'Thanks. I'm really pleased I wrote it,' I said. 'Although now I have to live with the repercussions. A lot of guys are afraid that if they talk to me, they'll end up in my second book. You're a brave man.'
'Now I have to read it,' he said. 'Do you have a copy you could lend me?'
'Probably, somewhere. Who knows?' I said, wondering if he wanted a loaner as an excuse to see me again, or if he was my second-worst nightmare, after tiny cocks: tight. 'It's only four pounds on Amazon, Paul. Go on, splurge!'
'But I'd rather have one signed by you, Suzanne. You're sort of famous now.'
There was something in Paul's tone that made me question his motives. Did he want me? Did he want to be with me because I was the author of an erotic memoir? I decided not to ponder and just go with the moment. I had wanted to meet this guy for two years, and now here he was, sipping a glass of wine across from me, ever so handsomely. If he was with me only so he could brag to his mates about having a drink with some chick who wrote about all the guys she'd fucked, so be it.
We ate our chips and sipped our wine until I noticed it was well past midnight. As it was a school night, I had already bypassed my mental curfew by a couple of hours.
'I really have to go,' I said. 'Maybe we can meet up on the weekend if you're around?'
'That sounds great,' he said. 'Can I walk you to your car?'
What a gent: attractive and gentlemanly.
My car was parked down a cul-de-sac off of Rathbone Place, itself a small road off Oxford Street. The street was deserted aside from my lone car.
As we reached the car Paul turned to kiss me, but instead of reaching for my lips, as I'd expected, he kissed my neck, leaving tiny butterfly kisses that barely touched my skin but tingled where his lips had made contact. He had one hand around my waist, pulling me towards him, whilst the other rested against the back of my head. His lips brushed across my neck from side to side. I had never been kissed like that before, and the effect was intoxicating. I tried to anticipate his next move, tilting my head, easing the collar of my sheepskin coat onto my shoulders, presenting the full length of my neck to him. I enjoyed the tenderness. It was lovely and intimate and unexpected. I didn't want him to stop.
'Turn around,' he said at last.
I obeyed and stood facing my car. I heard traffic in the distance, but the lights of the surrounding buildings were off, and a dim glow from a street lamp fifty yards away reminded us that we were not the only people in this world. I should be going, I thought, I have to get up early.
But I didn't want to leave Paul. I lay my head on the car's roof and dropped my shoulders to ease the coat off my back. It fell to the ground, a calculated theatrical gesture and no less sexy for it, I knew.
'You are terrible,' he said, laughing.
I felt his hands lift my hair, his lips touch the back of my neck, the warmth of his breath. His lips and tongue skated across the skin. I felt vulnerable and exposed, my neck suddenly feeling like the most intimate part of my body, Paul pressed into my back and moved his mouth across the nape of my neck.
The sound of distant footsteps interrupted Paul's kisses. I felt him pull away from me. The footsteps grew fainter almost as soon as we noticed them, and Paul returned to my neck.
'You have a beautiful neck,' he whispered into my skin. 'I'm shaking all over.'
I moaned in reply.
'Why didn't we get together two years ago?' he said.
'Probably because you had a girlfriend and I had a boyfriend,' I said, turning around. 'Just a theory.'
He smiled. Then we kissed. Paul's tongue darted around my mouth and brushed against my teeth and tongue. His kisses were soft and wet and made my head spin. This didn't feel like the beginning of a one-night stand. It felt special. I felt special. I'd waited two years to meet this spectacular man, and suddenly we were both available and interested. Finding a boyfriend was not a priority at that point in my life; after all, I was still seeing Greg and Brendan and Carl and Sam on a rotating basis. I didn't think I wanted a boyfriend, but I knew I wanted Paul. I was glad this was not a one-night stand. I had to see him again.
I said goodbye and got in the car. I drove away, watching Paul in my rear-view mirror.
The next day Paul rang my office. 'About that book,' he said. 'Can I come by and pick it up?'
'I'm not sure I want you to read it,' I said. 'I'm not sure it's a good idea that you know so much about me.'
