One of the good things about getting older is all the memories you have to look back on. Just the other day I sat in a cafe with a caramel latte, browsing some magazines when an article caught my eye and threw me back over twenty years to 1989.
Things seemed a lot simpler then.
In 1989, I was just starting out. I had a fabulous job in a city merchant bank. I rented a small but swish pad in south London. I was determined to be a successful, independent woman.
My work colleagues were, shall we say, a little prudish with that stiff upper lip, British thing, going on. Very unlike me. Having a creative sense of humour, I would go to work in a pencil skirt but often neglected to wear any knickers. Under the desk, I'd open my legs slightly, and inhale my perfume. Keeping a little secret from them made me smile and helped the day fly by.
Another thing they didn't know was how much I adored sex. Really, I mean it. I'd been fortunate to have an enterprising, steady boyfriend up until the previous year. We experimented with all manner of things. Bit of spanking, bondage and lots of tying up and fucking. You could say we were learning the ropes. Sometimes we would switch, always up for a change and a giggle. I soon learned that I quite liked being spanked or held down.
I was a dirty slut and wanted to be treated like one.
We parted amicably when he went travelling. Deciding to make a go of my career I had to kiss him goodbye.
It was lonely at first but I soon began to enjoy chilling out at bars and clubs with my girlfriends. Big brunette hair, tight dress, no knickers – I'd be lying if I said it was difficult for me to pull. And I liked cock - a lot. Didn't care what shape or size, I wanted it in my mouth, hand or cunt. But I was also attracted to the occasional woman. Particularly the curvy ones. I had a fascination with boobs. To get my hands on them, squeeze and feel the ripe flesh. But that's as far as it would go – just flirting really, and perhaps a fumble at first base. However, being adventurous, I never ruled that option out. I was -and remain- a firm believer that you fall for the person, not their gender.
Life was a peach; always practising safe sex and open to ideas.
Then one night I met Paul.
I was with my gang in a bar for pre-drinks, on our way to see a band when I noticed him at a table nearby, talking to a few people. He had a casual air of confidence that oozed sex appeal. I attempted to catch his eye, but no luck.
Later at the gig he tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I wanted a drink.
He was attractive in just the kind of way I liked. Slightly camp, clean shaven with, it has to be said, an amazingly clear complexion. He obviously worked out, biceps visible through his t-shirt. Dark hair cut short and styled with a slight quiff. He had a pretty sexy smile too.
For the rest of the evening, we ignored the band and spent our time getting to know each other.
Paul was training to be a chef. After that I couldn't stop checking out his fingers. I'd imagine him intently kneading dough.
After the gig, he kissed me. I swear sparks went off in my head and butterflies danced in my stomach.
“So, Lisa, how about we go out in the week?” He was still cupping my face in his hands.
“Em, let me think about.” Always the joker.
“Ah come on, you know you want to.” Did I mention he was Irish?
I scribbled my work number on a train ticket and put it in the top pocket of his jacket.
Over the next few days, I would almost jump out of my chair when the phone rang. You must remember there were no mobile phones in those days, and I was desperate for him to call.
On Wednesday morning he did. We made arrangements to see a play not far from where I lived.
It was a tiny theatre and our seats were very close together. Intoxicated by his smell, I was unable to follow the plot. Each time his scent hit my nostrils my cunt would pulse and heart race.
After the show we walked back to mine, hardly making it through the door before ripping our clothes off. Within seconds he pushed me front down onto the kitchen table, pulling my knickers aside and slapping my arse.
“How did you know?” I asked, genuinely surprised he'd guessed I was that type of girl.
“I could see it in your eyes and I do like to please. C'mon, ask for more,” he demanded, slowly pushing a finger into my soaking slit.
“More,” I breathed. “More spanking.”
“Yeah, you love it, wet girl.”
He put his finger in his mouth licking off my juices.
