And I got off to a promising start. Things to do. Preparations for my sojourn in
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
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 –
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
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 6th 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
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
We wandered up to a higher bar with a better view, but - this being
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
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
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.
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