THE KLIMT EFFECT

Monday. New week. New start. Get things straight. On Sunday night an English friend/ lover, C., invited me out with her lesbian best mate and best mate’s girlfriend who were visiting. A night out in Chueca (a.k.a Madrid’s Gaytown) was tempting and sure to be fun, but I regretfully replied that I needed to keep things under control and make a good breast of Monday.

And I got off to a promising start. Things to do. Preparations for my sojourn in England in August. Amongst these jobs, a visit to a professional laboratory where I was having more of my photos printed and mounted to fulfil the orders that had come in from my recent show. This being Spain, having arranged to see the jefe (boss) I arrived at the appointed time to find he wasn’t there and furthermore, nobody had seen him leave or knew where he had gone.

After over two years here I have learned to take these things with equanimity and simply said I would go and kill time at a nearby exhibition and return before 8. This was a free show of 100 of Gustav Klimt’s drawings and sketches, all gratis courtousy of one of Spain’s Fundaciones who charitably bring art to the masses. The curious location was in a rather posh shopping centre.

It was quiet. I cruised around, suitably impressed. The early drawings were extraordinary, some of the sketches very sketchy. Nonetheless sometimes even just a few lines were so unmistakeably Klimt that the effect was stunning. The subject: Woman. Girls, adults, old ladies. Women. More often than not, lying down, spread out. The charge, erotic.

A middle-aged lesbian couple put on their best serious art faces as they stared at one frame. When I came to it, I found it described as “Semi-nude woman reclining” which seemed an inappropriate economy with the truth, considering the detailed sketch in question confronted the viewer with the open thighs of a young woman between which fingers were straying down and inside. Quite gorgeously sensual, but the clash with the title made me laugh. I decided to try and snap the combination with the camera in my mobile.

I looked around furtively to check no public or invigilators were close at hand. The only person who caught my eye, a little distance away was a nervy young woman. She had the air of a wild animal that was either hunting or being hunted, or both. I took my photo quickly, too quickly in fact, and hurried away. I cast a glance back at her: black vest, denim skirt, Nordic blonde. Not looking at me.

I carried on, then stopped to take in a picture. I checked. She was near me. That can happen. I moved to near the door to take another look at a drawing that had particularly impressed me. Within a minute she was just a couple of frames away. That could happen. Looking at the picture, not at me. Forget it. Things to do, remember? You need to get back to the lab. I headed into the entrance, checked out the poster, took a postcard and- she was there too. That’s unlikely to happen.

OK. One last test. I walked out of the door and crossed the lobby to an area where old art posters and books were on display behind glass. This odd little space went around a corner. The other people there left. She entered, walked past me around the corner. I ambled after her. She looked about, half as if seeking an exit. Not exactly looking at me. We were alone. But what nationality was she?

I ventured some bland remark in Spanish but was met with perplexity and a reply in English. South African English. Ah. She was quite small, slim, very tanned, the sun had caught her button nose. An intense gaze for the brief moments she let it rest on me. She was travelling alone – London, Dublin, Lisbon, Porto, Madrid now, Barcelona next…

Time to get back to the lab, nearly 8. But there’s something here, something strong. What was she doing right now? Planning to walk the length of the Paseo de la Castellana. It’s a long walk and not very attractive, I informed her. Perhaps. She didn’t care. She was going to do it.

OK, if she didn’t mind making a diversion to the laboratory, I’d accompany her. Agreed. Less than 5 minutes conversation. Was she attractive? I was sure lots of men would think so. She didn’t convince me yet. Had she been following me or had I just imagined it all? No way to know. But there was no denying the sense that already existed that this day would end with us together in bed.

The jefe returned, I did my business and soon we were walking in the broiling heat. Fast. She liked to walk. She missed the gym, needed lots of exercise, usually walked her friends into the ground. Like so much about her, it was a challenge. I strided alongside, hip complaining, mind ticking over the jobs still waiting at home.

It was a long way, but conversation made it almost painless. We talked of her travels, art, South African politics. Kilometres flew by. She was a 6^th year law student, whose academic interests were far wider. Fuck. So about 24 years old. (I'm 43 now, just to bring newcomers up-to-date)

We paused at the open-air sculpture museum and both regarded one item with the same amusement. It was like a series of balls passing through a wall. She read my mind. “Looks like a set of anal beads.” When we finally reached the emblematic Cibeles fountain, she turned out to be the first person who could tell me its story. She hadn’t had much to read except the guidebook, she explained. She’d been hoping to pick up a cheap edition of the Marquis de Sade in London, but…

She was well filled, but I was hungry now. I offered her the pleasure of watching me eat. She accepted. I decided to take her to my little hideaway – the bars down by the lake in the huge Casa de Campo. A lot of people avoid the park at night because of its deservedly dodgy reputation. But the bars are safe, the air much fresher then in the city, and the vista of town and country quite breathtaking at sunset.

