When he finally lowered his mouth and licked with firm strokes I came hard in seconds, straining at the silk scarves until I thought I might break the bed as the heat of my orgasm sent my body into spasms.
‘Oh God, stop,’ I begged, as my pussy became so sensitive that each touch was painful instead of pleasurable.
He removed the blindfold from my eyes and each of the ties from my wrists and ankles and I lay still in a state of bliss enjoying the post-orgasmic glow until I had relaxed and was ready to go again.
‘Christ, you really do have some stamina, and not just for dancing,’ he said, as I reached for his cock.
He was still hard, but after the intensity of my orgasm I was close to spent and I didn’t think I could take him in my mouth even if I wanted to. He chuckled and rolled on top of me, not caring that I couldn’t reciprocate the favour. Gently he slid inside me, brushing against my still sensitive lips and eliciting from me a low moan of pleasure. He began to thrust, slowly at first, and I felt complete, at home and basking in a type of affection that I hadn’t experienced for such a long time. Not since Chey.
Viggo wasn’t the type of man that I could see myself falling for, but he was definitely someone that I could enjoy being with immensely and perhaps for quite a long time.
After we’d fucked, and he offered me a cigarette, which I turned down, I rolled over to his side of the bed across the bruised sheets and tangled covers and said, ‘I’m not going to fall in love with you. I just like you. Is that enough?’
He looked me in the eyes and once again I saw the young man he had once been, before the wild, long hair, the airs and stances, the public image and the tight trousers.
‘Sure, Luba. Yeah, we can just be mates . . . with the odd benefit thrown in for good measure,’ he added with a cheeky smile.
There was no need to draw up a contract. We would be friends, lovers when it suited us. We could both see others if we wished. For now, that was good enough for me. And for Viggo.
It was all agreed.
He pulled the sheet away from me and peered with fascination yet again at my strategically situated tattoo.
‘Jeezus,’ he said. ‘Call me a perv, but that gun sure makes me hard.’
‘Fuck me then . . .’
And he did. And it felt good, having sex with a friend. Not for money, not for art, but because your soul and your heart dictated it with all the energy of despair.
The sex itself was fine, it was reasonably athletic, neither rough nor smooth. Viggo was a talented lover, although at times I did feel as if he was going through the motions, mentally ticking off all the pages of the ‘how to’ manual in an effort to satisfy me, please me. I knew that I was going through the motions at times too. And I began to worry again that something inside me had been lost, and perhaps I would never get it back. There was nothing wrong being made love to this way, far from it, but it lacked adventure. Maybe it was that the past eighteen months or so, doing it professionally, so to speak, had blunted my appetite or my needs. In fact, I began to realise that Viggo’s enthusiasm waned once the wooing – the chase – was over. That was the part of the sex game he clearly enjoyed most. He also liked to use toys, in order to diversify his menu, a practice I had not previously experienced and which failed to arouse me as much as I thought it would. I couldn’t help but worry that something was wrong with me, though intellectually I knew that the problem was more likely Viggo doing the wrong thing or the two of us simply being unsuited to one another. But I was determined to change my life and gradually get my mojo back again, so a lack of fire presented me with no problem. Being with Viggo satisfied my basic sexual needs and provided the space that I needed to rediscover myself again.
For a singer and songwriter, it seemed Viggo hadn’t much imagination. That’s what I found most unexpected. But for now, he was the cure to my problems and I was happy to enjoy his company for what it was as much as he enjoyed mine.
Soon after I moved into Viggo’s place, I arranged for Madame Denoux to ship my belongings to London. I could afford a whole set of new clothes, but there were outfits and garments that I was attached to, so it made sense not to leave them behind in my attempt to begin this strange new life I had inveigled myself into.
Viggo was an easy person to be with. Like me he was, in spite of appearances and reputation, something of a loner and enjoyed his moments of silence and isolation, even if the second he was in a crowd he came alive again and was invariably the soul of the party. The house was big enough so that we could spend hours not seeing each other, though I occupied most of my time either reading in my room or lazing around the emerald pool and, of course, exploring London.
