In the Backseat Page 5

  I was shocked stupid. He slowly descended the steps, penis jutting out like a baton, and exited my home, leaving me speechless at the top of the stairs.

  In a daze, I ambled back into my room and sat on the edge of the bed. Becky was perched on her end, still clutching the sheets tightly to her breasts. We didn’t speak. I knew that he’d told her. If not, then I knew she could smell Eleanor on me.

  It’s difficult to verbalise what I felt; a mixture of anger and remorse, guilt, disgust and relief, betrayal and excitement beyond anything I‘d ever known. I wheeled around and snatched the sheets from my wife. I wrested them away from her. And took her in. Naked as I’d seen her a hundred times and still, I was more turned on than I’d ever been. It wasn’t until that moment that I realised how stagnant our lives had become, before the Joyces, how routine every aspect of our existence had turned out.

  I couldn’t help myself. I thrust her back on the bed, yanking open my trousers and seizing my hard cock in my hand. She yielded to my touch, rough as it was. Her legs parted all on their own, wide and welcoming. I filled her with all that she wanted.

  After it was done, we stared at one another, our breaths mingling, our bodies still united.

  ‘Divorce?’ she asked, finally.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Do we move?’ I said.

  ‘No.’

  All at once, it made sense to me. We’d both been searching, longing for an escape from the tedium of everyday. The spools of nature had turned evenly, and we’d succumbed without resistance. It clicked for me. How comfortable she’d seemed in their presence. How far she’d gone to impress them. How easily I’d fallen into the other woman’s arms.

  ‘We never had a chance, did we?’ I said.

  She snaked her arms around my neck.

  ‘Only a man would have thought to fight it.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go over and apologise.’

  ‘Perhaps I should wear my black dress.’

  ‘The one that’s easy to take off?’ I smiled, warming to fate. ‘That sounds like a capital idea.’

  I kissed my wife.

  Her lips tasted of the man that had come into our bed.

  And mine, they tasted of his wife.

  His German Night

  by D C Kohn

  The pool …

  He’d seen her by the pool, asleep in the late afternoon sun. He was trying to read a novel – a trash novel – but it was impossible. Her one-piece, two sizes too small, black swimming costume left everything and nothing to a man’s imagination. Her body was a symphony of curves: large, round breasts; imperious buttocks; and thighs shaped by nature to be pulled apart.

  Was she on her own? A woman getting over a divorce? A married woman having one of those “I want my own space” vacations? A lonely lesbian looking for a fling? He’d seen plenty of them in the bars and on the beaches. His musing stopped when the woman woke up. Looking across the pool, she saw him gazing at her. She turned on her side, pulled a towel over her legs and picked up a magazine. Show over!

  Embarrassed, he went to the bar, where a long line of Germans – or Austrians or Swiss, who cares? – was being served needlessly complicated coffee drinks by a kid who didn’t have a clue what he was doing.

  He took a beer back to the pool. She was stretched out face down on her lounger. A man – tall, lean, expensively groomed, middle-aged, well in the game – was bent over her, rubbing suntan cream on her back, legs and arms. He rubbed it in slowly and firmly up and down and around the lady’s luscious limbs.

  The dream ...

  Watching them was torture; a toxic cocktail of lust, jealousy and loneliness. Back in his room he soaked in the bath, took a bottle of wine from the mini-bar, and went to bed with his trashy novel. The novel couldn’t keep him awake.

  His dream was troubling. He was on the back seat of a stretch limo. A woman was sitting next to him, almost across him. She was a blonde; her shirt was open, her breasts were spilling out of her bra, and her skirt was pulled up to her waist. The blonde pushed him back, pulled his face to hers, kissed him and rubbed his crotch. She undid his belt, unzipped his fly and pulled the pants down to his knees.

  ‘I wanna see what we’ve got in here,’ she said, tugging his shorts down. ‘Oh, not much. I’d say that’s a dick that ain’t worth writing home about. I think it needs some more of my special kind of lovin’. Pulling his face into the scented valley between her breasts, she toyed gently with his balls and stroked his penis. It was lifeless, limp in her hands. She sniggered and looked across at a man sitting on the opposite seat. ‘Hey what’s this, honey? Zilcho respondo!’