At Soho House the night before, Paul had called himself a 'one-woman man'. He'd never cheated, he said, never had group sex, never done anything he thought was kinky. He said he liked the feeling of intimacy. He was 48 and had been having sex since he was 14. In those thirty-plus years, he had slept with fewer than ten women. His relationships tended to last for years, the very opposite of my one-night stands. In my head, I calculated that he'd had in his entire life as many partners as I went through in a month. We were complete opposites.
'No, I really want to read it,' he said. 'I know I can go out and buy it, but I'd rather get one from you.'
An hour later, he bicycled to my office and I handed over my last copy.
'I really appreciate you giving me this,' he said. 'You got the kids this weekend?'
'Yes,' I said. I looked at him, held his gaze. 'But I'm all yours next weekend.'
Three days later, we met at the Prince Albert, a pub near his flat in Hackney.
'Wow,' he said. 'The book. It was amazing.'
I felt embarrassed.
'I mean it, really,' he said. 'I don't know how you could go with some of those guys, though. Some of them were bloody assholes.'
I tried to explain that, at the time, I didn't really see them that way, didn't conduct personality tests in advance. 'I was horny,' I said. 'They were there.'
'I couldn't do that,' he said. 'But those guys, a lot of them ... they weren't even boyfriends.'
'Let's have a drink, Paul,' I said. I got the sense Paul didn't quite get me, which was surprising since he'd just read 240 pages about my life. I didn't have sex with men because I hoped they would become boyfriends. I had sex with men because that was what I enjoyed.
We had a few more rounds, and then it was closing time.
'Would you like to come back to mine?' Paul asked. 'I have some vodka and a joint.'
We walked the few streets over to his flat, then sat side by side on a long wooden bench that was pushed up against an eight-foot wooden table that looked like something out of an old school canteen. The decor was minimalist but comfy, with black-and-white photos on the walls, a big oil painting over a cream-coloured sofa and a long table that served as the centrepiece of the room. Paul lived in a converted synagogue, and his flat featured high ceilings and a large open-plan living space, with the bath and bedroom off of it. It was cool and comfortable. We smoked the joint and started kissing. Just like the first time we'd kissed by the car, I began to feel lightheaded. After a few minutes, I actually thought I might faint. I laughed at the thought and pulled away from him.
'I think I'm going to have to lie down,' I said. 'I'm not joking. I really think I'm going to faint.'
'I'll come in with you,' he said, amused. Paul walked me to his bedroom.
He sat beside me and unbuttoned my jumper, starting at the neckline and moving down one button at a time. The buttons were small and he had difficulty pushing each one through its tiny hole. I had never unbuttoned the jumper myself, always slipping it over my head, but I enjoyed watching Paul's long slender fingers at work.
'Here,' I said, as he struggled with the final button, 'I'll help you.' I pulled my arms out of the sleeves and flung the jumper onto the floor next to the bed.
Paul moved towards my moulded black-lace bra next. He put his hands around me, then relaxed his embrace to caress my back. Then, in one quick gesture, he skilfully unclasped the three hooks and let the bra straps slide off my shoulders. I thought I heard him gasp as my bra hit the floor, revealing my breasts. He cupped one breast in his hand and gently ki
ssed the nipple, letting his tongue linger for a while before moving onto the other one.
'You have lovely breasts, sweetheart,' he said, softly. I adored his deep voice and the faint Scottish accent that coloured his words. There was something about its pitch and tone I found a complete turn-on. The sound of his voice just drew me in. He used the word 'sweetheart' liberally, and although I know women who cringe at the word and some who find it patronising, I found it charming. Being with a man who had had only ten sex partners his entire life made me feel girlish, like I still had lots of growing up to do. He knew how to work a bra strap, but he still had an air of innocence about him.
Paul moved his hands down my waist and tried to unfasten a tacky belt I was wearing as a joke. It was gold and had a heart-shaped buckle studded with red, white and blue crystals set in the pattern of the American flag.
'I think you're going to have to help me here,' he said, so I did. I unclasped the belt, leaving Paul free to remove my jeans. Soon they joined the other clothing on the floor.