It was a city that had everything, as if all of the strands of my past life were coming together in one place: the greyness of Donetsk, the beauty of St Petersburg, the energy of New York and the sexual radiance of New Orleans. Of course, I had been here before. There was the time when I met Florence and enjoyed an evening of wonderful sexual intoxication, which I often remembered with a sigh of yearning. But living here now with no schedule to follow, things to do, places to go, assignments to complete, made exploring the city a totally different experience altogether. A new place I could enjoy at leisure, absorb through every pore of my skin.
I loved the way I could melt into the crowds of Camden Town and become just a wave in a mighty ocean of colour, movement and smells, before taking just a few steps to the side and finding myself down by the locks of the canal, and the only living thing around for hundreds of metres, as the dirty waters of Regent’s Canal, lapped against the underside of the bridges and carried the silent stream of barges along. And then just a few more minutes walk in another direction, I could find myself in the labyrinths and greenery of Hampstead Heath, by ponds and clearings, undergrowth and isolated bandstands that, in my wild dreams, had hosted a variety of previous excesses under cover of darkness or by the pale light of dawn.
The teeming markets of Borough where you could taste samples on almost every stall from cheeses to dips, and truffle oils and a million variety of breads, and of the East End where the fragrant whiff of curry blended with a gazillion notes, spices, beer, life, sweat.
Truly a city with a thousand faces.
For the first time, I felt as if I could spend a lifetime here and always be surprised.
Viggo was in between tours and hoping to record a new album soon. He was usually busy writing new songs or rehearsing with his band in a studio on Goldhawk Road. He had also been given a contract by his record company which allowed him to sign up promising new bands that he could chaperone and even produce. His latest discovery was a trio of English and American musicians who called themselves Groucho Nights and he had agreed they could open for the Holy Criminals the following night at a one-off gig he was playing for charity at the Brixton Academy.
‘You must come along, babe,’ Viggo insisted.
‘To be your arm candy?’ I queried.
‘Nah. You’ll just be you.
‘The one and only.’
‘I’m allowed to come dressed, am I?’
‘Naturally. We don’t want to start a riot, do we?’
It was the first time I’d been out with Viggo in the public eye. Of course, we had been to restaurants and walked together outside since I’d come to London, but never to events where there would be interested onlookers or press and photographers, so I was a bit anxious about the trip to the concert venue where I would, inevitably, be seen as his latest conquest, his current consort.
What would I say if people asked me what I did, who I was?
I had deliberately dressed down for the occasion, avoiding any music world connotation. I’d opted for a short denim skirt and a white embroidered Victorian-style cotton blouse with ivory buttons. And ballet shoes so I didn’t tower over Viggo, even with his four-inch Cuban heels.
‘Say you’re just a close friend, or if you prefer, say that you’re my assistant now,’ Viggo suggested. ‘Sometimes there’s
no harm in just telling the truth.’
We crossed the Thames at Parliament Bridge on our way to what Viggo referred to as the wilderness of south London. He’d once joked that there were actually two separate Londons: North and South. And that many of its inhabitants never ventured onto the opposite bank of the river from where they lived unless it was a matter of life and death, or, more prosaically, work. He was a north Londoner through and through. On both sides of the bridge the lights of London were shining bright, between the shadows of far buildings and nearer landmarks. The London Eye turned at the pace of a snail, its capsules brightly lit moths travelling across the dark horizon, and the geometrical buildings of the South Bank complex stood like mastodons on the river’s bank.
Soon, the landscape changed and a succession of dreary roads and intersections flew by as the gleaming black sedan he was driving roared along unending straight roads until we reached the narrower streets of Brixton.
I could see the crowds milling outside the Academy, queues snaking their way down the block and a bottleneck of traffic ahead of us.