  Her friend laughed.

  He wanted to explain, but didn’t want to tell them the truth, which was that he’d woken up that morning with an erection. He’d gone to his bag, found the picture of his lover, gazed at the photo. He’d taken it when they had lunch at a restaurant by the river in Florence. You can guess the rest. He didn’t want to, but he didn’t not want to even more. ‘I’ve been with my woman all night,’ he lied. ‘I came three times. I’m drained. That’s all it is ... that’s all.’

  He slept for hours; the restaurant had closed. He dressed and headed for the bar.

  The bar ...

  There was only one drinker when he got there, and it was her. She was on a bar stool, smoking and staring down into what the cocktail list said was a MegaMargarita. Now and again she looked out at the promenade lights and the dark, still sea beyond the harbour wall. The top and bottom buttons of her blue silk dress were undone. She crossed her legs, revealing an expanse of perfect thigh.

  He chose a stool close, but not too close, to hers and tried to work out how to break the ice, how to get the dance started. It was something – the chat, the lines – he’d never found easy.

  He had an idea when the barman gave her another MegaMargarita. ‘They’re good here?’ he said, smiling and pointing to the glass, ‘The Margaritas?’

  She answered, but not with a smile. ‘Yes, they are. The coffee in this country is scheiße – you say shit? – but I think these are the best you’ll get in Europe. This barman knows his business.’

  ‘Let me get you another when you’ve finished that one.’

  ‘That’s kind, but I must refuse. There is no such thing as just one Margarita, having a second is irresistible. A third – which this is – is just about acceptable. With four I am turzbessoffen. Do you know this, turzbessoffen?’

  ‘No, but I’d guess – if I’ve grasped the context from your excellent English – it means seriously drunk. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, seriously ... pissed.’

  ‘But you’re on holiday. Would getting pissed once in while be so bad?’

  She uncrossed her legs and pulled the hem of her dress down. ‘How do you know I am turzbessoffen only rarely? And why do you assume this is a vacation I am having?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I was just making small ...’

  ‘You don’t make small chat well. You put two and two together make the wrong sum. For this insult, you can buy me that drink. It will be a payment also for your bad behaviour by the pool this afternoon. Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?’

  ‘For a man not to stare at a beautiful woman displaying her body is impossible. It’s not natural. But I’m sorry if it offended you. Look, is there anything else I can do to make amends for my misconduct?’

  She put on the glasses that were on a gold chain around her neck and combed a hand through the blonde hair that fell in curls to her shoulders.

  ‘Yes, OK, there is.’ She called for her fourth drink. ‘Tell me your name, where you’re from, what you do for a living, and whether you’re married or not. That’s all; not your life story. And don’t bother to tell me your age. You’ll just lie, and I’ll add ten years. Is that OK?’

  ‘The name is Freddie. I’m an architect, redundant. I come from London. I’m married, sort of.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘It means I’m here alone. M
y wife isn’t with me.’

  ‘Does she know where you are now? Does she think you’re at a redundant architects’ conference in Brussels?’

  ‘She knows where I am, and I know where she is.’

  ‘She is where?’

  ‘At home, probably with her young friend. Her young lover. What’s the time now back home? Just gone ten. I’d guess they’d have had dinner, maybe watched a movie, and they’ll be thinking about going to bed. It’ll be the double bed in the spare room. She’ll leave him there when they’ve finished fucking, or whatever it is they do. She likes to sleep alone.’

  ‘Oh ... it’s like that. Like a European marriage?

  ‘Yes, like that I suppose.’

  ‘Now I’ll tell you about me, a little anyway. My name is Angelika. It is meaning like an angel. I am an accountant, but I am not accounting very much. I pay people to do it for me. I live in Munich. I am not married, but I have a man.’

  ‘Yes, I saw him this afternoon.’

  ‘There, you do it again,’ she snapped. ‘You assume he was, but that’s not him.’

  ‘So you have a European arrangement, too?’

  ‘You can call it that. Marriage is not for me. Marriage is kaput, I think.’

