Rainy days of the soul…
As I eased my car up the disturbingly narrow lane to our hosts’ house, I saw Sylka sitting on a low wall by the door. Her husband came out to do the man-of-the-house business of showing me where to park and at what angle so I would stand a chance of getting out unscathed later. He was businesslike but friendly, his default setting. And Sylka just sat there, not exactly looking at me, but it was as if her body was looking, even if her eyes weren’t. Her breasts, concealed beneath a thin t-shirt but no bra, were aimed at me. Her vagina, safe in khaki shorts and who-knows-what kind of panties, and protected by lips and her pubic mound, was trained on me like a radar device tracking my movements. This woman had plans for me and it was only a matter of arranging where and when.
The world seems very unfair to many men much of the time. All it would take to brighten their life would be a woman who would share her body with him once in a while. We can’t understand what is such a big deal about it. It wouldn’t even have to be a specific person. You might have a thing about the girl in the supermarket or the bank, but if the perfectly acceptable one from the petrol station would oblige, you wouldn’t say no. And everyone would be happy.
It has always been like that and it has always been the responsibility of men to keep our urges under control. Failure to do so can wreck lives – women’s and our own.
So it’s a puzzle. Women enjoy sex as much as we do, so why shouldn’t we all take advantage of what is a chronic situation and turn it from the negativity of chronic to a more pleasant, positive adjective? A recurrent situation, a perennial situation. What are these women waiting for? What are they afraid of? I know when you start to really analyse what would happen in terms of humans’ innate possessiveness and other people’s judgemental attitude, not to mention our physical repulsion for certain types or individuals, it doesn’t seem so straightforward, but even so, there must be something that could be done. As much as I hate to suggest that we hand the issue over to entrepreneurs, who would simply want to make it profitable for themselves, or, heaven forbid, some government department whose civil servants would strangle it with official processes that had to be followed and restrictions that could be imposed, someone somewhere must be able to work it out.
However, you plod on and with bit of luck, once in a while, a woman comes along who fancies you. Not once an hour, not every day, not every month, but now and then. All of a sudden, within your orbit, there is a female human being who, for some reason, finds you attractive. And it’s not because of anything you have done or said deliberately – although it could be something you didn’t notice doing or saying.
You just never know. But those of us who love the female of the species, we who find them endlessly fascinating, are occasionally blessed when the onus is taken off us and a real, live woman opens the door and starts the engine.
Such was the case with Sylka, a Polish woman I met at a laboratory. I was having routine blood tests and she was the only person on duty. We started off just like you do: polite but friendly. She and her husband, Jens, were pharmacists who owned the clinic, and I got along well with them. So when I bumped into them having an early evening drink and some pasta outside a bar at the harbour, we teamed up and spent a pleasant couple of hours getting to know each other.
So as this story starts it is she who is sitting on a low wall, her body looking at me. There had been no flirting that night at the bar, and I hadn’t even found her all that attractive. She was short and rounded at the shoulders and hips – not fat, but smooth rather than angular, functional rather than elegant. There was something asymmetrical about her eyes that made her look cross-eyed, but was actually just one being slightly lower than the other. It’s the kind of thing that actresses and pop stars trade on as a sort of uniqueness. It makes you look twice, and then twice again the next time, and you subconsciously assess whether it should be allowed to affect her overall beauty score. I knew she must have hated it about herself, particularly in her teens, before eventually coming to terms with it. Still, I got the impression she wasn’t wild about her appearance.
This uniqueness probably made me look at her eyes more intently than I intended, so maybe she had interpreted that as my being more than usually interested in her. And looking back, I have to say her face fascinated me.
Sylka was highly intelligent, too, and the combination of brains and striking beauty sometimes seems a burden to a woman. She doesn’t want to be looked at as some kind of doll, and yet the woman in her soul needs to be appreciated too.
All in all I wanted to get so close to Sylka that I could attend to all her needs at once. I wanted to get her alone in a bedroom where I could lavish her body with attention while making love to her brain with my own, through intellectually honeyed words. That’s the scholarly analysis of what I wanted to do. The down-to-earth summary would be that I wanted to lick every inch of her body while giving her my natural smooth talk, before penetrating her vagina with my penis and giving her some sexual memories to look back on on those cold, rainy days of the soul when she felt unappreciated as a woman.
The evening went very well, three people with plenty in common eating food cooked by Sylka and drinking wine chosen by her husband, who would disappear down to a cellar to select it, open and pour it with care, then drink sparkling water while Sylka and I enjoyed the rich, succulent red Burgundies that were apparently his favourites.
There is something rather disconcerting about having a non-drinker present when the rest of you are putting the vin rouge away with gusto. I was well aware that my attention was inordinately focused on his wife, as hers was on me. It was just a bit of unspoken lust – the stuff that makes the world go round. It’s in the head of billions of people all the time as they find themselves in the presence of someone who, in other circumstances, could be easily upgraded from acquaintance or friend to lover.
