Why On Earth Did I Do That?

(This is the third part of a series. Please read "Do You Mind If I Smoke?" followed by "Would You Like To Go For A Drink?" before this one.)

M, it became clear to me over the period of a week, was in major denial about several aspects of her contradictory behaviour. She was obviously enjoying the crazy art squat girly chick trip, yet she was a sensible middle-class Sanderstead woman. She drank and smoked whilst extolling the healthy virtues of Chi Gung. She flirted unblushingly whilst maintaining a fix on esoteric or intellectual matters beyond the scope of normal conversation. She wore revealing, provocative clothes whilst maintaining a Catholic girls school prudishness, her legs always crossed correctly even while she showed her nipples. Somehow, this thin, red, flickering flame attracted me like a night moth, her strong pheremonal broadcast tickled my insect antennae, and all this push-pull became translated into intense sexual expectation.

We disembarked from the commuter train and cut back to my flat, where under the pretext of having to wash and change, I located the stash, and carefully arranged twin lines upon a small bathroom mirror. I waited until she was in the toilet before doing the first in case she heard, with a user's anticipation of being discovered.

One of the things I was beginning to learn about M was her tendency to carry on way past the point of no return, until a sudden dearth of fuel (food, alcohol, music, reassurance) would cause her to crash to earth. She spun several yarns which illustrated this pattern, seemingly unaware that each story was underpinned by this lack of attention to her own needs. She really didn't stop talking, which I took to be a good sign, at least of her trust that I was interested in hearing it all, which gave my seduction plans confidence.

In the bathroom, I wetted my face, took a single-blade razor, started shaving as the coke began to irritate its way through my mucus membrane into my bloodstream. I felt my scalp tingle and a sudden increase in heart rate, and I slowed down so that I didn't emerge looking like I was in need of a transfusion. It was good, I realised, one line and I was really feeling it. The opposite of a night of snot waiting for a high. I carefully wiped my face, stopped the bleeding from a small cut under my chin, patted my torso dry, applied deodorant. I thought about using cologne, but I knew that M had an aversion to it, so I left the expensive bottle on the shelf and without a second thought, ran the water loudly, did the second line, checked the mirror for telltale crumbs around the sink or on the nose, and breezed into the hall naked from the waist up. Give her a look at the goods, my boosted ego told me, let her see you in your toned, swim-honed athletic glory.

I stood casually in the living room doorway, looking down at M who had arranged herself diagonally across the floor, in a star shape, chin pointing up, head back. She was wearing mint green baggy slacks and a thin black cotton tank top and stood out vividly on the red carpet. She looked like she had been frozen mid-orgasm. One thousand witty comments rushed to my tongue and stayed there. I really didn't know what to do or say. I could taste the coke sliding down the back of my throat. I wondered if she expected me to lie down upon her, but I decided that this was probably an esoteric pre-drink meditation, and probably it was best to leave her to it for a while. I went next door, found my condoms, put on a shirt.

Since M had apparently found her little piece of heaven, I decided that a small top up before drinks would assure me mine, so I chopped another line out, about half the size of the first two. It was a warm summer's evening and I could feel perspiration drops accumulating on my forehead as I lent once again over the mirror. I was more concerned about drips messing up crystals than my increased blood pressure.

"Nice and tidy, tidy and nice!" I sang, re-entering the living room full of the joys of an illegal and dangerous substance. M was now sitting up and smiling. "Ready?" I asked. She jumped up.

On the way to the Hope and Anchor, I realised several things. 1. The coke was very strong. 2. I had already consumed so much that I had no appetite at all. 3. I could murder a beer 4. I no longer knew how I was going to maintain an evening's conversation with this strange woman and ensure that my carnal ends were met. My cock felt cold, disinterested and miniscule, despite the fact my imagination was continually conjuring up scenarios of future debauchery.

We got in. There was the usual pub rock line up, gangs of black-dressing friends hanging around in the basement, waiting for their mate's band and suffering the other four. Having had my confidence shaken by one drug, I decided to put my faith in another - alcohol. We found a seat at the back, good view, an intimate space meaning we had to squash up. M requested a pint of lager, and I went to the bar.

My eyes beheld the most beautiful indian barmaid I had ever seen in my life, and I just stared at her. She looked at me and caught my blatant admiration. She was curvy, dark, with a warm sexy face, gorgeous lips, fabulous hands and cropped, thick hair.

"Hello," she said.

I was lost. She was gorgeous.

"You are gorgeous," I stated, matter of fact.

"Thank you," she smiled, "You are not so bad yourself!"

Wow, I thought. She really likes me. Then I thought, bollocks. M was waiting for her beer.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"You can," I replied, "but maybe not at the bar."

"Then come through here," she purred, indicating the hinged entrance. Without taking our eyes from one another, we moved in sync to the end of the bar, and she lifted the flap, reached for my hand. I felt her sensitive brown fingers close gently but firmly, and she murmured, "Perhaps we can discuss your needs?"

Pulling me steadily she moved me into the back of the bar, where I caught a smell of her skin, which was faintly cinammon.

"Thursdays can be quiet, thankfully," she said, indicating the back exit. I passed through into an unlit space where coats were hanging, a broom was standing. A couple of empty plastic beer crates were hidden and my shins crashed into them.

"Mind them," she said. Her voice was smooth and full of promise, and she turned to me with the sweetest smile, took my head in her hands, pulled me down to her mouth, and kissed me. Her kiss took everything about me and changed it. Everything we did was understood, as if pre-ordained. She lifted her top and mine and pushed her breasts against me. I lifted her cotton dress. She was soaking wet. She put her mouth on my left ear and reaching down, unzipped me, undid my belt, took out my cock, by now so hard I could have hung several wet towels upon it.

"Can I help you?" she asked, and she pulled me into her.

We began to make love standing up, her back against an old grey janitor's coat, uncaring of interruption, in perfect harmony. I thrust slowly, without pressure, and she held my shoulders and lifted her legs around my hips until our bodies were totally fused. We found the spot and held each other there expertly as if we had been practising this for years. Kissing her head, feeling her short thick hair against my lips, I found her pleasure zones with my fingers, and she gasped, licked my neck, bit my nipples. We moved gracefully in ellipses and circles. She began to come after about two minutes, and I held on for one minute longer, listening to her low animal moans which she was kindly uttering to a rapt audience of one. Finally, spent, we slowly disengaged. It was the most erotic, spontaneous five-minute fuck I had ever known.

I was dripping with sweat, I realised, when we stopped, and needed to clean up.

"You are gorgeous," I said again.

"And you are really fucking gorgeous," she said, gently mocking my sincerety. "I have to go back to the bar..." Holding my eyes, she moved her skirt back down, adjusted her top, pointed out that my clothing also needed some attention, and flashing me a face-splitting smile, said, "There's a loo down there..."

"Uh, OK.." She was gone. I breathed. How long had I been gone? Shit, what about M?

(End part three)