Tag archieven: 20 year olds

Sex, chocolate and Valentino

 

 

His cock filled my greedy mouth, my eyes closed in concentration and bliss as my lips closed around  the shaft and slid up to the tip. It was sweet and salty, the taste mixed with my saliva. I could hear his moan and feel his fingers playing with my hair. My arms were wrapped around his legs, soft pale skin of the inside of my forearms hugging to the smooth back of his thighs. I massaged his butt cheeks. Gropingly.  Manly. I slid a pinkie down through the crack and drew it back with the other fingers before it reached his asshole. Valentino was finally mine.

When I woke, I wasn’t eager to remember this dream. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t like last Thursday, when you entered that restaurant, with a woman your own age, and me finishing my over-the-top long and chatty lunch with a colleague. You were seated at the only available table, right next to us. I worried whether you would refuse the table, but you stoically started to peel off your coat and smiled. Your cool effectively hid your feelings, and puzzled me.
“Hi, how are you?”
Your voice was still clear. Unharmed by three years of beer drinking, short nights and other crimes of student life. Your skin was smooth, still that remarkable blemish free caramel color. Like a Milan fashion model after Photoshop. I stuttered “I’m fine.” Or “Your hair is different.” Or  “I still love you.” And in response to whatever it was I managed to say, you replied: “Yes, it’s a lot shorter.”
The half long hair was gone, the short black cut was parted to the side. Every hair in place. And your eyes. Darker, darker, darker than I remembered. Your eyebrows black and sharp. This was Bambi with cheekbones. I couldn’t hear the words of my colleague. I watched her mouth moving, and waited for it to stop.
“Yes, you’re absolutely right,”  I reassured her, although I had no idea what she had said, nor remembered what we had been talking about for hours. “But I have to leave now. And I really mean now.”

No matter how much you are in love, or heartbroken, there comes a point where you start to cope. My first lover after Valentino, was unintentional. With the messy break up with Valentino still fresh, I knew dating was pointless. No one would draw out the same feelings, and I wasn’t going to pretend to be okay. I was an emotional wreck, and was gearing up for an old spinster-life, when I met a student who was Valentino inverted. The same age, from the same neighborhood and he even knew Valentino as I later found out. But instead of the double digit numbers Valentino was devouring every year, this boy had a shy virgin-like quality. No bad boy. He didn’t drink a drop when he had to drive home after staying with me. The only thing he had in common with Valentino were the large brown eyes. He left me after a few weeks, for a girl with a hamster. They’re together still. Thrown back into love sickness over Valentino, I just couldn’t make myself see anybody else again.

2011.
A few days short of my “Panda year” celebration, of not having sex for a whole year, I met Samuel. Within half an hour I kissed him. That same night we had sex. And again. And again. And again. And then never again because big black bad Samuel wanted me to take a backseat in his life, presumably to be on call for when he felt like IT. I had not even accepted that from Valentino, let alone that I would settle for these whore-for-free terms with anyone else.

And then? A normal relationship with a nice guy. I love you, you love me. We took holidays together. Met each other’s family. It was my ultimate attempt to have a relationship that existed in the real world, instead of a man who by now only existed in my heart. I didn’t know where Valentino lived, nor who he was seeing, but I knew Valentino had pushed me out. Look Valentino! I have a relationship! And a once in a lifetime ride through dark and dirty sex that I could never have had with someone I had been in love with for years.

2012
Nubian Prince! Sweet, dark and smart. And I remember thinking, all horny, “He’s only 22.” when he was fucking me. Only to realize then, that he was even younger when we were lovers years ago. (For the story it would be good to say “that’s when I came”) Aside from The Southern Region, Nubian Prince also lingers very closely to my heart. But has effectively, and in a gentle manner, made it clear that our perspective is limited. Unfortunately for me, he got a girlfriend shortly after the 2012 edition of our sex liaison had started.

In the lobby of the restaurant I collapse, I squat down, and lean my back to the wall for support. I drop my head, chin to my chest.
“I told you I’ve written a book right?” I pant, trying to explain my speedy exit and chaotic behavior. “About the 19 year old student I fell in love with?”
“No,” she says. “You didn’t, but now you do.”

The fireworks in my belly, the nauseous feeling that I don’t remember having for years. I imagine how I will stop eating, in response to this rendez-vous, and get real thin and turn into a ghost/writer. But I don’t. I get an unstoppable craving for chocolate, the darkest I can find. And salted cashews. I have even started fantasizing about mixing the two together.

Just until the preferred substitutes come along.