We drank, chatted, argued. She asserted it was more worthwhile to save an animal’s life than a child’s. In Cordoba she had interceded on behalf of a donkey and nearly been driven out of town. We toyed with the moral and practical implications of sex with animals before turning back to art. She had been studying Hieronymous Bosch (or ‘El Bosco’ as he’s known here) in The Prado, The Garden of Earthly Delights obviously occupying her mind. She commented on how much Bosch had been influenced by Pieter Brueghel, one of whose more hellish scenes hangs opposite in the gallery. No, no, the reverse, I countered, Bosch came first. In her forceful manner she asserted she remembered the date exactly. “We’ll have to Google it”. She concluded. That had implications. They remained unspoken.

We wandered up to a higher bar with a better view, but - this being Spain and this being Monday (yes, what the hell am I doing?) – the bar was shutting early. So we sat at a table in the twilight as bats flitted around us. She spoke of her desire to assassinate Robert Mugabe, personally, of the AIDS crisis in SA and the division of relationships on racial lines.

We compared the typical sexual characteristics of our native and adopted lands, with much merriment and curiosity. She spoke somewhat disparagingly of the conservatism of her contemporaries, something she clearly did not share, to put it mildly. To her surprise, I started laughing. “No, it’s just that as soon as saw you I knew there was sexual wildness in you. But I tried to ignore it because I was busy. The radar works well, though.” She shrugged, “You feel those things don’t you? It’s normal..” Normal but not so typical.

We chatted on and I touched her soft legs from time to time, which elicited neither reaction nor comment. She confessed her persistent infidelity. “I’m never able to be faithful to my boyfriends. I sleep with someone, then I feel bad about it, feel I’ve ruined everything, then there seems to be no reason not to do it again.” It seemed that her boyfriends rarely rumbled her however. I felt genuinely sorry for them, trying to control this force of nature. And yet…

Another bar, another drink. Another Brueghel v Bosch debate. What would you bet me? I asked. “My pride.” I played my trump card. “I have the most authoritative book on Bosch there is. We can check.” The shutters were coming down on the bar. And that simply and with no further discussion she was coming home with me.

As we sat waiting for the metro, her phone pinged. She flipped it open and shut again with almost one movement, carried on talking. “What was that?” I asked. “Oh, just a good night message.” “From whom?”

My trusting boyfriend.”

One icy bitch. So clear. In a way you had to respect it. Turned out BF was a model.

“Still, I don’t think he’ll be my boyfriend for long. The trouble is he installed Linux on my computer and without him I don’t know how to use it. Perhaps we could come to an arrangement.” My mind boggled. I couldn’t help laughing.

Not a discreet arrival. My cute Fillipino neighbour was on her balcony watching us cross the square. Inside the flat, as we walked down the corridor I found my flatmate’s door open, for some air movement, no doubt, and her excessively chatty boyfriend (semi-nude male, reclining) calling “Hola! Que tal?”. I whipped my companion into my room before a bizarre half-hour conversation ensued.

She was happy to have gazpacho with me, another Spanish box ticked. Between the book and the internett, my assertion was confirmed. “The label on the wall was wrong,“ she retorted, “I’m going back tomorrow to check.” Jeeesus. Whatever happened next was going to be…. Challenging.

It was whilst we were sitting on the bed and I was talking about the movies of David Lynch that I began to kiss her back. And for some reason, at that point, five hours of non-stop gabbing came to a total halt.

I liked kissing her skin and her reaction said yes, I’ve been waiting, I’m losing myself. It was supple and tangy from the sweat of miles walked on a summer’s day in Madrid.

A strong body but so slender that I wondered if she’d only afforded her European trip by not eating. Her ears. Tiny and sensitive. The neck asking to be nibbled and then asking for more. I knew a storm was coming, but I wanted to enjoy the calm. I wanted to travel a while.

Really so little clothing. Her small breasts easily exposed. The nipples so hard, so quickly, heartbeat speeding. Her nails in my back, not just scratching, but digging. Like she said, her favourite animals were cats. Then the storm broke.

She bit my bicep. This was not just a nip. The teeth were sinking deep into my flesh, and they were showing no signs of coming out. The pain was shocking, but the effect was electric. Until now I had studiously avoided the area between her thighs, but without any kind of conscious thought I found my other hand clamping tight over her mound, my fingers pressing the cotton of her pants deep inside her as she bucked under me.

After that, memories are less clear. Forcibly extracting my flesh from her jaws. Her pants gone, my mouth there, a long time. Kissing her again, her nails scratching, catching, taking little pieces out of my wrists. I grabbed her hands and pinned them down - she seemed to like that - observing that her nails appeared to be filed to points, not rounded like normal. After further attacks I declared “I can see I’m going to have to get you under control.” She stared up at me, cocky and defiant.

“A lot of men have tried to tame me. None have succeeded.” Clearly we would be playing hard.