Paul paused to kiss me before sliding his hands down my glittery red knickers, a silly holiday treat I'd bought a few months ago and thought, as I'd dressed for our date, might amuse him.
'I'm wearing my Christmas pants,' I said.
He laughed. 'Very nice they are, too,' he said, before removing them for me.
Sitting on the side of the bed, I pulled Paul's T-shirt above his head, or tried to. He was much taller than I, so my arms weren't long enough to get the shirt over his head. But his jeans were easier, as they were loose and needed little assistance to slip off his body.
'I've lost tons of weight,' he said, apologising. 'I hope you like skinny men.
'I love skinny men,' I replied, truthfully, and slipped between the sheets.
I looked down at his briefs. His hard-on was clearly visible and I went to stroke the outside of the fabric. I was desperate to touch him, but Paul wouldn't let me.
'Wait,' he said. 'We have plenty of time.' He looked seriously at me. 'I want to make love to you.'
'Make love'. It must have been five years since I'd heard those two words used together. Most men just wanted to fuck me.
Paul pulled off his pants and climbed in next to me.
He crawled between my legs, and caressed my pussy with his tongue. It may have been the combination of the grass and alcohol, or it may have been because, for the first time in a very long time, I had met someone with whom I wanted to spend more than one night. Whatever it was, Paul's desire was contagious and I became lost in feeling his tongue around my clit.
'You're very good at that,' I whispered in between moans.
'I'm sure you've had better,' he said.
'No,' I said, truthfully. 'I really don't know that I have.'
He stayed between my legs for twenty minutes or more, then grabbed a condom, rolled it over his cock, and slid himself into me. He was not big, not anywhere near what I was used to, but the pheromones dancing in my body more than made up for his size. I felt completely in tune with his body and his rhythm, letting him slide in and out of me while enjoying feeling him inside and hearing his breath quicken. The tension and pace increased with every stroke.
'I think you're amazing,' he said.
'Thanks, but I'm really not so special,' I said. 'I'm just Suzanne.'
'No, you're amazing, Suzanne.'
After about ten minutes Paul let out a tremendous scream. I had never heard anyone scream so loudly during sex before. I was amused. I took it as a compliment.
I didn't come but that was not unusual when I was with someone I liked a lot. I could orgasm quickly with swinging partners or strangers, but when my head and pheromones got involved, I become overstimulated, overexcited. I can't relax enough to come.
'That was some noise,' I said.
'I haven't come in ages,' he said. 'I don't wank.'
'What do you mean, you don't wank?' I'd never heard of a man who didn't. 'Why not?'
'It's not very comfortable,' he said. Paul explained that he had a medical problem that made masturbating uncomfortable. 'I've got an attached foreskin, and it's too tight around the head, so if there's too much pressure, sometimes it rips. It's really painful, so why bother?'
'Why don't you just get it sorted out?' I asked.
'You're right, I should,' he said, but then admitted he was nervous about it. 'What if something goes wrong? You know, it's ... Down there.'
'It can't be that uncommon. Surely it's better to get it sorted out than to not be able to enjoy sex.'
'Don't worry about me, sweetheart. I just want to make you come.'
I told him I'd had too much to drink and that it wasn't going to happen.
I slept over that night and the next morning Paul woke up early to make me a cup of tea. He brought me some homemade oatmeal, stirred with raisins, seeds, and honey. It was delicious, in part because it was such a rare gesture. I couldn't remember the last time a man made me breakfast.
I smiled as I got back into my car. Cock problems aside, I felt like I'd met someone special.
14. NOT RIGHT
He's not right for you, Suzanne,' Pat said. We were talking about my latest crush, Paul. He and I had been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, and I was giving her the latest.
'Why do you say that?' I said. 'He's your mate.'
'He's just not ... right,' she said. 'For you, I mean. You're too experienced for him, too dynamic. You wrote a book about your fucking life, for God's sake. Paul would never do that. He's actually rather boring.'
This was surprising news coming from the woman who'd given me her old buddy's number.
