December and bring on NewYork

One, two, three...

"Ouch," not watching where she was going as she entered her flat Saffron stubbed her toe, "damn it," she winced.

A bunch of red Gerberas had caught the back of her shoe. Two of the petals broken and dismembered under her feet. No note, just flowers. Picking up the abused specimen she opened the door. She placed in in vase on her coffee table.

This was the fourth bunch this week. Always the same, no notes.

One bunch of gerbera's is nice, two is lovely, three is a party and four with no note, is intriguing.

The following Monday there was a fifth, then a sixth, all different colors and all without notes.

Not wanting to discard the novelty quite so soon Saffron plucked the petals off the dying flowers and froze them in ice cube trays, she dried flowers in the pages of a phone book, she boiled the petals of a brilliant yellow bunch making a syrup that she bottled for later. As if she wanted to preserve the mystery.

The next week a seventh bunch and then an eighth and then... no more. There was a silence for a month or more.

Then a post card from Barcelona.

Hey Saffron,

Its been 8 years since I last saw you, but every year in June I find myself wondering how you are. I hope you liked the flowers, I remember Gerberas are your favorite, I hope they still are. Eight bunches for eight missed birthdays.

I live in Barcelona now and I just got married. I always loved you.

Hope you had a great birthday.

Robert Lawler

Unsure what to do with this correspondence Saffron did the only thing she could think to do, she drank his affection.

A burgundy glass, ice cubes full of flower petals, a tablespoon of the sugary yellow syrup, gin and soda water.

The devil in her eyes Part 2

Mutilated and Discarded

I tore the pages out of my diary in a fit of cathartic nonsense while living at Harrison Street with Justin in the first year of our relationship. We moved in together really quickly. We did everything really quickly. Making love on a futon in the shared house I rented on the beach I said, “I love you”.

He paused, “did you say that you love me?”

“I suppose I did.”

But what I really meant was, I love that you love me. It wasn’t long after that I realised I wasn’t sexually attracted to him. He was skinny, had a futile tuft of hair in the middle of his concave chest and had a chip on his shoulder.

But in that first year we had fun. We were broke, very broke. But we were happy. I was 19 about to turn 20.

I was so happy in fact that I shredded my diary on a sunny ceremonial afternoon. Some 20 lovers, there stories mutilated and discarded. I sincerely believe that I mutilated and discarded more than a diary that day. I discarded part of myself.





The devil in her eyes Part 2 - The devil has a conscience.

A weak one but a conscience all the same, Mick and I saw each other regularly, under the noses of our partners, for the next two years. There were some close calls, but we got pretty good at the deception.

I left Justin for 1hour and 15minutes. I couldn’t keep it up. I told him I had been seeing Mick, he was less angry about the betrayal and angrier that it was Mick. He wasn’t stupid, he knew how horrible our sex life was. He knew it was a matter of time before I did something like this, he was surprised that I hadn’t done anything earlier. I didn’t tell him that I couldn’t have done anything because I was in love with Mick. In a very unhealthy way, I was loyal to Mick.

Begs the question, why did I stay?

I loved Justin very much. But we were like brother and sister, sleeping with him made me feel sick. Eventually, we stopped having sex altogether. Its incredible really, how well a relationship based of companionship can function without it.

Justin cried, screamed, threw our outdoor furniture over the fence and into the neighbor's back yard, threw up in the bougainvillea and pleaded with me to stay. I can’t live without you, he begged. I cried, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have strong enough conviction to leave. It takes a lot of courage to end a relationship that needs to end. I wasn’t strong enough.

Justin was strong enough. In our sixth year we had relocated to Sydney for work and a change of pace. Mick disappeared once I moved, he called me a few time not long after we got here, I deleted his number, I had decided to make a go of this asexual middle aged relationship I had.

Justin disappeared for 22 hours. He left to go to a party the night before and he never came back. His phone was off and none of our friends had seen him. I was calm for the first 6 hours assuming he had just passed out on someone’s floor, which wasn’t uncommon. He enjoyed a drink.

As the hours passed I became increasingly frantic. I started to practice the speech I would give his mother, explaining that her son was missing. He had never done anything like this before so, of course, the last thing I thought was what actually happened. I thought he was dead, had been beaten, raped, tortured and stuffed under the floorboards Johnny Wayne Gacy Jnr style.