And he was right. I couldn't get enough of him. After the next few spanks, my arse inflamed, I almost felt ready to come but he pushed me to my knees. I knew my place. Eagerly, I undid the zip and released his cock into the warmth of my mouth. Shortly after, he sprayed my face.
In bed that night his head went down between my thighs, teasing such an intense orgasm from me I thought my head was going to explode.
I didn't want him to go the next day. But we both had work.
For the next few weeks, I lived on my nerves. Just waiting for that fix of him. His smell, his touch, his smile. To me our time together was magical. We had such a strong connection.
It felt like he was the one.
I'd never believed in that kind of rubbish before. But being in the midst of a powerful partnership, I found I couldn't put it down to anything else, or indeed think about anybody else.
We saw each other about two or three times a week for the next few months, without expressing the love word except as in:
“I just love how you do that,” or “I love the way you wear that dress.”
Then one evening we were a bit tipsy when he said, “I've something I need to tell you.”
That sounded serious.
“You can tell me anything,” I replied standing up and slowly un-popping the fastenings on the front of my blouse, to break the tension.
He stared up, mesmerised. My shirt dropped to the floor and he watched as I held the clasp, on my lacy white bra, ready to unclip.
“Come on, spill,” I teased.
“Fuck, just get your titties down here,” he exclaimed, already unbuttoning his fly.
That was as far as the chat got.
On Friday night we had arranged to go to a club over the other side of town. I'd never been, but Paul had told me it was really cool.
The evening arrived. Ready to go, I looked out the window. He was cutting it a bit fine, I thought. The cab was due in fifteen minutes. I poured myself a second glass of Beaujolais nouveau, checking in the mirror it wasn't staining my teeth and glanced out of the window again.
A visitor? Not now. But this glamorous redhead was making a beeline to my flat. I was a little mystified by how she walked with such ease in her amazingly high heels. The doorbell rang. Perhaps I should ignore it - but Paul would be here soon and anyway, and that chick looked strangely familiar.
With glass in hand, I opened the door. My, she was tall and I was loving the fake-fur knee-length coat. When my eyes reached hers, I almost dropped my wine.
“Oh my god, what?” I shrieked. “I don't understand. Is tonight fancy dress?”
Paul took a step forward. “Now, calm yourself Lisa.”
I breathed deeply and composed myself.
“Why didn't you tell me - I could have worn my cowboy outfit?” Attempting to lighten the moment, hand over my mouth, I stared at the transformation that was Paul.
“Em no, fancy dress. I tried to tell you the other day. But in the end, I just thought I would show you.”
“Yeah, that's great,” I said. Feeling nervous, “but I'm not totally sure what you are trying to show me.”
My head began to spin with all the possibilities as Paul removed his coat. But I tried my best to make light of the situation.
“And a girl shouldn't have a boyfriend with perkier tits.”
I couldn't take my eyes off his silky blouse. I swear I could see nipples pushing through the fabric and the hint of a cleavage.
“Well, it is just, let's say, tricks of the trade, Lisa. What I want to explain is -”
Grabbing my hand he whispered, “Tonight, call me Paula,” and we headed out the door.
Once in the car, I was dumbstruck. Never happened before, but I didn't know what to say. The driver broke the silence.
“You girls going up west for a few drinks then?” He smiled, looking in his rear view mirror at us both.
“Only the one or two,” Paul said softly, in a sexy, husky brogue.
We paid the cab driver and once more Paul took my hand. It was shaking slightly. He squeezed it tightly.
Once in the club, he told me to find a table. I did just that and looked around at the other clubbers. So many individuals in one place overtly being themselves. Happy. And me a little lost.
I saw Paul tottering between tables. He placed the wine down and sat close to me.
“I know I owe you an explanation. But see, there was no easy way to tell you. I like to dress like this now and then, and be Paula, okay? I get such a thrill from it. It liberates me. Come on, ask me anything, sure you must have some questions?"
“Of course I do," I blurted, "I think any girl would, if without explanation their male lover arrives dressed as a woman. ” I pouted. “And looking better than she does.”