She immediately attacked with full force, using all her considerable strength to throw me off, aided and abetted by flailing nails and teeth. It was a battle I knew I had to win, both to meet her challenge and to preserve my body. After some struggle, I saw my chance. I suddenly flipped her onto her front., dragged her wrists behind her back, pulled the tie from my dressing gown on the door and tied her hands firmly. This last part, I noted, she didn’t fight too much.

She made a pretty package, naked from the waist down, bottom half hanging off the bed, touching the floor with the tips of her toes. Fun to play with too, as I alternately teased her and spanked her hard enough to demonstrate that being vicious was a two-way thing.

She pulled hard at the ropes. “Can’t get out, can you.” I observed.

“No. Just makes it tighter. Still, it’s fun to struggle though.” She continued to do so.

After a while I pulled out a plastic bag of ‘toys’, which broke her out of her erotic reverie as she twisted from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse. I made sure she didn’t. “I don’t like unidentified rustling noises.”

“Well you shouldn’t let strangers tie you up, then. What’s the matter? Don’t trust me? Although that’s an odd question, in the circumstances.”

“It is. But strangely enough, I do.”

“Well,” I continued, “We’ve seen the sculpture, now it’s time to have the real thing…” She seemed to enjoy that. And she was light enough to easily be lifted up onto the bed on her knees to receive a two-pronged attack, although still trying to do me harm as I grabbed her wrists or her hair. She clearly enjoyed the fight.

I eventually tossed her onto her back and attacked her again, but then realised this had all been a bit one sided. I pulled out, removed the condom and sat myself over her face, where she hungrily took me in. In fact she attacked me with an extraordinary and admirable ferocity given her prone and tied situation. Face buried in her pussy I found myself grown to the fullest possible capacity as she swallowed me quite literally to the balls and fucked me with her throat, her hips rising with my excitement until I couldn’t take nay more.

After I came she suckled and lapped at me in the most delicious way to bring me down slowly. I contemplated that I had been a bit harsh in recently, telling a friend that young women may be pretty to look at but they don’t know so well what they’re doing in bed. Young ladies certainly were seeming remarkably… advanced these days.

She showered. I showered. The water stung me. When I came back, she was checking her mail on my computer. I asked her if she wanted to see her handiwork. “Oh, no! You didn’t take pictures!” was her immediate response. No, it wasn’t that. I displayed the scratches, cuts and bites that covered me. She regarded them momentarily before turning back to the screen. “I’ve done much worse.” If this was an act, it was good. And if it wasn’t…

I can sincerely say that I’ve never knowingly (before or after the event) slept with anyone who had a partner. I can’t entirely account for what demon it was that made me not give a damn on this occasion. Perhaps it was her attitude. Perhaps it was the simple Fuck You quality of sleeping with a models’ girlfriend. Or perhaps it was the general sense that we really were talking about a soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend. Looking at her mail, an “Oh shit!” slipped out. What was it? I wondered.

Turned out she’d been interviewed for a famous style magazine – an article on women who have models for partners (clearly an important sociological analysis). She hadn’t been very happy with what the journalist had done with her words. Now the article had been published and her friends were having great fun with it. One had sent this so-called quote: “Unlike me, my boyfriend is not bisexual, but sometimes when he’s drunk he admits to being attracted to men.” Pretty devastating stuff. How did her man feel about this being published for all to see?

It was the first time I had seen her mildly embarrassed . “He refuses to discuss it.” Probably the best strategy with a girlfriend like that, I thought.

A week later, I returned to the lab to pick up the finished, mounted prints. What should have been a thirty-minute visit, turned into an hour-and-a-half bonanza, as it took two people over an hour to wrap seven photos. I had to cancel some work due to being so late. Sure, it was bloody frustrating, but this being Spain and this being Monday, I shouldn’t have been surprised.

After all, today I didn’t have the benefit of the Klimt Effect.

SORRY FOR THE DELAY IN POSTING, BUT I THINK IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT. LET ME KNOW IF YOU AGREE BY LEAVING A COMMENT. THANKS.

CRAZY, CRAZY NIGHTS

I've just been out walking the streets, enjoying the 3am Sunday night peace of Madrid. Why? The same reason that I was startled by my flatmate as I tried to creep out without putting the lights on. She was lying in the dark on the sofa - unable to sleep in her boiling bedroom. It's the beginning of the crazy season. Outside, a thermometer on a bus stop (yes, it's a normal fixture here) read 29C. A mistake, I was sure. The next one confirmed it.

Now, just rewind a moment. It's TWENTY-NINE EFFING DEGREES CENTIGRADE AT THREE IN THE PIGGING MORNING. It's one thing to see people sleeping in doorways. It's quite another to see (and smell) them in their underpants, because otherwise they can't get any kip. Down below in the plaza right now there are a number of people using the payphones - probably for much the same reason I was going for a walk - no doubt calling people back in South American countries where all this may seem more normal. And of course in a few hours the sun will come up...

