday afternoon as I pack my car with surfboards and wetsuits for a long weekend at the coast I resign myself to the fact that we will probably never see each other again.
It is winter and the sea and wind are wild. Really wild. On-shore wind at 40 knots and big, messy seas. I arrive at my favourite seaside village at 9 pm on Friday night. After checking the surf I check into a small, favourite hotel. I come here frequently and the owner is increasingly friendly to me on each visit. He is amused by my surf gear and asks me why I would throw myself into the cold seas. Quoting Australian author Tim Winton I try to explain that surfing is beautiful and pointless. I am not sure he gets it.
I freshen up and head out for dinner. I find a small restaurant and a tiny table with my back to the door. I plan to eat lightly and read a chapter or two of Delta of Venus by Anias Nin. Then early bed for a dawn surf.
As I settle in, order my food and a glass of wine I scan the restaurant. There are probably about ten other tables with diners. Mostly couples. Then in the corner with their back to me I notice one other lone diner. It is you.
I swallow hard. Is this a coincidence? Surely not. I told you by text that I would be here for the weekend. Fuck it, I say. Nothing ventured, nothing gain. I prepare myself to walk over to your table. I rehearse in head what I will say to you. Something corny like, ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
Just as I am about to get up the door to the restaurant opens. Wind and a little rain comes in the room. A tall and very well dressed man rushes in. He sweeps straight for your table. You stand and kiss. I can hear him apologising for being late. Your body language suggests a grudgingly acceptance of his apology. You both pick up menus to select your meals.
I am in a spin. I call for the bill, pay for the meal I have not received and rush out of the restaurant praying you have not seen me. At my hotel I order some room service, eat unhappily and try to sleep.
The next day the surf is good. Very good. The wind has shifted and the swell are long and clean. I am acquainted now with some of the local surfers and we share waves and lunch together. By mid afternoon I am exhausted and return to my hotel. I sleep very heavily but awake at about 6.30 pm thinking of you.
I shower and dress and return to the restaurant from the night before. I know the odds of you being there are slim. But I am so curious now.
I select the same table. I am the only guest given the early hour. I settle is with a glass of wine, some mushroom soup and Anais Nin.
‘Here again, with Madam Nin, I see.’ It is you standing at my table.
‘Oh, hi.’ I try to sound casual and unfussed. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ I can not believe I actually used that line!
You smile. ‘Yes, fancy that.’ You are dressed now in clothes to walk on the beach during winter. But your style is impeccable. ‘May, I?’ You sit before I can answer.
‘Aren’t you going to ask?’ you say. ‘You know. The man. Who is he and so on? I know you want to know.’
I feel so stupid now. God, how do I escape this? ‘I am sorry. I didn’t know you would be here last night. I am not following you. Maybe we can just talk about … um … the surf …’
‘We’ll talk surfing later. The surf was good today. So who do you think he was to me?’ You have poured yourself a glass of wine.
‘Um. Your brother?’ You raise an eyebrow and smile, shaking your head. ‘Husband?’
‘Lover. Well ex-lover, actually. We grew up together in this town. Got together later in life. But I was too wild for him.’ You take a long sip of wine. ‘We remain friends. Sometimes we sleep together, but not often. Are you shocked?’
I am speechless. There is silence. ‘Maybe we should order and talk about the surf. Ex-lovers – we can talk about that later,’ you say
We order. I am hungry after a day’s surfing and so are you. Turns out you have been surfing with some friends off an island about five kilometres off the coast. You offer to take me there tomorrow. We agree to meet at the harbour at 4.30 am to travel in your boat to the spot.
We re-examine the menu for dessert. You put your menu down and turn to me. ‘What do you want?’ I continue to look at menu. You push my menu to the table. ‘No. With me. What do you want?’
‘I don’t know. Something. But tonight – nothing. Can we just finish our meal?’ This continual confrontation is a bit scary but nice.
You sense I am a bit uncomfortable and the rest of evening is a lot lighter. I walk you to your beach house. I say goodbye and walk with hands deep in pockets to keep warm back to my hotel.
I arrive at the harbour at 4.30 am as planned. You are in your small boat already with the engine running. You are dressed in your full body wetsuit, woollen cap and rubber booties. A high quality thermal jacket hangs off your shoulders and arms. It is cold – only about 5 degrees. ‘Hope in – we can get there by dawn.’
We zoom out the harbour and towards the island. You drive the boat fast and expertly. There is no talking as your concentrate on following the navigation beckons. We arrive at the island just as the sun is rising.
We anchor about 100 metres from where the waves are breaking. ‘This spot is a bit sharky. It is a seal colony, you know.’
‘Oh, great,’ I moan. I feel my body shudder a little.
‘Don’t worry. I used to come here with my father. There is a good chance you won’t get eaten … at least today.’ With this you leap from the boat and paddle away on your surfboard. I follow.
The surf session is epic. We match each other wave for wave. I come unstuck a couple of times, but nothing serious. I am probably a little bit better than you at surfing but you have the edge on me that this spot. You know the wave and how it breaks.
Back at the harbour I help you pack the boat up. ‘Lunch?’ I ask.
‘No, sorry. I have some personal matters to deal with. But be at the restaurant at 7 pm. I will try to make it.’ I sense you are preoccupied with your personal matters so I quietly leave.
I go to the restaurant at 7 pm but you are not there. I sit until 11 pm. I am not angry – just a little disappointed. As the restaurant is closing I leave. The staff looks at me pitifully. I don’t feel I need pity but it does look like I have been stood up.