 

 

 

Het schuim der natie

 

 

Daar was ze weer; de happy single. Iemand was over haar begonnen op Twitter, over dat ze niet bestond, en direct dartelde de ipottende 29jarige accountmanager met highlights door mijn Timeline.

Ik zag haar al bij het woord Single, maar met de toevoeging Happy ervoor huppelde het Pilates sletje nog net een tandje vrolijker.

Degene die het vraagstuk De Happy Single als een bom had laten afgaan op Twitter, had 10.000 volgers, en al snel stroomden uit alle uithoeken van het medium reacties binnen. Koude bedden. Eenzame nachten. Alleen thuiskomen in de kleine uurtjes. Een hele generatie Sex en de City kijkers gaf grif toe dat ze helemaal niet zo happy waren. Single zijn was een lijdensweg waar men zich dapper doorheen sloeg omdat men licht hoopte te vinden aan het einde van de tunnel. Ze wachtten iedere zaterdag in V&D pyjama op betrouwbare vent of een andere Verlosser.

Op het tijdstip dat een Happy Single zich een weg naar binnen had gepijpt op Wasteland en met een buttplug in de darkroom lag, dronk de Unhappy Single muntthee op de 3- persoons Ikea bank.

Ik begon dat crack sletje nog bijna sympathiek te vinden tussen dat volhardende zelfmedelijden.

Ik twitterde uit de losse pols wat beledigingen terug, blockte links en rechts wat gejammer, en na deze bijdrage aan de discussie onderwierp ik mezelf aan rücksichtsloze zelfreflectie.
Want hoe zat het met mij? Verlangde ik ook niet stiekem naar een man?
Was ik niet ook eenzaam?

Ik zag twee garderobe stangen op de grond. Voor de vierde keer was het kledingrek naar beneden gekomen. Dit keer hadden de jurken de volle lading boorgruis gekregen. In de muur zaten acht extra gaten.

Ik dacht harder na, en realiseerde me dat ik binnen twee jaar weer moest verhuizen. Toch wel handig als je al wat mankracht in huis hebt. Die is vaak ook helemaal in zijn element als hij zo’n “het mag nog net op je B rijbewijs” verhuisbus mag rijden.  Zelf heeft hij dan een leaseauto waarmee hij op zaterdag mijn boodschappen doet,  ik bedoel onze boodschappen.

De verlangens begonnen nu echt vorm te krijgen!
Aangewakkerd door dit succes dacht ik nog vuriger na. Diepe rimpels trokken in mijn voorhoofd. De overburen dachten waarschijnlijk dat ik een drol naar buiten aan het persen was.

De gang moest nog worden geschilderd.
Ik wilde op vakantie en dan kon hij mooi op de katten passen.
Het single zijn had mijn tegoeden verslonden, daar kon je geen yoga tegenop geven.
Maar hij, HIJ, zou een inkomen hebben waardoor de financiële hemel op aarde weder zou keren.

Het was een uur of drie en ik had honger gekregen van deze diepgravende analyses. Ik dook de koelkast in. Zalmsnippers. Crème fraiche. Spinazie. Ik gooide alle lekkere dingen die er in huis waren in een grote pan tot een gerecht dat in één keer door mij opgegeten moest worden. Spinazie mag je nooit opwarmen.

Toen huppelde ik naar bed voor een middagslaapje. Om 7 uur ’s avonds werd ik wakker onder mijn roze dekbed. Ik lag diagonaal. Buiten klonken jonge stemmen.

Er stond een verhuisbus aan de overkant. Drie fiere studenten droegen dozen, planken en matrassen de arbeiderswoning in. De blonde had speelse lokken. De zwartharige lichte ogen. Een half-Indonesische jongen zette een blikje cola op de laadklep. Om zijn smalle heupen zat een merkspijkerbroek en een lage lichte riem.

Ik bad vurig tot alle Goden die er bestonden dat hij de slaapkamer aan mijn kant kreeg. En dan zou ik nooit meer iemand crack hoer noemen. Zelfs niet als ze het had verdiend.

 

 

We can do this differently.

Vertaling. Klik hier voor het origineel in het Nederlands.

Every time I heard “You are too eager,” I shook my mane, as if I was chasing flies away; “Stop searching, and you will find it,” and I raised my eyes to heaven; “Why do you attract such men?” and I wondered if I could hit an artery with my fork; “Pain is perception.” Of course. How about I permanently separate your head from your torso? Let’s see how that works for your perception.

In short, the well intended advice from friends and relatives was beginning to irritate.

