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Frankly, the sex was pretty second rate. I certainly fancied her
enough, but there was always a reticence on her part. She didn't want
to do it as often as I did, and she wasn't very keen on exploring the
more athletic aspects of foreplay, oral sex or intercourse. As for anal
sex, I don't think she'd ever heard of the term, let alone contemplated
the reality. She didn't like it when I took her from behind. She didn't
like it when I kissed her too vigorously.
However, as I implied, she kept me keen. Actually, it was one of those
terrible relationships when you have to masturbate all the time
because you are constantly aroused but not getting anything like
enough action. Indeed, one night, long after I'd turned over,
frustrated, and should have been fast asleep, I heard a rustling and
sensed rapid movement under the duvet.
She was masturbating. I couldn't believe it. Apart from the fact that I
found this incredibly erotic and instantly wanted to join in, I couldn't
understand why she was doing it.
"What are you doing?" I said stupidly.
"What do you think?" she replied, quite breathless.
"Why?" I said, moving closer.
"Because it helps me sleep," she said.
"I could have done it for you," I said. "Or we could have done
something else. Together."
I can't exactly remember what she said to that, but it was along the
lines of her not feeling like it, and that her masturbating was not
really a sexual thing, but simply a mechanism to help her nod off. I
think she might even have used the phrase, "My little helper." What
could I do? There was another reason behind her furtive masturbating,
but I didn't find that out until years later. Long after we'd broken up.
In the meantime, we trundled along for a quite bit longer, fighting on and
off. In fact we fought quite a lot. She slapped me once, hard, on the
steps of an exclusive London drinking club. I think I had refused to
rise to the bait over something she was getting steamed up about and
for once had ignored her. She didn't like to be ignored when she was
cross.
Amazingly, that summer we even went on holiday, to France. In reality it
was a sort of make-or-break trip. However, something really quite
extraordinary happened there. It was of little consequence to the
future of our relationship, but it was an incident that I'll certainly
never forget, and in many ways was quite a defining moment. At least it
makes me think about who I am and where I came from, and why sex is so
loaded with the past, and can be so explosive in the present, and just
how very salty the Mediterranean was.
A friend of her parents lent us their villa in the Camargue. Ever been
to the Camargue? It's heaven and hell. For a great, flat watery chunk
of the south of France, it's remarkably undeveloped. The place is still
inhabited by wild ponies and Gypsies. Flamingos fly by every evening.
It should be a place of high romance, catching up with sunsets and
hooking into a wild, unspoiled way of life. Except for the mosquitoes.
It's virtually impossible to sit outside after about five in the
evening. The mosquitoes are fucking killers. No wonder the Camargue is
so unspoilt. No wonder hardly anyone ever goes there.
Needless to say, the holiday got off to an appalling start. As if I
didn't already know, my girlfriend was something of a neurotic. She
became obsessed with plastering herself with every known brand of
mosquito repellent. Whatever the time of day. She smelled, and tasted,
disgusting. Which, of course, was a huge shame, because the villa was
very secluded and came with a pool, and it would have been a perfect place
to wander around naked. But what was I thinking? I knew my girlfriend
had issues with her body, or rather her sense of her body. She
never would have wandered around naked, despite the mosquitoes, or the strong
Mediterranean sun — she was equally obsessed with not getting sunburned,
as not getting bitten.
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Her masturbating was not really a sexual thing, but simply a mechanism to help her nod off. I think she might have even used the phrase, "My little helper."
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So, to her various layers of mosquito repellent she applied thick
layers of sunscreen, only adding to the horrible smell and taste of
her, but not completely disguising her looks. She was still gorgeous,
with big dark eyes and long, luscious brown wavy hair, pert breasts and
a shapely arse, and long, slender legs. I still desired her hugely. But
she was not going anywhere near me, and it wasn't too pleasant going
too near her. We watched the flamingos from behind the mosquito netting,
then argued about what we going to eat for dinner. She had very
complicated issues with food too, which she was loathe to discuss in
detail, but would allude to constantly. By the time we'd settled on some
utterly benign dish, I'd have drunk too much local rosé — about the
only good thing to drink in the Camargue — and she would decide that actually
she wasn't hungry anyway.