'Well, I don't think he's boring,' I said. 'I think he's great. I really like him. And he's a great kisser.'
Pat and Paul had known each other for a decade, since working together on a film. Paul had given her a start in the industry at a time when she didn't know anyone. She'd just come to London from Ireland and was looking for work, and Paul was a big-cheese animator, running his own studio in Soho. He gave her some freelance assignments, and the friendship blossomed from there. Ironically, now she was animating her own pop videos, and his company had gone down and he was working part-time in retail, to boost his income.
'He doesn't even own a computer, Suzanne,' said Pat, piling on the evidence. 'He chucked it when he lost the company.'
'So?' I said. 'It's not his electronics I'm interested in.'
'How can you go out with a man that doesn't own a computer, especially someone who used to work in computer graphics? He can't receive emails, he can't go on the web – it's nuts. What kind of a person doesn't own a computer in the twenty-first fucking century?' she added. 'And he drinks too much.'
'Who doesn't? This is boozy Britannia. Aside from you, everyone drinks.'
Pat told me that the last time she'd seen Paul, he'd come over for a cup of tea and ended up drinking a fifth of whisky.
'It was the only booze I had in, since ... you know, the good ol' days. It was there for historic reasons.'
Pat had teetotalled for a decade. And after Paul poured her last sentimental bottle down his throat a couple of weeks earlier, she'd decided she didn't want to see him any more. Still, I questioned her motives. I wondered whether her advice to steer clear was impartial or based on a deeper desire to rid him completely from her life. She knew she'd never get Paul out of her life if he became a part of mine.
In any case, I've never been the type to take advice from friends. I prefer to make my own mistakes.
After Pat gave me his number, Paul and I spoke on the phone almost every day, and we got together for a bonk every kids-free weekend. But it always seemed to be me who took the initiative. I made the calls, and half the time Paul didn't pick up. When he did, I realised, I was the one doing most of the talking. It was a real reversal of the Suzanne–Max dynamic.
'I just like listening to you,' he said when I asked him why he was always so quiet. I could never quite shake the image I'd formed back on our fi
rst date in Soho House. He'd sat next to me wide-eyed and overly excited as I talked, at his prodding, about my life and book. He seemed almost star-struck, and that made me uneasy. I was hardly Jacqueline Susann.
And yet he introduced me to his friends as if I were. 'Suzanne is the most amazing woman I've ever met,' he said when we ran into his mates at his local. He did it on our first date, and on our second. By our third, I went from flattered to embarrassed. I began to suspect I wasn't a date, but a trophy. He told his buddies about my book. 'She wrote a best-selling book about her sex life and she has a blog that's read by thousands. She's the most famous person I've ever known.'
'Can we talk about something else, Paul? That's a large Chardonnay for me.'
Paul couldn't talk about me without mentioning my book or my blog, or promising to actually buy the book he obsessed over so publicly. But buying the book was always a future-tense event. He always asked to buy a dozen copies from me, at a discount, so he could give one to his friends.
'You'll get them cheaper on Amazon,' I said, half joking.
For someone who had seemed so keen on me, Paul, when it came to the phone, was like so many men I'd met before. He had a challenging relationship with his mobile. One of the guys I fucked regularly, a dancer named Pauli, who was a pal of Rump Shaker's, was capable only of responding to text messages. Brendan, a theatre director, took a minimum of three days to respond to his voice messages. John, the taxi driver, took six hours to respond to his, and then, like Pauli, got back only by text. The thought had crossed my mind to start an Excel sheet just to keep track of the communications preferences of the men in my life. Some preferred voice, some preferred text, some just liked turning up when they were horny. Paul, I learned, just hated phones. But then, communication wasn't his forte.
After a few weeks and a few bonks, when I thought we'd become a regular thing, I called Paul for a catch-up. When a full day elapsed without hearing from him, I became concerned.
'Are you OK?' I asked when he finally rang back.
'What do you mean?'
'I left a couple of messages and, when I didn't hear from you, I thought maybe you'd fallen off your bike or that something dreadful had happened.'
The Not So Invisible Woman Page 16