I called my father in panic. I disconnected Justins’s phone before realising that was a stupid thing to do and reconnecting it again. I cried. I screamed. I paced. I drank. I lay in a foetal position on the floor and felt helpless, I felt hollow. I thought I was going to die. My dad drove up from the central coast to be with me. At this stage I had no idea if Justin was going to come back at all and I didn’t want to stay in my flat alone.

The last thing I did, which should have been the first thing I did, was checking the traffic on our credit card. There was, $587.30 spent at the Jack of hearts, an Asian specialty brothel on the corner of our street. $714.20 spent at the Marlborough hotel. $1000 cash advance. He had spent our mortgage repayment on hookers and $180 per glass Glen Fiddick and god knows what else. I think he even came back with a manicure and new shoes.

This was my penance. This was for Mick. It was my birthday in a week. I was about to turn 26.

When I did turn 26, I was a very different person.

I needed to remember, who I had been before, I wanted to be her again. She was strong. She could handle this. I needed to remember my diary. My diary was the key to being her, to surviving this.

The devil in her eyes Part 1

This commemorates the beginning of Trash Romance November, all trash all the time! Enjoy, cross you legs, say a prayer if you need too ; )

The Beginning of the End

To describe what sex was like with Justin, in a word, would be dutiful. I jokingly referred to it as hate sex, because I hated it. But so much else was right, 99.9% perfect. But that 0.1% ended up being essential and its absence fatal. I was with Justin for 6 years.

I had an affair during my time with Justin, a relationship within a relationship.

Mick was my friend long before I met Justin. Only physically for a very short time, we were both cowards, always in love with each other but to scared to do anything about it. Both afraid of being alone, we were personalities that needed people.

He was beautiful, dark eyes, dark hair, and fair skin, tall and cheeky. He had a childishness about him that I loved, we would sit in crowded smoky pubs together, not touching each other but talking about what we would do if we could. He would giggle and his shoulders would rise and fall, a mischievous grin spread across his face and you see the devil in his eyes. You could physically feel the sexual tension between us. I became adept at wearing tight jeans and crossing my legs in his company, making myself orgasm publicly.

Justin never made me feel like that. Never. So many nights, eyes closed tight, physically with Justin but mentally with Mick.

I had just met Justin and perhaps I needed someone to slow me down, my lifestyle was heady, self-destructive and unsustainable. Justin was a roadblock.

Mick came to the beach house, that I rented with two girls, as he usually did. He hadn’t met Justin before. We went for a walk to get cigarettes and I said,

“So, do you like him?”

“Who? That dude, who is he.”

“That’s my new beau! He’s really cool. Do you like him?”

“That guy is your boyfriend?” His shoulders dropped and he stopped walking.

We walked the rest of the way with an air of discomfort. It was late and we were walking through a park on the way back from the service station.

Sit with me, he said. Can I kiss you?

To this day, I wish I had said yes. I don’t know what difference it would have made to where I am and who I am today, maybe a lot, maybe none. But I wish I had said yes.

Mick was in a long-term relationship with a girl named Jill and it was on the rocks. Jill knew this. Our friendship had developed on the back of the fact that he hated being at home and we both hated being at University. He was always at the beach house. He was failing law and I was failing communications.

Both over privileged, we had what seemed like mountains of disposable income and even more time. Mooching in cafes all day, hanging out in antique stores and galleries, listening to records.
Jill rang me one night, a desperate woman. She loved him and a little like Justin and I they were 99.9% perfect and 0.1% doomed. She was beautiful but she wasn’t very bright, Mick would refer to her as a little “I” intellectual. She screamed at me down the telephone, not pausing for breath or to even make any sense, she cried and she begged and she pleaded with me to leave him alone. What she didn’t realise was that I had no control over Mick, I didn’t demand he spend so much time with me, it was his choice.

I wish I had said yes that night. I hadn’t known Justin that long, I could have gone back and said goodbye to Justin, taken Mick to bed and never let him go.

There were many reasons I said no, moral high ground, emotional immaturity, a desire not to hurt Jill or Justin. But mainly fear that if we ended up together, one day I would be the crazed bitch screaming down someone’s telephone.

Someone did take Mick up on his offer, however, about a year later. Her name was Alice.

The story goes that Jill came back from work early and Alice and Mick had been having a covert affair for some months. Alice, naked, had to run out the back of their terrace house, she would later show me the scratches from getting stuck in a lantana bush trying to escape. Mick had been busted. But he wanted to be busted. It was his get out of jail free card. Like a bad romantic drama Jill threw all of Micks possessions off the veranda and into the gutter.