As were the men to who I owed it to. You can only hear : “What lingerie are you going to wear?” so many times. The second 20 year old who doesn’t want to see you in his own city because “not all his friends have to know it yet”, and the oasis between your legs becomes and impregnable fortress. If I give lap dances. If I swallow sperm. And that he thinks about me a lot. Especially on Wednesday night when his wife is out.

Instead of being approached like a delicate oyster, that requires gentle opening before you are allowed to taste it’s salty sweet content, I was being treated like a fast food drive-through. And no one even bothered to look for pearls.

It was Monday June 6, 2011. I had been single for 4 years and 7 months, and a writer for the same time, and in me something vanished.
It wasn’t a “Fine! I’ll leave!” where the departing party hopes to be begged back.
Neither was it a departure where tasks are handed over to the new employee.
It was a woman gathered her belongings, she packed her lingerie,  her diary.  She put the chilled bottle of wine and the chocolate in her handbag. Her replacement wouldn’t enjoy them anyway.
When she got into her cab she caught a glimpse of a motorcycle pulling into the street, speeding over the hump and against traffic. The slim rider wore her long hair in a pony tail.

I re-read emails that came without hi or bye. The DMs that offered or asked sexual services. I was called for phone sex and turned off my cell phone. I removed all men I had been in love with from my address book.
Slanting penises. Suddenly I thought a lot about slanting penises. And half-hard penises. The ones that stood out straight, possessed other hilarious features. And the muses I had never slept with all turned out to have some ridiculous quality or other Achilles’ heel, that demanded them to be written off as lover, muse and man.
It took me less than 24 hours to extract root and branch of all my unseemly feelings.

I cleared out my schedule in order to make time for publishing my books, and I estimated if I had enough Dutch erotica to turn it into a book. Since the writer of those stories had left, I would have to manage with what she left me. She was probably in Cyprus on a beach by now, dressed in a golden bikini, and interrogating some Muslim boy if he was circumcised.

It was a Thursday night, I was writing a blog post. “You were cuter on your previous avatar!” one of my 370 Twitter followers cheered.

The quiver was leaning against the antique desk. A pink heart was hanging down from it, as were a miniature perfume and a keychain with an A with little diamonds. My fingers slid over the smooth leather before I pulled the arrow out. The bow was behind the computer. It was a smaller model than I was used to, but it would suffice. I placed the arrow. The string creaked when I drew the bow.

“Liked the previous one better?” I tweeted back. “Deal with it! I’m not here for my pretty face. And  for hamburgers you can piss off to the Mac.”

The time I was shooting hearts was behind me. From now on I was aiming below the belt. I would leave the slanting penises up to my imagination.

 

 

 

Het kan ook anders.

Iedere keer als ik “Je wilt het te graag,” hoorde, schudde ik met mijn kop alsof ik vliegen kwijt moest; “Je moet stoppen met zoeken,” en ik sloeg mijn ogen ten hemel. “Waarom trek je zulke mannen aan?” en ik vroeg me af of ik met een vork een slagader zou kunnen raken; “Pijn is een kwestie perceptie.” Natuurlijk. Zal ik jouw hoofd eens duurzaam scheiden van je romp en kijken wat dan je perceptie is?

De goedbedoelde raad van mijn omgeving irriteerde dus al een tijdje.

Samen met de heren in kwestie waar ik de bijdehante adviezen en het psychologische geneuzel aan te danken had. Je kunt maar zo vaak horen; “Wat voor lingerie ga je dragen?” zonder te braken. De tweede 20-jarige die niet in zijn eigen stad wil afspreken omdat “nog niet al zijn vrienden het hoeven te weten” en de oase tussen je benen verandert in een onneembare vesting. Of ik lapdances geef. Of ik sperma doorslik. En dat hij veel aan me denkt. Vooral op woensdagavond want dan is zijn vrouw er niet.

In plaats van benaderd te worden als een delicate  oester, die voorzichtig moet worden geopend voor je de zilte inhoud mag proeven, werd ik behandeld als een Febo loket. En naar parels zocht al helemaal niemand.

Het was maandag 6  juni 2011. Ik was 4 jaar en 7 maanden single, en even zo lang een schrijver, en in mij verdween iets.
Het was geen “Nou, dan ga ik wel weg!” waarbij de vertrekkende partij hoopt  teruggesmeekt te worden.
En ook geen vertrek waarbij de taken zakelijk worden overgedragen aan de nieuwe functionaris.
Het was een vrouw die haar biezen pakte, de mooie lingerie bovenop, samen met haar dagboek. De koude fles witte wijn en de chocola stopte ze in haar handtas. Haar vervanger zou er toch geen plezier aan beleven. Toen ze de taxi instapte zag ze nog net hoe een motor de straat inreed. De tengere berijder scheurde het woonerf op. Haar lange lokken waren in een functionele staart gebonden.