But last night the insanity was of another kind, in an air-conditioned room. It's amazing I'm still functioning at all, considering how little sleep was available. I was in Collado Villalba, a town outside Madrid, close to the mountains, which sounds romantic, but it is in fact an urbanisation vomited up out of necessity without love or planning. A clash of highways, superstores and ugly accommodation, without centre or form, adorned with shabby streets and cracked pavements, as if in the aftermath of an earthquake.

I was with E. and we were staying in the only hotel in town, which boasts a surrealy mistranslated English website, worth a look if you're in need of a smile. We arrived, surveyed the room briefly and then a hormonal rush swept down, full of sweat, cries and transgressive pleasure. We awoke entwined, surprised to find we had slept and realised it was time to get out and accomplish the thing we had allegedly come to do.

As the sun dipped, the traffic locked and streams of figures crawled across the shock zone, drawn to the town's sports field. As we got closer, the voice was unmistakable. Dammit! The unthinkable had happened: a Spanish concert had started exactly on time, catching out half the audience. That voice. Call it a groan, a whine, tuneless even, but you know it's him as "Yes, the times they are a-changin'" bounces off a car showroom.

The Mona Lisa's smile seems transparent set alongside the profound mystery of Why Does Bob Dylan Keep Touring? He can't need the money. He doesn't seek the fame. It's unlikely to be the groupies. So why does the grizzled, pale, 65 year-old fucker keep plugging his way around the world? I'm just glad he does, as is his audience, which seamlessly straddles three generations. Some people are literally with their grandchildren.

It's my fourth encounter with the Old Groaner (as my mother used to call him) and definitely the most intimate - just me and no more than 4,000 close friends. For a Bobologist such as I the set is frustrating - three tracks from Highway 61 Revisited, but nothing at all from between 1970 and 1990. I have no more interest in hearing Mister Tambourine Man again than he does in singing it. Yet he does. Then the contrary bastard catches you unawares, singing a beautiful song that I felt sure was one of his new ones, until something about the lyrics seemed familiar... It was only later that I realised it was one of his earliest acoustic compositions, The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll, wonderfully rearranged for this new band. Nobody re-interprets Dylan like Dylan himself. That's the pleasure of seeing him live.

Surprisingly he chose not to play the guitar - a wise decision given his musicians' talent in this department and his lack of it - contenting himself to play the organ throughout, at the centre rather than front of his tight, bluesy band. E. was frustrated that her good English wasn't enough to follow the lyrics. "Listen," I reassured her, "I know all the words to most of these songs - and I still don't understand what he's saying. If you can catch a few phrases, it means he's particularly enjoying singing it."

We laughed, snacked, danced, drank a chilled Albariño and thought about the return to our room. Back at the hotel we had a couple of beers and chatted about how we had reached this strange point together. A close, open connection with a kind of sexual nuclear fission, and yet not a 'relationship' - a word, a concept that makes us both wary. We both have our reasons for keeping several steps away from it, but we know that the times are always a-changin'.

In the room again, the attraction is overwhelming. She strokes her lovely breasts against my back, literally pleading to be tied, to be used, wanting pain with her pleasure. There is no way to deny her. Later we are end to end as she practices the deep throat techniques she has begun to learn. She's a dedicated pupil and leaves me shuddering. She kisses me, happy "I swallowed it all". I'm consistently amazed how much she can swallow of me - in every way.

And then, for the very first time, we sleep side by side, curled, touching, moving through the night. The small amount of morning light that filters through the blackout curtains awakes and arouses. She nestles against me as I stroke her, kiss her, grow into her, a gentle penetration becoming a storm. We consume each other with insane energy until she tells me, in all seriousness, that her body hurts all over and she can't do any more of ANYTHING. I start laughing - she thinks I'm laughing at her, but it's not that. It's been a long time since I slept or woke like this, and I like it. Also there is almost an absurdity about two people, far from teenagers, taking themselves to such a physical limit because of their obsession. Like many deeply erotic moments, it´s funny too.

We shower, breakfast, clear the room (which now resembles a bomb attack in a brothel), and shuffle in the searing heat to the bus, which takes us, happy and dozing, back to Madrid and to a life that, for a short time, ceased to exist.


YOUR POSITIVE FEEDBACK ENCOURAGES ME TO KEEP WRITING - ALTHOUGH I CAN´T PROMISE THAT YOUR CRITICISM WILL SHUT ME UP. PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT.

A LAPSE OF CONCENTRATION

I have had messages asking for translations of some of the highly erotically charged things E. has written to me, so I thought I'd simply begin with a few brief text messages, received and sent this evening.

I have to preface these by an explanation that she has become much taken with the idea of displaying herself to me in underwear, stockings and suspenders, offering herself to be tied hand and foot and used according to my whims. Clearly, I have offered no resistance to these proposals - and we are talking about a woman of 1.75m with very long legs. In fact one could fairly say that I have heaped coal on the fire (which, considering the thermometer here has been hitting 35 centigrade, means we're talking about a LOT of heat).