In a strange perverted way Mick and I continued our unrequited romance as part of a team of four. Alice and Mick, Saffron and Justin. We would do dinner, have regular weekend drinks, and bump into each other in town and exchange pleasantries. Alice would confide in me about her concerns about her new relationship with Mick. I was Judas. I would listen, smile, and reassure her that Mick loved her and only her.

When I was 9 months old my dad had me in his arms in a greengrocer near our house on the central coast of NSW. Dad would always tell me this story.


An elderly woman came up to him, as people do, to play with the cute little baby. Dad describes her as pagan looking. Apparently she wore her hair grey, long and wild. She had a long flowing dress with flowers on it and so many beads around her neck that Dad said she jingled when she walked. She greeted my young father with a smile and walked around behind him to cradle my little fingers and look at my face. I was told that she recoiled in horror and wouldn’t touch me, she looked at my dad with genuine fear, was physically trembling and left him with a warning, “ be careful with that one, that child has the devil in her eyes.”

Dad found it terribly amusing and thought the woman mad.

I have always known that she was right. The only thing that saves a person with the devil in their eyes is their propensity for polar emotions. Extremes. When this type of person hates they are the capable of inflicting the most sinister pain and feel little if no remorse, they are as comfortable telling lies as they are the truth and they can rationalise the most incredible selfishness. But when they love, they are capable of bringing more joy and passion than one can even put words to.

I loved Mick.

We knew we were living a lie, but we were both liars. Liars are comfortable living lies. It was only when he got drunk that he could take no more. He was jealous, he would tell me, of Justin and of my friendship with Alice. Perhaps it was too close for comfort. He stormed out of my birthday party one year and I told Justin and Alice not to worry, I would bring him back. I ran down the street after him,

“I can’t stand this,” he screamed, always so much passion in all of our exchanges.

“Come back, its my birthday, please don’t leave me on my birthday.” I am Judas, no regard for Alice, all about me.

“No Saffron,” bluntly delivered, “I’m getting out of here, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t!”

He turned to walk away and I grabbed his arm. In a crowded city street I kissed him. Four years after he first asked me too. We were 100m from the hotel where all our friends and respective partners were. I didn’t care! I didn’t care if anyone saw us! I didn’t care if all of them saw us! I almost wish someone had! He smiled at me, I remember his eyes clear as day, and after four long years he got what he wanted. He was almost shocked.

“Did you just do what I think you did?” He managed.

“Shit, oh shit, shit,” was all I could say as I realised I had opened Pandora’s box and I knew what I had started.

“Stop swearing at me,” and he put his hand on my cheek, pulled me to him and kissed me again.

I remember how he felt. He said he would take a walk and come back to the party. He loved me too.

I went home with Justin and had hate sex, but with more enthusiasm and my eyes tightly closed. I had just turned 23.

...to be continued

The name you can't remember

He had ginger hair, fair skin, freckles and he was from New Zealand but was a Lawyer practicing in London. He as 8 years my senior, but kind of a geek and emotionally immature so I guess that explained why he was lavishing attention on someone so much younger than himself. He was 26 and I was 18. I can't remember his name.

We met when I was working in a retail store on Pier B of Sydney International airport, the year was 2001 and I had just finished high school.

It was a boutique, so frequented by arrogant bastards who only said things to me if they needed a different size or wanted to know if we took diners card. The Japanese men would frequently ask if they could spit phlegm into my garbage bin while they bought gaudy trinkets for their wives, it was rude to blow their nose but hocking into my garbage bin while I held it out for them, well that was just was fine!

We met very briefly; he was going back to London and had been in Australia for work, he was wearing a suit. I think I feel in love with the man in the suit, because the man who flew back from London to spend New Year with me and wore a Hawaiian shirt, I didn’t recognise him.

When we first met he had a boyish trepidation about him that was endearing. He fumbled with the wallet he had just bought, he tripped on the door as he left the store then had to return because he forgot his laptop, then tripped on the door again as he ran to make his flight.

When we met again and I picked him up at the airport, he didn’t stop staring at my breasts and his walk had changed. It is difficult to completely explain but I think me on his arm made him feel confident, so his boyish charm and nervous saunter morphed into a cock sure strut. When we checked into the room he introduced us as Mr and Mrs (insert his name that I can’t remember) and he would push me about the place, with his hand on the small of my back, in and out of doors, in and out of cars, up stairs, into bed. There is gentility / PDA and then there are physical displays of ownership. I detest the latter.