Ik herlas de emails zonder aanhef of groet. De DM’s waarin seksuele gunsten werden aangeboden en gevraagd. Ik werd gebeld voor telefoonseks en zette het toestel uit. In mijn adresboek verwijderde ik alle mannen waar ik de afgelopen twee jaar verliefd op was.
Scheve piemels. Ik moest opeens veel denken aan scheve piemels. En aan half-harde piemels. Bij degene die wel loodrecht geschapen waren drongen andere lachwekkende eigenschappen zich op. En ook muzes met wie ik nooit het bed had gedeeld bleken allemaal wel een bespottelijke zwakte of een andere achilleshiel te hebben, waardoor ze als minnaar, muze, mens en man direct afgeserveerd konden worden.
Ik had minder dan 24 uur nodig om schoon schip te maken en al mijn misplaatste gevoelens met wortel en tak uit te roeien.

In mijn agenda ruimde ik tijd in om uitgevers te benaderen voor mijn manuscripten, en ik telde hoeveel erotische verhalen ik had en of het genoeg was voor een boek. Aangezien de schrijfster ervan was vertrokken, moest ik het doen met wat ze had achtergelaten. Zij zat nu waarschijnlijk in een gouden bikini broekje aan het strand van Cyprus een onschuldige moslim jongen uit te horen of hij besneden was.

Het was donderdagnacht, ik schreef een blogpost. “Op je vorige avatar foto stond je mooier!” twitterde één van mijn 370 volgers opgewekt.

Tegen het oude bureau stond een koker met pijlen. Er hing een roze hart aan, een miniatuur flesje parfum en een sleutelhanger A met diamantjes. Ik gleed met mijn vingers over het soepele leer voor ik de pijl eruit trok. De boog stond achter de computer. Het was een kleiner model dan ik normaal gebruikte, maar het zou volstaan. Ik plaatste de pijl. De pees kraakte bij het spannen van de boog.

“Vorige foto mooier?” twitterde ik terug.  “Deal with it! Ik ben hier niet voor mijn mooie koppie. En voor kroketten flikker je ook maar op naar snackbar.”

De tijd dat ik in harten schoot lag achter me. Voortaan richtte ik onder de gordel. En scheve piemels verzon ik er wel bij.

 

 

 

Face it – a cougar's confession


It’s not going to happen.
Me and the over-40 guys, it’s just not. I fooled myself for a very long time:   
“I like Rutger Hauer! and he’s like 65 or something!”
“I would SO do Eric Roberts!”
“Brad Pitt is still hot.”
Sure babe.

They’re all men I grew up with. Crushes I got when I was 20. They were hot guys pulling their pants off in a Levi’s commercial (Pitt), hot guys teaching me new sex positions in action movies (Eric Roberts) or hot guys deflowering virgins in a medieval hot tub (Hauer).

Maybe the current 40+men once possessed that sexual charisma. It’s just that I wasn’t there to watch it. I see them IRL, battling mid-life crisis, with a long-gone six-pack, two kids, an ex-wife and spending a kings ransom on alimony. Not exactly stuff that charms me out of my pants.

Whereas the last three guys, although “boys” would be a more correct term, I had a crush on were either being impossible, posted pictures from  “school trip” to FB wall, lived with parents or a combination from all of the above. 
* huge grin *
Yes, I have weak spot for the below-25 age category the size of a football field.

I’ll be taken in their parents bathtub instead of in his bachelor penthouse.
He’ll work in a jeans store instead of advertising them.
And he’ll learn from me which pose hits the G-spot best. 

And neither one of us will ever have to act that we like it.

The Offer to Rutger Hauer still stands

Rutger Hauer Retrospectief Nijmegen 2010

It’s Sunday morning after class. My fellow yoga teacher and I have finished our cappuccinos. I steal the biscuit from his saucer and start to nibble.

 “My offer to you still stands you know,” the 50+ colleague confides in me. “You can still become my yogic mistress.”

 “I’m fine in my own backyard,” I smile weakly. A backyard where no one has set foot in for 6 months, and that is gearing up for a long cold winter.
 “The last 20yo, why did he leave?” he asks. “I remember something about him falling for a girl with a guinea-pig.”

“It was a hamster.”
My phone trembles against my leg. A text message from Henry: “Get your divine yogic ass over here! We’re gonna see Rutger Hauer!”

 “I’m going to see Rutger Hauer,” I repeat to my colleague.
 “At least I know who that is,” he answers. “Try that with a 20 year old.”