We would go to bed fractious and starved, and immediately lie as far
apart as possible on the sticky, lumpy mattress in the sweltering
room. There was no air conditioning, and her paranoia about not being
invaded by an army of mosquitoes meant that we couldn't simply close
the shutters and nets, we had to have the windows firmly sealed as well.
One day, we actually got as far as the beach in
Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Maybe she was at last feeling sorry for me.
Maybe I was feeling sorry for her. Either way, we hit the beach in a
bright, playful mood. It was just like old times, not that I could
really remember what those times were, or whether we'd even had any.
She had perhaps gone a little lighter on the mosquito repellent and the
sunscreen, because she wasn't smelling too awful, and I might have
lent over and kissed her as we stepped onto the sand. She stripped
to her swimming costume — she was not the sort of girl who wore a
bikini, even though she more than had the figure for it — and laid out
her towel and settled down with her book and her cigarettes. All I
could do was admire her glistening body, packed tight and curvy in that
navy costume. Then I had an idea.
"How about renting a pedalo?" I said.
"Yeah, okay," she said, sitting up.
"Really?" I said.
"Sure," she said. "It might be fun."
That was a word I hadn't heard for a while.
For such an out-of-the-way beach, it was sort of strange that there was
a pedalo operation, not that it was doing great business. We were the
first people to take one out that day. It was of the old style. More
wood than plastic, with rusty, stiff pedals and a rudder that was
almost impossible to turn. Once aboard, we set a course for the horizon
and kept peddling.
The Mediterranean was mill-pond flat, and out on the still water the
heat seemed to be even more intense, turning the blue sky white. It was
like we were floating into a haze. We were both sweating profusely, and
after I don't know how much longer, she said, "I'm going for a swim," then jumped off the side. I joined her, and in the water we did
something we hadn't done all holiday. We embraced. Treading water,
I ran my hands over her lovely bottom and. Unbelievably, she felt for my
cock.
Back on board, I said, "Why don't we?" I could barely see the shore, and
there were no other boats or pedalos in anything like the vicinity.
"How?" she said, which I took to be a very encouraging sign.
"I don't know," I said. There was no where to lie down and the double
cockpit was really just two hard, slated, wooden seats, with huge
pedals in the way. "You could sit on me."
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There was really no place to lie down and the double cockpit was really just two hard, slated, wooden seats, with huge pedals in the way. "You could sit on me."
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Which was exactly what she did. She stood up, awkwardly, pulled her
costume off, and clambered over to my side of the boat and sat on me,
face first. We started kissing, properly, and I could tell she was
getting aroused by the way she was grinding herself into my lap. Almost
instantly I had an erection, but it took another awkward maneuver for
me to remove my trunks and enter her. She was totally wet and slippery,
and tasted of salt, and I didn't think I could hold on for her to come.
I was bursting, and had long forgotten who might be watching. But she
always came quickly and easily, perhaps too quickly, and this time, out
on the water, it was no different.
I remember watching a dollop of come drip out of her as she climbed off
me, and returned to her side of the cockpit. We split up shortly after
that holiday. The next time I saw her, some two years later, she was
living with a woman. I often wonder whether she's told her girlfriend
about the time she had sex at sea. I doubt it somehow. But I never told
her that I'd lost my virginity on a boat. It wasn't at sea but on a
river. I was ridiculously young. So was my then-girlfriend. And it
wasn't anything like as much fun or as passionate as out on that pedalo.
n°
To buy Thong Nation,
click here.
©2006 Henry Sutton and Nerve.com
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Commentarium (5 Comments)
I'm sure the whole situation was even worse for her. It would be interesting to read an article about a closet lesbian's (bad <-- though I suspect this is redundant) sex with a man.
that wasn't bad sex!
I don't see how that was bad sex. That was a bad relationship, and a story about good sex.
that was the most boring "bad sex" i've read in a LONG time.... bring back neal pollak! that man is hilariously pathetic!
I don't get it. I don't see the point of this piece at all. I feel sorry for the woman. And she didn't "come quickly", you silly ass, she was obviously faking it! That's why she needed to masturbate after sex!
Now you say something