We had planned to hire a car and travel to Melbourne on the great ocean road but after one night with him I had the difficult task of explaining to him that I would only be comfortable with the trip unless we did it platonicly.

He wasn’t happy with this. I had paid for the hotel room and he still owed me $400 dollars for half of the room. He stood up without saying anything, walked to the hotel bar and bought a neat scotch and withdrew $400. He walked back to the hotel lounge were we were sitting and sat down with a huff, knocked back his scotch and slammed $400 cash on the coffee table and loudly said, “thanks for last night, I’ll call you a cab.”

All eyes in the upscale hotel lounge turned to face us. I just had been publicly outed as a prostitute, a cheap one! I turned as red as the heavy magenta curtains behind me.

What can you do? I had already packed my bag because I anticipated I may have to make a hasty retreat, he bundled me into a cab and I never saw him again. I think he was concerned for me because the last thing he said was,

“ I called to cancel with the travel agent and she wants to know if you are ok?”

“Tell her I’m fine,” I said.

My parents hadn’t expected me to be home for 2 weeks, I was never home early, so the fact that I returned home 1 week and 6 days earlier than expected, raised questions. I never answered them though. I still can’t remember his name.

Grant, George, Graham, something like that?

F**k Buddies

Heath was an aspiring actor. To date I think his claim to fame is a dominos pizza commercial. I have friends that still see him around today and tell me he is still fighting the good fight.

I was seeing, well, fucking Heath. I was never really seeing H. He had set out very strict terms when we first hooked up and I respected that. He said this would never be a thing don’t expect anything. I never did. No one got hurt.

He had been in a long-term relationship before and he said after a while fucking her felt like puss.

It was probably easy to follow his terms because I found him so utterly ridiculous. He had an amusing relationship with my bottom.

He was a really handsome guy, beautiful face and very camera friendly. Fair skin, dark eyes and black hair.

Heath was a tight arse. He would drink whatever the girl he was seeing was buying. I refused to buy his drinks, the highest complement I ever got from Heath was when he chose to stay out with me and he actually paid for his own drinks. I laughed so hard when I saw him out once with a Champaign cocktail,

“Fuck off, Saffron,” he said as he sculled his fruity beverage, almost choking on a campaign engorged strawberry.

He got very upset with me when I missed his performance in Hamlet. When I did finally get to the cast party he was drunk. He reminded me of the Irish comedian Dylan Moran. He constantly had a cigarette in his hand (although I’m sure he never paid for it) and was a funny drunk.

A girl who had been in the production as well was trying to seduce Heath; she was a very pretty little blonde. Heath flatly rejected her and swaying languidly at the top of his lungs screamed,

“Fuck off, Saffron’s bum is better! I like your bum, Saffron.” Smiling at me wryly, before he threw up over the pier.

My favourite memory of Heath was outside a hotel in Newcastle and we were waiting for our friend Hugh to show up with his combi van to drive us home. Heath had been behaving strangely all-night, stranger than usual.

As the van approached he stood up, looked left, then looked right, like a meerkat. He pounced on a ficus that was in a pot plant out of the front of the hotel, in one swift jerk he uprooted it, ran across the road and jumping into the combi he screamed, “punch it!”

He had been sizing up that plant since we got there 4 hours earlier, at his house the next week, there is was, pride of place in an empty keg in his bedroom. It died soon after. He hadn’t put any soil in the keg. I tried to tell him it might be a good idea, he wasn’t having any of it.

“I don’t want dirt in my bedroom!”

“Obviously,” I said.

Heath was a lazy lover. He would always prefer that I be on top. He argued that that was the best way to rehearse his lines and he could see my boobs. Hamlet was a big thing for him at the time.

It was kind of romantic actually. I enjoyed it. Riding him for hours and quoting,

“O, That this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.” I would say

“Frailty, thy name is woman!” he would reply

Hamlet, Act I, scene ii

“O! what a rogue and peasant slave am I!” He would scream as he came.

Hamlet, Act II, scene ii

Heath did a lot of screaming, now that I think about it.

His mother was a minister at a local church and she was very kind she had a lot of time for me. His father was an accountant, I come from a family full of accountants, and they are a stale bunch.

I met his father or rather his father met my arse as it was bare raiding his fridge one Saturday morning.