It’s in chilly Nijmegen where Henry and I see Rutger Hauer. At a retrospective.
“Do you think he’ll do autographs?” Henry asks. “I would love to get him to sign my  copy of Fatherland.”
I shake my head. “No, but check eBay. He sells things for charity.”
 “I hope we can shake his hand again, just like 5 years ago!” Henry wishes.
We met Rutger at the 2005 retrospective, when he was reunited with his beaming, radiant, girl-blushing co-star from 1971.
 “His hands are so big and strong!” I remember.
 “No wonder Monique van de Ven is still in love with him,” Henry chuckles.

5pm. The theatre is packed for the interview with movie actor and director Rutger Hauer.
 “Please text your question for Rutger,” the interviewer says.
A huge screen gives us a mobile number. Two-hundred people start texting, including me. In a moment of brightness I name-drop his charity foundation. An assistant brings three pages of questions to the desk.

“Why are you not on Facebook?” the interviewer asks. “This fan would find it useful to keep track of Starfish auctions.” Henry and I look at each other wide eyed.
“That’s your question!” Henry’s mouth mimics.
“That’s MY question!” my mouth dumb-screams.
Only 2 fans hear their question being asked to Mr. Hauer and I am one of them.

Rutger doesn’t answer yet instead spends 20 minutes explaining the work of the Starfish Foundation, but nothing can stop me from beaming, radiating and girl-blushing.

After the interview we go for a drink at the bar.
“I was so into Rutger when I was 20,” I tell Henry. “And he was already 50 then! I was crazy in love. Rutger is the proof that I can be interested in older men.”
“That doesn’t proof a thing,” Henry laughs. “You re into Rutger despite of his age. Despite of his money. Despite of the fact that he’s happily married to Ineke.”

Despite or thanks to. We will never know.

But my offer  – to become Rutger Hauer’s secret yogic mistress  – still stands.

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Name

The eyes are still black. Charcoal-like streaks cover his lower and upper eyelids. Mascara thickens the eye lashes that are no doubt already long and thick by themselves.
 “Remind me. Why did I agree to keep this make-up on?” The first words of the young man. He must be somewhere in his early twenties. “I’m small, coloured, and now I look gay.”
My date pushes his fists deep into the pockets of his off-white jeans. A heavy buckle is pulled down a few centimetres. A bright blue shirt loosely covers the flat belly.
I make resolutions to go on a hunger fast as soon as I m home.
“If it bothers you we can take it off,” I look up to the Indian eyes again. “I like it though.”
He pulls up his shoulders and grants me a smile.
“Who minds a little more mockery? I walked around teenagers all day, with nothing but a cloth to cover my loins.”
We go for a drink in his favourite hang-out. Sunlit shiny skyscrapers mark the way.

“And nachos with melted cheese….” The waitress smacks our order on our table. Lucas barely manages to hold down his chuckle until she’s out of hearing distance.
“Personnel comes in two flavours here. Either unbelievably nice, or unbelievably rude,” he explains. “They’re both equally entertaining.”
He re-settles. The hard bench of the terrace is uncomfortable, but it allows us to sit very close to each other. Neither one of us touch the chairs.
“I have a question. Why are you called Lucas? Didn’t they give you an Indian name before you were adopted?”
He shifts his weight away from me.
“They did. But it’s a really weird name. It’s an animal in Dutch. Or something sexual. And no, it’s not Puss.”
Ram,” I say. The r rolls superior over the nachos. The a an arrogant long vowel, “You were named Ra’am.”
He looks at me in disbelief. “No one has ever, ever guessed that!”
 “Any yoga teacher would guess that.”
Ram squeezes a slice of lemon into the bottle of his Mexican beer.  “My parents are Christians.”
I think of something comforting to say. “Mine went to nude beaches.”

The few hours we have fly by at staggering speed.  He joins me on the train home, so that we can spend another half hour together.
 “This was fun,” he thanks me, as the station approaches where he will leave me. “I didn’t tell you before, but this was my first date in two years.”
 “Two years eh? Was she that great?” I guess.
He nods. “Yeah. And she wasn’t even mine,”

 “Mine wasn’t mine either, and I still think about him every day.”
 “Benjamin!” he refers to my blog. Ram knows my website that pretty much covers every bed I ever slept in. “At least you didn’t waste two years waiting,” he smiles.
 “So is that was this is about?” Our eyes meet.  “Ram, is this about sex?”
The charcoal eyes hesitate. The mouth looks for words that don’t want to be found. I kiss him.
“Wow,” he smiles. “And thank you.”

Christians versus nude-beaches.
But for once I keep my mouth shut.