‘This is it, babe,’ Viggo remarked as he edged towards the kerb and briefly drove on to the pavement. ‘Rock ’n’ roll.’
He opened his door and indicated I should get out too, leaving his keys in the ignition as a long-haired young guy in regulation skinny jeans and black Holy Criminals T-shirt shook hands with him, took his seat, and drove it away.
‘Who was that?’ I asked Viggo.
‘One of the roadies. Part of my road crew. He’ll be parking the car somewhere. It’s a nightmare to find a space down here.’ Various individuals were peeling off the crowd outside the Academy’s doors when they noticed us. Half of them were holding cameras and began snapping at us. The flash bulbs blinded me.
‘Just ignore them, babe,’ Viggo said, holding my hand.
‘Who’s the new squeeze, Viggo?’ someone shouted, but Viggo paid no attention and in an instant we were beyond the club’s doors and the security people had closed them securely behind us. The Academy would not be opening to the public for another half-hour.
A couple of young girls rushed up to us, asking Viggo for his autograph. He complied with a leering smile. I wondered how they had got in early, and memories of what I’d been up to back in Donetsk against the red-brick wall flashed through my mind.
He asked one of the attendants for the direction to the Green Room and we were shown to the right corridor.
As the door opened to a throng of people I’d never seen before, I wondered whether the photos of me entering the building would make newspapers tomorrow or later.
And would Chey ever catch sight of any of them?
Chaos unfolded around me. The room was abuzz with activity and the hustle and bustle of people rushing and pushing, carrying equipment and shouting about sound-checks and security and last-minute photographs. Just a few minutes of it and my head was throbbing.
Viggo’s attention was sucked away as quickly as if he’d been catapulted into another universe. This was his element and I could feel his energy and excitement starting to build as he began to swagger like a cockerel in front of his band and crew. The little boy was gone, and the rock star had taken his place. I found the change bemusing.
I slipped out of the door again at an opportune moment and made my way to an unused dressing room at the end of the corridor. The security guard posted in the hall soon coughed up the key with a little sweet-talking. The room was cramped and smelled of stale cigarettes, but it provided a safe haven where I could perch on the single rickety stool and read a book for an hour or two in peace and quiet.
Some rock ’n’ roll gal I was. I imagined what the headlines might say, and how they might compare to the reality of me shut in an empty dressing room with a worn copy of Harp in the South.
I was so engrossed in the book that I missed the opening act that Viggo was sponsoring entirely. I crept down the corridor to the stage wings to watch him when he came on. Two women had tucked themselves up behind the stage curtains and were whispering and smiling to each other, obviously making their assessment of the band members. One of them had long, vivid red curls and was dressed like I was in a short denim skirt, tights and a white blouse.
Something about the way she moved seemed familiar. I paused a moment to watch them and then scampered through another set of corridors to the other side of the stage where I would be alone. I was in no mood to explain who I was to any of Viggo’s devout female fans.
It was the first time I had heard or seen Viggo sing. All of his rehearsals took place at his studio on Goldhawk Road and having been so fearful of being photographed with him, I had never gone along.
His voice was rough and seductive, but I had heard better singers in the dressing rooms at The Grand where Blanca had made a point of hiring girls who could croon as well as shimmy – a dancer singing ‘Makin’ Whoopee!’ whilst writhing on top of the piano always went down well with the punters. It was Viggo’s charisma and his evident sex appeal that had made him successful. That and no doubt some quiet genius in his PR team who had orchestrated his appearance in the tabloids and cemented his status as a ladies man par excellence.
Watching him on stage made me lonesome for the days when I had had my turn in the spotlight. I recognised that look on Viggo’s face, remembered the hedonistic thrill I had always felt exposing myself to an unknown audience. It wasn’t the nudity so much as the invitation to strangers into the furthermost reaches of my soul, allowing people that I couldn’t even see to watch me perform, that was most dear to my heart.