We never quite hit it off after that. I had just turned 19.

The Deadly Nightshade 1

Cold, gray-black and windy. The aspect from the Brown estate had always been this way. Not foreboding but familiar.

Nightly rituals. Belladonna Brown, the only child of Peita and Byron Brown, enjoyed her rituals.

The housekeeper would make sure she had bathed and eaten and tucked her into bed before retiring to the nearby cottage she lived in.

Belladonna would pretend to sleep with one ear open for the latch on the door, signaling freedom. Sneaking out from under the covers, nightgown in hand, making a beeline for the kitchen. Milk and bread and a comfortable position at the bay window, she waited. Crumbs on her nightdress were the signal that they would arrive. Dusting herself off Belladonna perched on her knees and peered out the window, waiting. Her grandfather, whom she never met, would send her a token at Christmas, last year a wooden spinning top. She placed herself affront the toy like a master of chance and spun it.

The world seemed to end off the cliff that the estate sat on. The only signs of life, a lighthouse somewhere distant on the horizon.

She new she would get in trouble for being awake, but it had become a game. Her parents would pretend to be mad, but the time they spent away from their only daughter meant that they both enjoyed the little girls mischief. Greeting her with huge warm hugs, a playful spank on the bottom and a promise not to tell the housekeeper if she promised to clean her room. A bargain struck.

But not tonight.

Lights in the mist. Routine. The car rounded the corner and continued up towards the entrance of the estate. On time.

For as long as she would live she would recall what happened next in detail. No blinker. Irregular. No break. The car continued at pace to the gates, not slowing. The little girl could see her fathers hands on the steering wheel, then not, she saw his eyes, in an blink. Illuminated by the fog lights at the gate and the reflection of the wood grain dash, he was in distress. Open wide, then clenched in pain, perspiration ran down his forehead. Belladonna and her father shared their last look, she would never know if he saw her too, she saw him. His pupils dilated then clouded like mist on the bluff, his head lolled, ricoching from one brick pillar to another before spinning like a whirling durvish disappearing over the horizon.

The toy spun on the floor, her parents spun in the air.

She never saw them again.

Stay tuned....

Reflexion Sentiment Stupéfiant (Remembering Feeling Amazing)

Why are perfect memories so unfixed? Why can't we remember intricate details of our most blissful experiences, but can remember the average rainfall in Zimbabwe, that you were taught in high school geography?

It's 107mm, the average rainfall in Zimbabwe.

Saffron could hardly recall the details of her weekend. She just knew it felt amazing. She could feel the memories, trying to grab at them, to hold them, felt impossible. Is this self defense, she wondered. If I were able to hold these memories, even for a second, would the intensity kill me?

Instead when she tried all she could recall was warmth, words and sensations. Remembering her experience in non-lethal slices.

"F**king you feels amazing," he said.

Attached to this slice of memory was an awareness of his hands on her hips as he knelt behind her, entering her slowly and firmly. She could feel all of him , every inch of him contacted her and sent the most luxurious sensations through her entire body. The memory feels so warm, she felt weak. She could remember that this was the 5th or 6th time that they had sex on that Friday night. As she explored that single slice of memory, like a catalyst, more memory slices revealed themselves.

She recollects stradling him, kissing him and moving her body against his. As he lent forward pushing her backwards, she let go of him, to steady herself. "I've got you," he said.

She remembers him running his hands down her semi-naked body as she lay on his couch. His fingers hooking around the side of her underwear before removing them."Turn over" he said. Obediently she did so, she felt his tongue inside her, the sensation was electric as his tongue skimmed the outside of her.

She recalls kissing him passionately in his kitchen. She wanted to taste him. Walking him backwards, in the way that that lovers do, ensconced in one another while also weary of unforeseen obstacles. She pushed him against the wall, her fists held clumps of the cotton of his shirt with impatience. Kneeling she pushed the fabric aside and kissed his stomach, undid his jeans and sunk her mouth onto him. When she returned to kissing his lips. "I have a confession, I like it when you use your tongue,"he said.

Putting together the pieces of her experience like a collage the memories made her happy. Remembering feeling amazing.

Nourrissez-moi le Chocolat. (Feed me Chocolate)

"Check this out," said Gavin.

The room was dark lit making the view of the entire city skyline from her vantage point, magnificent. It was a beautiful Sydney evening, still cold. Saffron liked the cold. So did Gavin.

As Gavin sat on the couch beside her , she nestled in closer to him to share his warmth.