  ‘Angelika? And are you like an angel?’

  ‘I might be a demon. You might find out, if you are lucky tonight. So much depends on luck, yes?’

  ‘In what way could I be lucky tonight?’

  ‘The barman has a pack of cards. He gives it to me. I take out the jokers. I have no time for them. I hope you’re not a joker. I give the pack to you. You must draw seven cards. To win the prize, four of the cards must be six or higher. Want to play?’

  ‘You haven’t told me what the prize is.’

  ‘I give you a number, that is the prize.’

  ‘You’re being very mysterious. The number of what?’

  ‘My room number. I think it’s a prize worth trying for.’

  ‘But what if I don’t win? Losers always lose something. One of the immutables, that is.’

  ‘You lose the opportunity to have quality time with me. What happens is that I go back to my room, where I will have a very nice sleep. You’ll probably have another drink, feel sorry for yourself, go back to your room, maybe watch a porn movie – there are good ones at this hotel – and, well, you know ... perhaps you’ll think about me, imagine that I’m in your bed, or your secretary, or even your wife. Want to play? Are you ready, Freddie?’

  She went through the pack, extracting the jokers, and shuffled it. She pulled her stool up next to his. He caught her light perfume as she whispered in his ear. ‘I must see that you don’t cheat.’

  The first card out was a one. It was followed by a seven. Then an ace.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I should have told you. Aces are low.’

  A three came next, then an eight and a nine. He had one card left, and it had to be a six or higher. Angelika put her hand on his arm. ‘You need Lady Luck now.’

  He spread the cards ... and pulled a six.

  ‘Room 36. Be there in 20 minutes. The door will be unlocked. Just knock and come in.’

  The room ...

  She was sitting on the side of the bed, on the phone. She waved to him, and pointed to a chair by the dressing table. She hadn’t changed; but the same blue silk dress was buttoned now from neck to knee-length hem. He looked at the stuff on the dressing table: perfume; a hair brush and comb; lipstick; a scrunched tissue; passport; books – Lonely Planet Italy; Anais Nin’s Little Birds; A Mind of Its Own: A Cultural History of the Penis; and Fooled by Randomness: The Hidden Role of Chance in Life and in the Markets – and some photographs.

  They were large, black and white prints. They caught his eye. In one, Angelika was sitting in an armchair, wearing an evening gown. A naked man – tall, elegant, elderly – was standing by her side, his flaccid penis resting in the palm of her outstretched hand. In another, she was lying on a sofa, wearing a white bra and panties, and smoking. The hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette was in her panties. There were three that seemed to run in a series: Angelika sprawled across a man – she was wearing black stockings and bikini panties, he was blindfolded and naked; then she was between his legs, licking his balls and rubbing his swollen penis; and then, just her, wiping her come-covered lips with a handkerchief. They’d catch your eye, wouldn’t they?

  She was shouting into the handset, but watching Freddie. He’d just noticed a pair of panties – black silk – in an open handbag.

  ‘I’m sorry, things have gone wrong at the office. My managers are clueless.’ She patted the duvet. ‘But now I will forget about accounting. Come and sit on the bed by me. See anything you like?’

  ‘Well, you, mainly.’

  ‘I mean my books, the ones you were looking at.’

  ‘Chance, Italy and sex. All interesting stuff.’

  ‘And the photographs? They’re interesting, too?’ Her hands pressed on his thighs. ‘No need to answer that. The look on your face says it all. And the way you were looking at me this afternoon by the pool. The swim thing I was wearing hid very little, and it is the very little you want to see, yes?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say your breasts are little,’ Freddie said.

  ‘No, they are not. They are difficult to hide when I’m in the sun. Anyway, that is what you want to see, and my scheide perhaps … you know, my vagina, my cunt. That is what you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Freddie said. ‘That is what we say. And of course I want to see it. What man wouldn’t?’

  ‘A gay man wouldn’t, and perhaps a very old man. But you’re not too old, and you don’t seem to be gay. You like my photos, I think. Don’t be embarrassed. Did they excite you? Let me see if they did?’