I was sitting in the airport awaiting the departure of my son's return flight to England after a very happy post-GCSE break together, much of it spent at the excellent Metrorock festival. I was utterly exhausted, but my mind turned to E., who I knew had a few days alone at home, with her daughter away on camp. Hmmmm... We chatted merrily and perversely, planning to meet tomorrow night. She said that she was disconcerted sometimes, not knowing where my limits were - or hers. Then later:

HER: I just showered and now I'm naked, lying across the armchair, face down, wanting you to fuck my ass
ME: What a lovely image. All it lacks is that you're tied up with your bottom good and red after a long spanking. I shall address these deficiencies tomorrow.

I got home, collapsed into bed for a nap, shattered but horny, woke up an hour later and sent:
ME: Just had a clear image of you: tied up, a rope pulled deep between the wet lips of your pussy, squirming as I grab your hair and push my cock down your throat.
HER: I'd like you to do that to me, tied up, until you come. I'm still naked on the armchair, thinking about all the things you're going to do to me.
Then, minutes later:
HER: I'm trying out positions so that you can penetrate me however and wherever you'd most like.
ME: Tomorrow you can demonstrate these positions whilst you describe in detail exactly what you're thinking. And if I like it....

So, a typical, simple, casual chat between friends. She's paying a visit to the lingerie section in EL Corte Ingles department store on the way home tomorrow.

So how the hell am I supposed to concentrate on anything between now and then? All suggestions welcome.

THE PLEASURE EQUATION

I’m at the open-air pool. It’s the first weekend of my favourite summer escape. Cool water, trees, grass and a council-subsidised bar. I choose the afternoon sun for my pale English flesh. I smell the chlorine that impregnates my towel. Tiny insects mountaineer on my body hairs. I’m reading Michel Houlbecq, a little stupefied by the heat. I contemplate the conical nipples of the young woman next to me – topless like most – but my gaze also meets that of an adolescent Moroccan who eyes me repeatedly as a potential fuck/client.

So complicated. It is a feast of flesh here. The Caso de Campo outdoor pool is famous as a gay meeting spot - and at times you do appear to have wandered into the pages of a swimwear catalogue for men – but “Hay de todo”: gay, straight, whatever, cheek by jowl with a mass of families.

In the pool, an attractive young couple canoodled increasingly passionately in the water, pressed against the wall, oblivious or uncaring of the people who dangled their feet right at their side, or paddled close by. As I swam back and forth I tried to judge whether they were actually fucking or just mutually masturbating. There came a moment where the girl’s wicked smile turned to an expression of such happy abandon that I felt sure he was inside her.

I pull my attention back to the book. I like this; propped up on elbows, sun on my back, deep in a good read. Only one thing irks – the pain in the three ribs I broke many years ago, which has returned and refuses to leave. As has the pain in my back. And the pain in my hip has yet to give me a day off since it began. All reminders that something is not right: a something that is increasingly probably arthritis and possibly (my consultant informs me) a particularly nasty form. Scanning, nerve tests and more bloodsucking should yield more clues in July.

Meanwhile, I have decided to resist seeking more hair-raising details on the all-knowing internet and prefer to work on keeping myself in good shape. Hence, taking myself to these little municipal paradises to swim. But there are even more motivating ways to stay in form.

On Friday I arrived home from work at nearly 11pm and realised:

A)I was aching a lot and tired

B) A certain woman (see Out of My Head on E.) was suddenly and unexpectedly alone, without daughter or sister at home.

C) She had just sent me a stunningly erotic e-mail in which she laid out in detail some of the extremes she wanted to go to with me – and had illustrated this with a series of highly provocative self-portraits (well, actually none showed her face).

So I rang her and discovered that:

D) She really wanted to see me, but

E) She was totally knackered after rising early, with only three hours’ sleep, so preferred to meet the next day for lunch or possibly at night (babysitter permitting).

Now, I did Maths ‘A’ Level and still remember a little, so I quickly applied myself to the problem and realised that:

(B+D) – (A+E) = mH

But, surprisingly:

(B+D) – (A+E) + C = hH

Where:

mH = my House
hH = her House

I therefore proposed an impromptu visit, which she reluctantly rejected on ‘logical’ grounds, citing E. Since she didn’t study Maths to the same level, I decided it was pointless to argue the finer points of equations and suggested she get some sleep, signing off with “I’ll call you.”.

I kept my word. I called her at 2.00 a.m. from outside the door of her building. Incredulous, sleepy and visibly turned on, she found herself subjected to a large part of C until dawn.

And I made another important mathematical discovery. Under certain circumstances, the value of A is, in fact, zero and needn’t be entered into the equation at all.

I'D LOVE TO HAVE YOUR FEEDBACK - PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. THANKS.