He smiled and shook back his long red hair, lapping up the compliment.
“No, you are not off the hook yet.” I continued before he could interrupt. “Do you still fancy me? Do you like men too? Help me out. I want to be okay with this.” Not joking anymore.
He moved even closer and I got a good look at how expertly he crafted his eye make-up. Putting my efforts to shame.
“Jesus, I fancy you like crazy. In fact, I have never lusted after anyone so much. Just looking at you makes my dick twitch. Even in these skimpy lace knickers. You want more? Men - well I have had a couple of, let's say, sexual dalliances with guys when I was younger. C'mon - you like girls, don't you? But you still fancy me. Right?”
“You know I do.” And looking at him then I still did. Knowing that his cock was trussed up in lace, twitching for my touch was such an erotic thought. Leaning forward I kissed him. He caressed the nape of my neck, took a fistful of hair, and pulled my head to one side.
“You are still my dirty bitch.” His lips met mine again and I could taste the lipstick.
At that moment I realised this was perfectly fine with me. Paul was hot as a guy and I knew I wanted to explore this whole Paula thing too.
We chatted, danced and had fun. Back at the flat, he asked, “So, can I stay, like normal?”
Sitting down next to him my hand crept up his skirt. Stockings. What a turn on. And then feeling his balls supported by soft fabric. Damn right he could stay.
He disappeared to the bathroom. Returning a few minutes later in just stilettos, stockings, and tight panties. His erection strained against the lace.
Approaching him, I slid my fingers past the elastic and reached inside, tugging the tasselled pubic hair. Then, I slowly shimmied the knickers down his legs, marvelling as his dick sprang free. How had that tiny piece of material managed to contain him? Stroking the smoothness of his shaft I rubbed my other hand over the stocking tops. I wanted him to fuck me dressed like that. Hastily I stripped and dropped to the floor on all fours.
“Just fuck me, I can't wait. I want it now... Please,” I begged.
Grabbing a condom he kneeled behind me and slowly inched himself deep into my wetness. Our suspenders catching as his balls rhythmical hit my bum cheeks. With each movement he stole handfuls of my swinging boobs. Then, turning me over, I arched my back thrusting my tits higher. He slapped them with one hand while his cock was shafting me with very long, slow movements. Hitting just the right spot.
I could feel myself teetering on the verge of climax.
The night's events had supplied the foreplay so I couldn't hold back any longer. He felt it too. As my legs embraced him my cunt clasped tightly around his cock. Then the release came - for us both - our eyes locked. Shuddering, he collapsed on top of me with a groan, overwhelmed by his orgasm. I melted into him, as mine followed, trembling through my veins.
The next morning as he left he hugged me saying, “You were amazing last night. I so love you.”
He moved in and that is what we did - love. Occasionally we'd borrow each other's clothes and even made some friends at the club, where we mainly socialised on a Friday, when he was Paula.
A few years passed, but we never talked about what we wanted from life. Suddenly I knew I had to have children. It was not one of his aims. We parted in tears, still loving each other.
Now all these years later I find a photo in a magazine, a guy standing in front of his restaurant. He has lost hair and gained some rather attractive laugh lines, be he's still undeniably Paul. The article reveals how every Christmas day he opens up and cooks for the homeless.
That's no surprise. Back when I knew him he'd been altruistic and generous. My mind began to wander again.
There was that day he spent hours on me. First, he cooked dinner, then I was tied, whipped, fucked...
Yes, I remember Paul. Very giving.
May's writing is inherently personal, with posts describing her own sexual ventures into bondage, illustrated by real-life erotic photographs. Occasionally, she pens some more earnest articles when she feels a topic is worth discussing. She very much tries to put across that life is all about the choices we make. May writes because from the moment she started her blog, she couldn't stop herself. But what is a writer without an audience? Her blog enables her readers to find me and comment. That makes her happy.