  She put her hand on his lap, felt his stiffening penis and pressed gently.

  ‘Ah, I thought so. It’s natural, too, no?’

  ‘No,’ he stuttered. ‘Sorry, I mean yes. Very natural.’

  ‘That’s what the photographer said. I let him fuck me. Taking those photos got him excited, in a manly condition. He was good. I met a painter in Nice. I modelled for him, too. He spent the morning studying my pussy, and the afternoon painting it. He was attractive, and he’d worked hard. The painting was beautiful; such shapes and colours. So I told him he could fuck me. I wanted him to. But he said no. He was gay. But you … you’re not gay; your dick tells me that. But are you good?’

  ‘I try,’ he said, putting his hand on her thigh, stroking the silk. She pushed it away.

  ‘We’ll see. First, we have another game of chance.’

  She took a pack of cards from the bedside table, and explained the rules.

  ‘It’s simple. Even an Englishman should understand them. We each lay one card down, one after the other; just like in snap. The first person to lay down a jack is the winner, and tells the loser he – or she – must pay a forfeit. Don’t worry, Englishman; if I win, it’ll be a fun forfeit. You agree these rules?’

  She was the first to lay a jack. She hadn’t cheated; it was chance.

  ‘Pour me another drink before I tell you the forfeit.’

  He was about to sit next to her on the bed, but she stopped him. ‘No, don’t sit down. This is your forfeit for losing the game. I’m going to sit on that stool in front of the mirror. You must stand behind me, facing the mirror. I want you to undress. Take everything off. No, take everything off except your underpants. You are wearing them? Leave them on.’

  She sat on the stool, drinking and watching in the mirror as he undressed: jacket; shirt; shoes; trousers.

  ‘You look good,’ she said, reaching up behind her and running her fingers across his chest and belly. ‘Pour me another drink, Freddie.’ She reached out again as he put the glass on the dressing table. ‘Your schwanz feels good, too,’ she whispered. ‘Schwanz is penis. It feels bigger, yes? Now, get that other stool over here, put it behind me and sit down. Stretch your legs out beside mine.’

  Pulling her long h
air up, she said, ‘Lean forward and lick my neck, just here.’ She pointed to the spot; the centre of her neck, just on the hair line.

  He licked her neck, softly and slowly, up and down, around and around.

  ‘You like this? It’s fun, no? Don’t answer. I know this is fun for you. I like it, too. Now kiss me there. And sit closer to me … much closer.’

  Freddie kissed the spot, and sucked and blew on it. She sighed and reached behind her, her fingers scratching lightly across his belly, and then lower, grazing across his penis, hard now in its cotton boxers.

  ‘Tell me, Englishman, is it true that men think about sex every six seconds?’

  ‘I… ’ He paused when she squeezed him. ‘… don’t know about other men.’

  ‘But you? Do you? Every six seconds?’

  ‘No, not as much as that. I’d say … oh, I don’t know …every 30 seconds on average.’

  ‘That,’ she said, pushing her fingers into his pants and stroking his balls, ‘must mean you thought about it hundreds of times when you were staring at me by the pool, and then at the bar. You were trying so hard not to let me see that you were looking down my dress, peeking at my breasts.’

  Angelika smiled at his reflection in the mirror and grasped his prick. ‘No need for sorry. It’s what men do; even Englishmen. Anyway, let’s get on. Stand up by my side, and push those silly pants down. Let me see your schwanz; let me see what state it is in … Ah, that’s good. It’s big, yes. How big, when you are excited like this? I’d say 20?’

  ‘What?’ Freddie said. ‘It can’t be 20. That’s ridiculous. But I’ve never measured it.’

  ‘No, that’s ridiculous. All boys measure their cocks. They’re so competitive about them. But I see why you say my guess is wrong. I mean 20 centimetres – eight inches in your country, I think. Never mind, maybe I will measure it later. Now, I want to see you – in the mirror – touching it. Stroke it for me. I love watching a man touch his penis. Stroke until you come.’

  He did as she asked. How could he not?

  Angelika stood, turned to Freddie, unbuttoned her dress and pulled it open to show him her naked body.