"Check this out, this is good shit," Gavin brought a finger laden with chocolate mousse to her lips and fed it to her. Surprised and delighted she licked the offering off his fingers.

"Your right," she said, "this is good shit."

Gavin was blessed with an easy going nature that rendered Saffron instantly comfortable.

As she lent back behind him the sound of chilled rhythm and base enveloped her and she smiled to herself. She couldn't have orchestrated a better evening. Gavin's hand held her chin and in the dark pulled her towards his lips.

He held chocolate mousse on his tongue. For Saffron it was one of the sexiest moments she could recall. That second, where the penny dropped. He's feeding me chocolate mousse off his tongue!

It felt like it was in slow motion.

His silhouette on the wall as he lent slightly forward she could appreciate his broad shoulders. An elegant frame. Slowly turning to her and arching his back to reach her . The feeling of the cold , delicate mousse juxtaposed with the warmth of his lips caressing her. The mousse shared between them as they played with it, back and forth with their tongues. His kisses were like honey.

She could feel desire take hold of her and as if prompted by instinct alone her body moved, rhythmically, in time with his.

Over his shoulder she could see the nightly cityscape, hear the beats, taste him. This was perfection, thought Saffron.

... maybe continued....maybe not ; )

lancez d'abord la partie deux (First Fling part 2)...

What follows is the second installment of lancez d'abord, so if you are under 17 or have an aversion to soft core trash romance fiction then you may want to follow this link.

If you missed part 1.
At a readers request the protagonists name has been changed from Sally to Saffron.

lancez d'abord la partie deux (First Fling part 2)

"Hey Guys whats on tonight, Yeah! having a good one? I'm havin' a good one...want some company, yeah, love this place!?" Enter the stereotype.

There is one at every pub. They are in their mid 50's, they haven't had sex (without paying for it) since 1975. Their soul aim in life is to interrupt everyones evening with nonsensical ranting.

How am I going to get rid of this guy, thinks Saffron.

Saffron is intolerant of interruption. Dale aka. uninvited incumbent puts his beer on their table. Spying an opportunity, Saffron picks up the beer while Dale isn't looking and moves it five tables down. Dale turns around and in a state of alcohol induced confusion he thinks, "I'm drunk, but I swear I left a beer here!" Dale smiles, sways and sets off in search of his missing beverage.

"So, sex," she says.

Greg is visibly surprised, his eyes indicate as much. He didn't predict precociousness. Little does Greg know that Saffron is making up for lost time.

Struggling for the right rely in an unprecedented circumstance, Greg grasps at old faithful.

"Well, if it's the right person."

"Me?" says Saffron provocatively.

"Yes," says Greg.

Yes. It is the sexiest word in the English language. It means you win. You succeed. You get what you want. Right that very second, all Saffron wanted was Greg.

Standing and lingering in the moment, enjoying the game. Then slowly walking behind Greg putting her arms over his shoulders, leaning forward, she whispers, "want to get out of here?"

At pace heading for a taxi it starts to rain. Looking out of the taxi Saffron can see slices of the sky though office blocks, rain falls down the window obscuring her view. Warmth on her thigh, Greg's hand. Gently she moves her hips forward, increasing the angle of her thigh so his hand slips down further, his thumb tickles her stomach as it skims across the top of her jeans.

A dash from the taxi to the door, keys and hands fumble in the dark. The sound of the release of the door lock sounds like relief of frustration.

Unbuttoning her jeans Greg grabs her by her waist and lifts her on top of a sideboard by the door. Both hands around her jeans he strips them from her body , drops to his knees. Saffron screams, Greg's face buried between her thighs, holding the back of his head directing him. His tongue snakes in and out of her , grabbing him by the back of his shirt she brings him back up to her face, moving her hips closer to his body, kissing him and tasting herself on his tongue.

His hands around her arse and picking her up they kiss as he walks her down the hallway to his bedroom.The pressure of his hands drives her hips towards him and though his jeans she can feel him. Saffron draws breath before the impact of being thrown on bed sends shivers through her.

Standing above her in a half light, she can appreciate the entirety of him. His stature, his dominance.

Getting to her knees she crawls towards him, his manhood is distinct through his jeans. She grabs at his belt buckle, tearing at it. Sinking her mouth onto him, she can feel the raw heat of an evenings worth of anticipation.