OUT OF MY HEAD ON E.

E. and I have had few encounters. They exist at this moment on an island beyond our daily lives, a secret to everybody she knows and most of my friends too, as that is how she wants it. Various bizarre obstacles (mainly medical) prevented us from seeing each other for seven weeks, allowing sexual pressure to rise and rise. In the meantime we amused each other with a comic and erotic fictional correspondence parallel to reality, which deserves a post of its own.

Last week we finally met again. At my request, she wrote an account of what she experienced that night, which stimulated me (in every sense) to respond with my own view of the events, an edited version of which follows below:

It's embarrassing, but true. I've been masturbating so much that I've made my penis sore. Yes, I know it's only supposed to happen when you're 15. And I still can't stop even though I know I should. And I suspect writing this e-mail won't help.

You may still find it hard to believe, but when I first met you I quickly sensed that you were somebody who hadn't had sex for a long time. And that seemed to me, at the very least, a terrible waste of a lovely, sexy woman. Beyond that, I felt there was a wilder, playful, inquisitive sexuality waiting to get out and that seemed like fun to play with.

So perhaps what has happened surprises me less than it surprises you - although last Friday was VERY surprising in many ways. Since I left my wife I have been exploring my own sexuality gradually, and perhaps more intensively since being in Spain, and I feel very comfortable with the (perverted) way I am.

It is the newness of your discovery of your deeper sexual self which is particularly exciting to me. You are a natural and profound sexual submissive and I find that incredibly erotic. The most exciting sexual games are played out beyond the boundaries of what society considers 'decent' 'proper' or 'politically correct'. And you enter deeply into those games.

Naturally, there is internal conflict and reluctance. The bad news for you is that I like that. When I had you almost naked and tied your hands, and you realised that you were truly defenceless, it was a powerful moment for me. When you looked at me with tears coming to your eyes and pleaded to be untied, saying "I feel so defenceless" I hesitated. Is it right to compel a woman who is naked and bound to perform sexual acts? Clearly not - deeply immoral. Is it right to make E. kneel down and suck me? Clearly yes, if she is to drop the last vestiges of propriety and fully give herself up to the insatiable lust that has been dominating her for weeks. In other words, it's so wrong, that it's right and the wetness between your legs said far more than the wetness in your eyes.

So your mouth felt sweeter than ever as you opened up to not only my penis, but to all the possibilities of desire beyond the rules, of being used for pleasure without being able to control what happens. After you finally gave in and consumed me eagerly, I lifted you back to your feet and kissed you, feeling a mouth literally dripping with saliva, such was your hunger for my flesh inside you. It was then I knew you were ready to be used, as you put it yourself "without compassion" and that this would excite you beyond measure.

Furthermore, you looked so beautiful - naked except for your shoes and necklace, hands neatly tied and struggling - that it merely inflamed me further to use you harder. So there was a satisfyingly cruel pleasure to be had in taunting you with the possibility of my hard cock inside you, teasing you and slapping your arse however I felt like it. And then it seemed clear that you needed to be fucked where you stood, face pressed against the wall, the coldness of the surface contrasting with the heat of my cock, your knees bending eagerly to take more of me in, although I only let you have a little at a time.

I like to make you talk because it forces you to acknowledge what is happening - that nice, quiet E. is enjoying being used in this way and is eager for more. She is happy to admit how much she likes being face down on the bed, whilst I ride her like some wild animal. Neither your voice nor your anus offer any objections as I drive my thumb all the way into you and I mentally note that I must fuck you there at another time. For now I am happy to grab the rope in my other hand and let you know that there is no way for you to escape the invasion of my member and eager thumb - that I will violate you as long and deep and hard as I like. Your cries of pleasure and surprise keep me rock hard.

After, you pleasantly surprise me with your continued hunger for my cock. I can sense how much you love to have it in your mouth - a weakness that I am keen to exploit. I decide to be tough on you and force you down again and again, even though I can feel your anxiety and reluctance - which just makes me keener to break your will. But this gradually changes and I see you transformed into a magnificent cocksucking slut, the queen of my hard-on, keen to prove she can play with me without stopping, until the relentless attack of your greedy mouth makes me explode. I come and come, my semen filling your mouth until it's too much for you and you pull away, my come still erupting, spilling over my body and the bed. You leave me utterly drained and proud of your determination to be a good slave.

And then I can just feel you beside me, losing track of time and place, just your body , your kisses and your eyes. A wonderful peace, a very tranquil, safe place to be. I contemplate the deep place we have just been together and wonder where we might go next. You ask me eagerly if I am going to tie you up again. Truly you have become a total slave both to me and your own desires.