As I am leaving you come along the street. It is cold but you are dressed in a small black cocktail dress and heavy, heavy coat. You have been crying – heavily. Your make-up has run and your eyes, face and neck are flushed red. ‘Are you okay?’ You nod then shake your head. And then collapse onto my shoulder. I don’t know what to do so just cradle you gently. You compose yourself.
‘One minute, please,’ you say. In the restaurant you use the bathroom to reapply make up and do your hair. You emerge still looking puffy, red and swollen.
‘You look good,’ I say.
‘Don’t lie.’ You laugh. You sense I am trying to be kind and take my small lie the way it was meant. You do still look a mess.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I say as we walk to your house.
‘There is no point. You would not understand. I hardly understand.’
At your house we hug, but do not kiss. ‘No island surfing tomorrow,’ you say. ‘But come here at 9 am and we will go somewhere else.' You turn into your house and I am left to walk home alone for the second night in a row. Where is this going, I ask myself.
That night, and for the first time since we met, I masturbate and think of you. Cradling you outside the restaurant affected me, including sexually. I fall asleep thinking of you.
I arrive at your house at 9 am. I checked the surf on the way – no surfing today. The wind is the wrong way and the swell has died. I wonder what we will do instead.
You open the door dressed in t-shirt and gym pants. No shoes. You look relaxed, rested, happy. A complete contrast to last night. No need to discuss the surf – you know it is no good. ‘A second breakfast?’ you ask.
I learn this is your parents house. They died a number of years ago. You have gradually extended and improved the house. It now a stunning home. A long, high window gives private uninterrupted views of the sea – including the island we surfed the day before.
‘In winter, I can sunbake naked here in front of the window and no one can see me. Unless I want them to …’ This is the first overtly sexual thing you have said to me. I am immediately aroused. I hope I am not blushing.
We head out for lunch. After lunch and on an impulse you buy me a very stylish t-shirt. It is tight and has a very funky design on the front. ‘I think this would look good on your shoulders.’
At the house I put the t-shirt on and lay on a couch that over looks the sea. The sun is shining through the window. It is warm and relaxing. This must be were she sun-bakes naked, I think. I grow drowsy and fall into a light sleep.
In that state between awake/ asleep I feel two small, strong hands on my stomach under the t-shirt. I feel weight on my thighs – it is a woman’s body. Of course it is you. I open my eyes and you come into focus. Your hair is up and you smile kindly at me. You wear just a t-shirt now. My hands slowly rise and find the back of your thighs. You have taken off the gym pants. As I run my hands up your legs I find you have just small panties on.
You bring your mouth to mine and we kiss. It is long, gentle. The first kiss. You pull away look into my eyes and say, ‘When you followed me that day out of the elevator I wasn’t sure about you. Lunch the next day didn’t help. But now. After the surfing yesterday and helping me home last night. And today … I think you … are someone to know.’
We continue to kiss. You slip your top off and wriggle out of your panties. You pull my new t-shirt up and our torsos connect. The feeling of our skin on skin is intense, warm, almost beyond description.
I begin to slip my body down the couch. First kissing your neck, then breasts and stomach as your pass above me. I move further down and you move up. Then you are straddling my face. Your sex is now over my face. I put my hands on your waist and bring it down to meet my mouth.
As your sex approaches my mouth and your thighs clamp to my checks your body seems to open like a most beautiful flower. Your vagina smells earthy and sweet. My tongue finds you and drinking you in. My hands are over our buttocks, back and breasts. It is hard to hear you – your thighs block my ears. but by the way you grip my hair and writhe I think this is what you want.
In one smooth motion you are on you feet and pulling me to me feet. You quickly remove my t-shirt, jeans and underwear. Then push me back to my position lying prone on the couch. In a swift movement you mount my face again but with new force and intent. You grip my hair hard with both hands.
Then you slide off my face – the moisture of my mouth and your sex means you actually slide. Down my chest and stomach. As you do your breasts come to my face. I am greedy for them – kissing, sucking, nibbling trying to work out what you like. You continue to slide your sex lower and lower down my body.
You vagina is now upon my cock. My cock is hard. The surfing, good food and the build up between us to this point have charged my entire body. This charge is now centred in my cock.
You reach down and grab the shaft of my cock and angle it towards your sex. We connect but you stop. With my cock brushing the opening to your body you say in French, ‘My pleasure is deep inside me. In this position your cock will rub just the right spot. I will cum. I want you so much I will cum hard. And cum quick.’ There is an intense pause and deep silence. You stare deep into my eyes. ‘Juan, tell me you want me.’
‘Oh yes, I want you.’
You slide and we are coupled completely. You gasp and bite my shoulder as my cock finds it end point within your body. In French again you say, ‘that is my pleasure. Deep, deep inside me.’
Together me move. Your breasts brush against the hair of my chest. My chest tingles from this caress. You grip my shoulders hard but keep your body close and low to me. The intensity takes my pleasure higher and higher. I say, ‘I will cum if you keep this up.’ You seem to double your efforts when I say it.
Then you are cumming. You scream something in French in my ear and bite down hard on the lobe. I feel your thighs shudder. You chest is flushed red and your nipples are erect and crimson.
The sounds, the intensity makes me cum. I try to pull out but you bear down on me. ‘I want you inside me.’ My cum shoots deep inside. I thrust up and feel the climax flooding my entire body. You grip me tight around my shoulder like you are trying to wring this intense feeling out of my body.
We lay still. I focus on your breathing. You have all your weigh on my and I am still inside you. But you feel as light as a small bird. You do not sleep but begin to drift off to that unique and narcotic post-orgasm state where nothing matters and everything appears soft and possible. I am there, too. We drift together conscious really only of each other’s steady, peaceful breathing.
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