Taking a condom from his top drawer, tearing it with his teeth to open it. Saffron takes it from him, putting it in her mouth she rolls it down the length of him, coming up to meet his eyes she whispers, "are you ready?"

Nodding submissively Greg lays down beside her, straddling him she sinks herself on to him. Slowly at first with an almost adolescent hesitation. As she feels his warmth filling her, from within deep her, Saffron feels her latent sexual identity on fire. This was who she is, free and sexually self determined. She felt alive.

Passionately they were together till dawn.

Knowing that this was all it needed to be for her, Saffron woke early. In the bathroom, putting on her face. She was content. This was her first fling. The first of many.

Stay tuned, weary travelers.

lancez d'abord la partie un (First Fling part 1)

The air was cold that night, cold even by winter solstice standards. The sky was clear. Sally looked up, she could see a universe. She felt small but comforted by her own insignificance and the reassurance of infinite possibility. It allowed her to feel that nothing she did really mattered.

In the outside courtyard of the intercity cafe the wind licked around her and she hugged her shoulders for warmth. Retrieving an antique cigarette case from her handbag she lent forward and lit a cigarette off the candle in the middle of the table. Reclining, she ordered a glass of red wine from a passing waitress.

Modern relationships don't seem to be able to exist without the internet. It connects us. It frees us. Sally had never tried internet dating before. This was the first fling, as she described it to friends. Some ridiculed her, others were pleased that she was finally putting herself out there again after a rather messy divorce.

Waiting for her date and her glass of wine she had already made a decision. She was going to have sex tonight, it was fait accomplis. It had been six years since she had really embraced her own sexual identity. Not to say that her marriage had not been fulfilling. However, in the previous weeks she had felt an element of herself awakening, like a wave within her, consuming her. A latent personality that had been buried in duty. She mourned. She reveled.

She needed a drink, where was that fucking waitress!

An irritating bleep of a mobile phone. The waitress returned with a bottle of wine. Sally hadn't ordered a bottle, but the error pleased her. Checking her message as wine was poured for her she expressed her gratitude with a shy nod.

Greg was running late. It occurred to her that she had changed her hair since the photos on the dating site where posted.

"oh," read her text reply, "you might not recognize me, I have black hair now."

"Yeah, well, I'll be the short, fat, bald guy in a Hawaiian shirt with gold chains, ok?"

"Well, at least you have the common decency to let me down gently, see you soon!."

Smiling to herself she drank from her glass. Liquid Joy. She lit another cigarette from the candle and took a novel from her bag. Michel Houellebecq. As Sally read of the sexual misadventures of a middle aged couple in a nudist colony in France she felt more alive and more explicit than she remembered feeling in a long time. Risk is seductive.

A tall blond man in faded denim jeans and a tight black long sleeve crew neck, looked at her briefly, smiled and kept walking. He was distinctive. Greg had walked right past her. Sally felt a pit in her stomach. He paused and turned around, cocking his head slightly to the left he said, "Sally?"

"Hey," she said. It amazed her how comfortably she fell back into the role of seductress.

Sitting down and pouring himself a glass of wine Greg apologized, "I can't believe I walked right by you, you look so different, your photos don't do you justice, did you know?"

"Told you," smirked Sally, "No Hawaiian shirt, I do love a good hibiscus."

Greg was striking. Comfortably six foot with a relaxed charm and blue eyes you just want swim in on a summer afternoon. Sally watched the muscles in his shoulder and upper arm flex under his shirt as he reached across the table to get a menu.

"You know I'm vegetarian but I'm not religious, you indulge in whatever you like," Greg said as he perused the menu.

I think I just might, thought Sally. When we are very fortunate we meet a person with whom sexual chemistry comes more naturally than breathing.

They drank, they laughed and the night wore on. They finished the bottle of wine and no one offered to take their order. Food was off the menu. Mildly angered by the poor service they decided to try another venue.

Greg was tall and Sally was small. He outpaced her in an effort to keep warm. Sally reached out and held the inner of his elbow to slow him. As she touched him she felt herself moved. Affected.

"I'm shorter than you, remember, short girl, little legs."

Ordering their second bottle of wine for the evening in a personable pub they found a comfortable nook opulently lit in which to enjoy it.

Sally ranted, as she often did, about social inequity and various other issues that she no authority to speak on but held a fixed opinion none the less. Greg said little but he smiled.

"You know your interesting," he said with a charming smile

"So, sex," said Sally, "do you do it?"

Stay tuned, campers.