What happened next surprised me the most. You were dressed to go on the balcony for a smoke and I couldn't resist putting you in disarray again and tempting you away from one vice with another. I just had an urge to make you come with my mouth, nothing more or less than that. And then there was a finger. And then another. And when I felt and heard how strongly you were responding to those, there was a temptation to insert another. I couldn't believe how eagerly you were accepting this invasion and the movements of your body seemed to be chanting "more, more", so I hesitantly slipped in a fourth digit, to be rewarded with a quickening of your breathing and fresh cries, balanced between pain and pleasure.

I decided not to force things, to let you take this profound penetration at your own pace and was delighted by the way you would push down and then slide away as if was too too much, then seek my fingers again. Every time deeper. You were gradually sliding away from me across the bed, so I had to drag you back to where you were within reach, but this was just an enjoyable part of the struggle. And then I felt you were ready and willing to go beyond any normal limit and, with some careful lubrication I began to ease my whole hand inside you. I fully expected you to tell me to stop, or to pull away completely, and I was worried about hurting you. Instead you kept going, taking more and more as you panted, whimpered and moaned in a way that was incredibly arousing.

I hardly knew where to look. I was equally mesmerised by the look in your eyes - staring amazed at me, utterly lost in desire - and the astonishing sight of my hand disappearing inside you. And as we pushed against each other you began to beg me to fuck you again. I couldn't really believe it, that you needed my cock inside you again after such an extreme penetration. But you did. It was a short and intense coupling, a release of sexual intensity that was almost hysteria. I was left spent and amazed that all of this had happened with the two of us almost fully dressed.

I could go on, but this e-mail has already taken some hours. I hope you understand that the way I treat you sexually has no effect on how I see you in general. I view you with the same respect in everyday life, even if I treat you like a horny slut in bed.

Many soft kisses to you, you beautiful, crazy, wanton woman. Now I must go put some cream on a certain part of me.

Tonight she has invited me out for dinner and nothing more, owing to what she describes as "female biological reasons". We shall see.


I'D LOVE TO HAVE YOUR FEEDBACK, SO PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. THANKS.

RETURN OF THE LACEMAKER

I recall a period in my teens where it seems to me that every Friday or Saturday night there was a Foreign Movie on BBC2. (Probably it was just the occasional short season but hey, this is my memory and you can butt out with your specifics). My parents liked that kind of stuff and I would watch all I could, my mind and eyes opening with the new worlds and the new styles of cinema I saw.

One film that left a deep mark on my 16 year-old soul (not counting any re-incarnations, you understand) was The Lacemaker, a French story of the love affair between Pomme, a very quiet 19 year-old girl, and an intellectual but loving student. On one level it's very simple: they meet, they live together, there are problems, they split up. But behind the simplicity is a finely observed study of the quest for love and acceptance that is ultimately profoundly haunting: above all, because the girl, in her own quiet way, cannot recover from the loss. Indeed, so profound was its effect that I sat down and wrote a song about the story (which, thankfully no other living soul has ever heard).

I've often wanted to see it again, but it never crossed my path until tonight. Thanks to the French Embassy I had a free ticket to see the movie at the Filmoteca Nacional (National Film Theatre) with the star herself in attendance: the amazing Isabelle Huppert. She discreetly managed to get almost to the front of the cinema before we noticed and started applauding. She climbed onto the stage looking very good for 52, but so tiny and slight that a cough might floor her. She proceeded to talk so excitedly that the translator had to eventually grab her arm to get her to allow him to do his job.

And then the curtains opened and a freckly 30 years younger version appeared. I'd dragged a couple of friends along and began to doubt whether that was wise. The 70s styles were hilarious and I wondered if the whole thing was just the dated reminiscence of an adolescent. But then it began to weave its spell on me again. I could see just how powerfully it would have affected the teenage virgin me whose hormones and emotions had no idea what to do with themselves. And it was having the same effect again on me and my companions.

Now, considering that my business is drama, I have a shocking inability to remember the details of movies. Most of those times when people ask "Don't you remember that wonderful bit where..." I can usually simplify the conversation with a direct and sadly honest "No". So I was amazed to find that the final ten minutes of the film were etched upon my mind as if I had just seen them the day before. Isabelle Huppert deserved all the awards she won, just for her final long look at the camera.

Like all good art it makes you reflect on yourself and your own life. I saw myself as that 16 year-old again. I thought about my son who is now that age and yet has already lived emotional experiences beyond those in the film. And I thought about A, also in Paris, and her very clear love for me, not unlike that of Pomme in the film. She enjoys being with me as I am, rather than with the expectation that I must be or become something else. And here I am, turning my back on that. Mind you, A could easily give that skinny French lad a run for his money in the intellectual stakes. But I felt her fragility as I watched the story and I find myself thinking again that perhaps staying away is kinder than later breaking such a young heart (even if the body is older).

Leaving the cinema, I began to hear my Lacemaker song in my head. The melody was crystal clear, but the lyrics were hazy. However, the last line came through to me: "Her silence soft like holes in the lace". Sometimes it's the space between the threads/ the busyness/ the noise/ the words that creates the beauty. And I realised my soul was quite old enough back then to understand what it needed to learn.