I was ready to make a beeline for home the moment Viggo finished his last encore to ensure that I would miss the storm of fanatical fans and journalists ready and waiting to snap our picture together or ask for autographs.
By the time I made it back to the Green Room, he had already been swallowed up by the crowd, so instead I pleaded with the long-haired roadie with the keys to the sedan to drive me home. I decided then and there that one day soon I would finally learn to drive, and no longer prove such an easy hostage to fortune.
I didn’t notice Viggo’s missed call and voicemail until I arrived back at the mansion in Belsize Park.
‘Hey, babe,’ he crooned. ‘I’m having a few people back. Will you dance for us?’
I froze for a moment, considering the idea. I had not danced for a proper audience since the night in Amsterdam. A spark had lit in my belly and was slowly unfurling into a burning flame. The prospect excited me, and the twinge of fear beneath it all that something might go wrong spurred me to action. I was not afraid, I told myself. I would wrestle out any hint of trepidation and trample it into nothing with my dancing feet.
By the time they arrived I was in position and beginning to get cramp. I had chosen to perform in the vast harem-like room on the second floor of the mansion. It was like another world compared to the bare and stark entrance floor. This room was decorated with thick carpets, chandeliers and gothic furniture and of course the fountain in the middle that I had chosen as my platform. I felt so peaceful in the presence of water. The fountain didn’t give me a lot of room to move, but it would be a short set, and rather than demonstrate my athleticism I planned a piece where I would seem like a statue slowing coming to life in the water. It would be set to Debussy’s ‘La Mer’, my usual introduction piece.
The opening notes, which had always soothed me, now made my heart pump a little faster. Images flashed into my head. The crack of the ringmaster’s whip. The inhuman expressions on the procession of animals. The heady smell of tropical flowers. The brush of ferns against my skin. The grip of a stranger’s fingers on my arm. Hot breath on my face.
It was too late to back out now. I could hear voices moving up the stairs. A blend of accents: Antipodean, American, English, the Scandinavian lilt of Dagur the Icelandic drummer and of course Viggo’s blend of transatlantic worldliness. My unknown audience had arrived and Viggo had been true to his word. It would be a small one.
&
nbsp; I closed my eyes and stood perfectly still, settling my mind with sheer force of will, ignoring the horrors that threatened to creep up like poisonous vines and strangle all of the life out of me. I focused on my first memories of the melody. When I had been on the beach with Chey and he had played his iPod and I had danced for him and only for him, letting the impressionistic, almost crystal-like shards of sound sweep through my body like a tide, my movements following the rhythm as naturally as one wave follows another.
That night I danced softly. I moved as gently as shallow water in the most protected bay. I was dancing for me, dancing for Chey.
When I opened my eyes, I saw her: the redhead who had been backstage watching Viggo’s show. And I remembered where I had seen her before. I had watched her dance on New Year’s Day at The Place in New Orleans and, likewise, the night before she had watched me perform.
She was staring at my pussy. Then her gaze focused on my tattoo and her pupils widened in recognition.
I met her eyes and smiled.
Viggo was an efficient stage master and without my having to tell him he flipped the lights when the music came to an end, theatrically plunging the room into darkness and allowing me a few moments to escape through the back door without having to ruin my act by clambering down ungracefully from my platform and finding the exit in front of the audience.
I changed quickly into a long black chiffon dress, not bothering with either knickers or a bra. I was eager to return to the party and learn more about the red-haired girl and the man that she had been with that night, and besides which they had all just seen me naked anyway. Though my show was over, I also felt that I had a certain appearance to maintain for my audience. Presenting myself to them in a T-shirt and jeans would have taken some of the magic away from the image of Luba that they had now formed.
The girl was speaking to one of the musicians from Viggo’s intro act that I hadn’t met yet. Her expression was forlorn, and I hung back by the doorframe to eavesdrop before entering to introduce myself.
Eighty Days Amber (Eight Days) Page 17