Image by Robert Pastryk from Pixabay
After
a solid week of roses and candy, hearts and flowers, I'm just
starting to recover from Valentine's Day. When you write erotic
romance as I do, you are more or less required to participate in the
romantic frenzy. Every email I sent out to readers, every promotional
message or invitation to my blog ended with the obligatory “Have a
Happy Valentine's Day”. Every day I received notices of
Valentine's release parties, Valentine's chats, Valentine's treasure
hunts, special Valentine's prices, et cetera.
I'm
exhausted. Not that I have anything against Cupid's Day, mind you. I
enjoy a candle light dinner, a glass of wine, and the intimate
aftermath as much as anyone. It's just that my notions about romance
aren't exactly conventional. For example, in contrast to the Happily
Ever After crowd, I tend to find one night stands deeply romantic.
I'm
not talking about Erica Jong's zipless fuck here, a chance
conjunction of bodies with physical pleasure, and perhaps the
shattering of conventions, as its primary goal. I'm talking about the
sense of erotic connection I've sometimes experienced in the arms of
a stranger. The one night stands that live in my memory had a sense
of rightness that amplified every sensation. Two individuals
blundering through life, we collided by chance, and for a brief,
beautiful time, we became one creature. Bound by lust, and perhaps
loneliness, together we lit up the night.
Traditional
romance celebrates the concept of soul mates. Some of the lovers who
shared my bed just once seemed to know me so well, I was almost ready
to believe in that sort of destiny. At the same time, bittersweet
regret always lingered in the background, the specter of inevitable
parting. The shadow of pending farewell threw the immediate pleasure
and joy into sharp relief.
For
me, one night stands are erotic exactly because they don't last
forever. The transience heightens the intensity. Rationally, I
understand that the magical feeling of connection may be an illusion.
Relationships based on chemistry alone rarely survive. What if I'm
not deluding myself, though? What if this man really was “the one”?
How deliciously tragic to know that we'll go our separate ways! And
how sweet to imagine an alternate, impossible future, a future of
endless nights, equally incandescent. The fantasy thrills me exactly
because I know it will never be fulfilled.
No
wonder I have such trouble adjusting to the tropes of romance .
I've
tried to capture the eroticism and transcendence of one night stands
in some of my short stories (though reviewing my back list, I'm
somewhat disappointed to realize how few). Perhaps the purest
expression can be found in “Shades of Red”, currently out of
print. (I should do something about that!) A young woman, fascinated
by the red light district in Amsterdam, rents a window for herself. A
stranger engages her services, seeking the discipline her costume
seems to promise, and she discovers that indeed she does have a
talent for dominance. The bond they share as she beats him is not at
all what she expected.
***
He's
shy and grateful afterward. I sit in the armchair, watching him as he
dresses. He's definitely a handsome man. When he pulls his wallet
from his pocket and tries to give me a hundred euros, I shake my
head.
"Thirty.
That's what we agreed."
"But
you gave me so much – just what I needed."
"Never
mind. Business is business."
"Please..."
"I
said no. Are you going to start disobeying me?"
He
smiles, puts most of the money away, and presses a ten and a twenty
into my hand. "Thank you. Thank you so much." For a moment
I think he's going to kiss me. I wish that he would. But that moment
passes. He reaches for the door, squeezes past me in the crowded room
and is gone, into the night.
I
lean back in my hired chair staring at the bills in my hand. I'm
sweaty. My hair has come loose from the clip and is tangled down my
back. My arms ache.
When
I unlace my corset, my breasts tumble out, the nipples as hard and
sensitive as ever. I unsnap the leather panties, drenched and stained
from my juices. They make a sticky noise as I pull them away from my
pussy. The ripe smell of cunt rises, mingling with the bitter scent
of semen. I reach for the vibrator, conveniently to hand in the tiny
room. The cool stainless steel cylinder slides deliciously into my
swollen cleft. I flip the switch to high and writhe helplessly as the
vibrations trigger one ragged, ecstatic climax after another.
Epiphanies?
Revelations? I don't think he'll forget this night. As for me, I know
that the memory of his red-streaked buttocks and tear-stained face,
my power and his surrender, will fuel intense orgasms long into the
future.
I
still feel high as I lock my door behind me and step into the street.
I'm naked under my coat. Every sensation is frighteningly acute. A
random breeze plays in my damp, bare sex. The smell of spilled beer
mingles with the tang of autumn leaves.
The
alleys are still crowded. I hear snatches of conversation in a dozen
languages, riffs of jazz and rock and roll. I sense the beat of the
men's hearts as they congregate around some red-lit rectangle of
glass.
A
lithe male figure in a turtleneck brushes past me and my breath
catches in my throat. Images flood my mind, images of pale, pliant
flesh, offering itself to me.
It
occurs to me, as I make my way back to my five star hotel and my
ordinary life, that perhaps I am the one who was marked this night.
***
I
defy you to tell me that's not romantic.