The trouble with being in business together, Jens told me, looking intently at Sylka, is that you can’t have the same days off because one of you has to be there every working day because you are the pharmacists and there has to be always one there. So he had Fridays off and she had Mondays, wth their only family day being Sunday.
I silently blessed his carelessness for telling me this, and looked as innocently as I could at Sylka. At that moment Jens stood up to swat a mosquito and while he was distracted, Sylka winked at me. All I needed now was her phone number, but I was wary about asking for it straight out and thought that any pretext I could come up with for obtaining it would immediately signal to her husband that I was up to no good. A crook thinks everyone else is a crook too, and Jens may have thought I was okay, but he may equally well have suspected my intentions towards his fleshly and romantic property. So what I did was, I gave him my business card, just so we could stay in touch, and as an “afterthought”, slid one across to Sylka too. Jens thanked me and Sylka downplayed it skilfully.
Monday morning came and I awoke with an erection with Sylka’s name on it. At 11 o’clock, assuming that Jens would be safely out of the way, I sent her a WhatsApp, saying I was bored and was she free. Come round at 2, she replied – no frills, no small talk and apparently no qualms.
By 2:15 we were naked in her bed, wrapped around each other as naturally as a long-established couple. She kissed gently and sensually and responded to my touch with warm, purring satisfaction. My hands were all over her, in her armpits, between her legs, round the back in her crack, and she was holding my cock as if she was never going to let go.
“Lick me,” she said simply, and her legs parted invitingly as I moved down to perform the task. Her crotch was lightly scented as if she had given it a quick stroke of the hand after applying her best perfume to her neck. It had a faint sheen of tropical perspiration. Her lips were like tiny curly hands clasped together in prayer and when I gently pulled them apart I got a waft of the most exquisite, sweetly savoury juice, the like of which is found nowhere else in creation but in the human vagina. I lapped at her like a cat with a saucer of milk and slurped at her like a novice in a restaurant, confronted for the first time with a delicacy that needed to be handled in a unique way, like oysters. If I could have swallowed Sylka’s pussy whole, I would have done.
“Suck my pisshole,” she said flatly, with the uncomplicated freedom of someone whose limited knowledge of the language holds few subtleties. I located that often-ignored tiny orifice and, with the precision of a jeweller, manoeuvred it between my lips. She shivered uncontrollably and emitted a satisfied grunt.
“Ah,” she said. “Finally. Men can find my lips and maybe my clitoris, but nobody before found what you have found. Suck it, please.” When I did, she wriggled and then contorted herself before pulling her mid section away from me.
“Incredible,” she said. “Only one thing can be better than that. Do this for me and then you can fuck me, any way you like.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked, not exactly nervous but a tiny bit apprehensive. How kinky was this woman? She was an angel, that much I knew, but my repertoire of things you should do to an angel in bed was looking inadequate.
“Just lick my asshole,” she said in a breathless whisper. “Make me cum. I turn over and you do it from behind.” I wondered briefly who had introduced her to this exquisite pleasure, or if she had been born with an instinctive desire to be rimmed, to have her most private, most misunderstood and potentially controversial orally serviced.
Then she turned over and wriggled to get her rump in the air, presenting her private parts for my attention. She hadn’t removed the hair, but it was only a light dusting, a small furry decoration that she might have selected herself from the Creator’s book of styles. I kissed her pussy lips and they were so inviting that I sucked them for a second or two before moving up to her cleft, where a neat, tidy ring of gently puckered light brown skin awaited me.
I couldn’t help myself: I moved in there and kissed her complex, underestimated, misunderstood hole and she shuddered. I thought I could hear her smiling at the devoted greeting I had given her there, and as I began to lick her she sighed and almost laughed.
“My god,” she said, “You know how I like it. How do you know? You make me cum in flat seconds.” I licked her tenderly but with determination, my tongue wishing heavenly vibrations into her. Sure enough, almost too soon she was wriggling and crying out with desperate delight.
“Fuuuck!” she said. “I want you to do that to me every day. You want to fuck me now?”
I hurled her onto her back and launched myself between her legs and on top of her like an Olympic swimmer. My cock entered her like a torpedo and there was no time for niceties, but she didn’t seem to want any anyway. We rammed each other like a boat hitting the pontoon in a storm. Bang, back, swell, bang.
After thirty seconds I could hold back no longer and I ground myself into her as my spunk shot out into the hot, moist darkness of her, in search of mischief. Sylka wrapped her legs tighter around me and her surprisingly strong arms pulled me to her as we banged the last volts of lightning out of each other. And then we lay motionless, spent, dreamy and wondering if this was what love was and the world had been wrong about it all along. Had we just had the most electrifying fuck in history or was it just that we were meant to be together?