CREAKING AT THE SEAMS

I already know what my first act will be tomorrow. I will rise from my (barely) double bed at 7.30, pick up a small plastic container, take it to the bathroom opposite and, as requested, fill it with only the finest, freshest, dew-picked, top o' the mornin' urine. A brief washavedress later I shall stumble downhill to the insalubrious Centro de Salud where I shall doubtless be evil-eyed by unnaturaturally diminutive elderly Spanish ladies who are well prepared for queue-jumping 'guiris' (foreigners) like me. Then perhaps a bleary-eyed nurse who neither knows nor cares why I am there will make vague, stabbing attempts to encounter a vein whilst regaling her compatriots with her weekend escapades, punctuated by cries of "Joderrrrr tia!". I shall attempt to interject in reasonably fluent Spanish that this is one bodily fluid best extracted from me in a reclining position. After all, nobody really wants a repeat of those embarrassing incidents where a surprised medic is propping up my unconscious frame, syringe dangling from my arm, whilst calling for help. Hopefully she will hear my pleas.

Why so much interest in the liquids sloshing around my insides? Same reason a nurse in radiography chose to gesticulate bizarrely at me last week as if I was deaf, stupid and understood no Spanish, whilst pressing my hands down on the X-ray plate. They think I might have arthritis. I think I might have arthritis. It's no big deal right now. I can dance for hours, walk for hours around town and make love for hours with no perceivable ill effects. But if I push the boat out - like going for one of those long mountain walks I love - I am crippled with joint pains out of all proportion to my years.

That's 42 years right now (this being the first time we've met, you wouldn't know that). It's a point in life where everything still seems open to me. I feel smarter about life than in the past and still have the energy to enjoy it to its fullest. But the ghost of this news has been like a rifle shot to remind me This Is Not A Rehearsal. Nothing is to be taken for granted.

To have arthritis would be, well, crap to put it plainly. I'm in good shape, look after myself, relatively young, eat well and have no history of it in the family. However, if it did prove to be true I could hardly claim to be the one with the real problems among my family and friends. And they deserve an introduction:

SOME SALIENT FACTS
So, you know I am a 42 year-old English writer (and director) living in Madrid after the swift ending of a promising relationship (just one year) with a Spanish woman. What else would you like to know?

I live smack in the middle of the historical centre of Madrid, with the Rastro market below my window. No, I don't own any property either here or un the UK - I share with two very simpatico Spaniards.

Yes, I was married for 12 years and have a tall, handsome, laid-back, intelligent son of 16 years to show for it (I'm not boasting - that's pure envy). He used to live half-and-half between his mother and myself when I was in the UK, but now he is mainly with her. Currently neck-deep in GCSEs.

My 85 year-old father lives alone near London after the death of my mother nearly 3 years ago. He's in good form for his age, but lacks company and stimulation. He's increasingly living in a blurry land of sleeping and waking, made worse I think by the advent of 24 TV news (his addiction). At least the lunchtime, afternoon and evening bulletins demarcated the day more clearly.

My brother is also without his wife since her death from cancer at 45 last year. She was one of my oldest friends. He is not alone and is weighed down with the care of his two sons - 15 and 11. We are close. I miss his company and feel the pull of both him and my father. These forces may well eventually pull me home. I am also aware of my brother's envy of my perceived freedom from responsibility.

My love life, you ask? I do so hate to be a cliche, but I have to admit that my last relationship appears to have robbed me of any enthusiasm to fall in love again or involve myself too closely with anyone, even now that more than a year has passed. Still this will almost inevitably change eventually, given my enthusiasm for the opposite sex. The last year has, indeed, been the busiest for dating, wonderful random encounters and explosive sex of my whole life. I would thoroughly recommend having your 20's in your late 30's-40's. You know yourself much better (hopefully) and can enjoy it with less stress. (After all, people are becoming parents later and later - how about a campaign for the reverse?) Hence right now there is:

A - a French woman of 29 in Paris who believes I am the right man for her. For her life, that is. We have spent a few wonderful weekends together, but the burden of her romantic idealism is heavy and I'm unsure how/whether to proceed.

E - a mid 30's Spanish woman who is equally wary of deep involvement but has seen me as perhaps the first man with whom she could have friendship and sex, without too much more. We talk and meet every few weeks and enjoy an intense chemistry which she finds a refreshing antidote to the usual routine of work responsibilities and single parenthood.

C - a mid-30's English woman, who lives in Madrid but travels the world a lot for her job. We meet sporadically for what can only be described as mad, intense S&M-style sex. That, and a bloody good English-style laugh.

So, I'm clearly hoping that the results of tomorrow's test are not going to impede this complex lifestyle, which I currently feel remarkably relaxed about. Because despite the many difficulties just described, I find much in life to make me happy.

Just off to drink more water.