Tag archieven: Nubian Prince

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.

 

 

 

Playing stupid

“What is your most extreme sex experience?” The question was waiting for me in my Twitter DM box, and I knew I was going to disappoint the tweet flirt on the other end. I had invited him to ask me anything he wanted, and although I was curious if he would go for the obvious (a sex question), the controversial (crime and violence), or the emotional (depression, deaths or broken hearts), I knew beforehand there wouldn’t be a lot of interesting stuff to tell. No gang-bangs. No attempted suicides. The furthest I have come to killing my neighbor was throwing a shoe at my own wall, when he had the volume up. I always go to bed before midnight, barely drink enough to make a mouse tipsy, and carefully evacuate anything with wings or 8 legs. And only after it has stopped raining. There is very little interesting to tell. For me, inviting people to ask me anything they want, is more casual conversation than it is a sign of true love, or too much alcohol.

Meanwhile on the other end of Twitter, I had already given love advice (always follow your body, not your ratio), launched a new idea of taking on a 1-year-lover, and blog about it, and confessed to everybody I had bought a Yoni Egg but was a little afraid to use it. Because who would help me retrieve it, in case it would get lost? (If you think this was a reference to Easter, it’s your cue to Google). All in all probably one of the most orgasmic mornings in my Twitter existence. Ten new followers later, I realized that all my questions, had the same answer. Every topic the same underlying emotion. That every advice stemmed from the same very recent experience. And that I couldn’t blog about it. Or that the moment I did, the last hope would vanish.

Three months ago. He drinks more coke than a small school class on a trip to Disney land, but otherwise he’s a lot more sane than I imagined. Not shy, nor overly talkative. Not pushy, nor is he absent or stoned. The personnel of the bar greets him, and I make a mental note that he’s not hiding me, despite the age difference. He doesn’t flirt. Instead he smiles his wicked grin before answering the 349 inappropriate questions I’ve been saving the whole year that we have known each other online. His black hair is half long, the eyes a piercing green. We don’t talk about why it took a year to meet, and I’m careful not to touch any scars, don’t even breathe on open wounds. But when he confirms the stories I’ve been hearing about his sex life, he feels me withdrawing. He accepts my hug as goodbye, as easily as my rejection to come over to his house. It’s midnight. On my way home I realize how lucky I am to have escaped being fucked and dumped within 8 hours. And that’s counting on the fact he would give me breakfast.

He doesn’t respond to my suggestion for a second date. At least not immediately. He won’t answer properly ever, and will turn out to be just as slippery as our mutual friend warned me he would be, but I didn’t know that then. The first 24 hours after the date I feel caged in my own home, eyes fixed on email and phone. Nubian Prince contacts me, with who I have an in-between-relationships-arrangement to make love (yes, his words) occasionally. The occasion was planned for that night. I explain that although things are still very unclear with Michael, I feel uncomfortable keeping a lover. He reads between the lines, offers to come, and takes me in his arms for one last time with him. My body craves and clings.

Then – nothing. The great nothingness of weeks, and months, until ultimately I hear Michael is dating someone else. It doesn’t even come as a shock, nor do I feel pain. And maybe that is when I should have gotten worried.

It’s a Saturday three weeks ago. Michael is on chat. I open. He writes back. I give the third sentence. That’s all I remember. That there were three sentences. I don’t know the content. Nor who started what. I just remember that within three sentences, out of the blue I’m suddenly dying to see him, and he me. We know who has condoms. We know who has a house. We know who has opportunity. Both. Both. Both. And we both crave to do this, out in the open air on a warm Spring night, not even in a proper bed. But my ratio says no. You’ll get fucked, and dumped. You will feel more horrible and used than you have ever felt in your whole life. And again, I beat the odds. And again, the next morning, I praise myself lucky. But that was three weeks ago.

Because by now? I know I just play innocent, and that even though I may fool Twitter with my questions, I already know the answer. Who I want as a lover. Who my body demands. Who I would trust with my most intimate parts under the most stressful circumstances. I know. I know. I know.

I even know what my most extreme sex would have been. And that I passed, because I just couldn’t face the trauma of letting him go the next day.

White lies, dark truth

 

His kiss was passionate yet controlled. Powerful enough to impress, but soft enough not to hurt. I was relieved he was a good kisser, yet I was equally relieved that my toes were not tingling, my heart was not leaping out, and I still knew my own name. In other words: I wasn’t in love. Good for me because David was married.

Thirty minutes before this very welcome snog, David asked me: “Am I too old for you, Lauren?”
He knew I had been with younger men.
I blushed, and David probably thought I lied when I answered: ” I have no preconceptions about age.”
Benjamin. Valentino. Noa. Nubian Prince. Samuel.
They were little devils laughing on my shoulder, when David questioned me. One of the young ones yelled: ” Ask about the skin David!”
But David didn’t care about my preference for his dark skin. Nor did he ask why I was blushing, or who all those boys were on my shoulder.

If you have to choose between black or white, what do you choose? (black)
Between a brown student and a blond? (brown)
Mature African, or Amsterdammer in his 20s? (African)
One night with Denzel or marriage to Ian Somerhalder? (Denzel. And yeah you should google Ian. He’s hot as a pepper.)
And in return I asked the angels:
” Would I go for a mocca skinned bi-sexual or fair heterosexual?”
But they all laughed because they knew that wasn’t a question. I love bi-sexual men.

I suffer from inverted racism where my ability to love and to lust increases when the men get more exotic. And my willingness to deal with being dumped, hurt, left? Off-the-charts when I’ve fallen in love with black man. I have regrets and played the blame game. I’ve cursed men for their insensitive behavior, lousy timing, or their inability to feel or fall in love.

But Benjamin, Valentino, Noa, Nubian Prince or Samuel, will always be forgiven.
And the only regret I have, is that I didn’t sleep with all of them.

 

White lies, dark truth is a book I found and ordered today, about mental patterns and why we have them.

Dark Omen

 

 

 

This is not a good time to get dodgy.

I watch my mobile, as if my doubt, my irritation, my desire to hear from him, has the power to telepathically travel to Valentijn and push the right button for him to reply. To my text. To my email. But the phone stays silent. And Hotmail gives an empty inbox-tab left to my Facebook chat.

“ How is everything with your boyfriend?” Nubian Prince types. “ I was so happy you found someone.”
Me too love. Me too.

One week ago. The last hour with Valentijn, before he turned cranky, evasive, and unavailable. Nightfall. My mango curry was coming along nicely. Valentijn was using my computer. Our favourite sex toy and condoms already back in the bedside cabinet. The cats were sleeping in the ruffed up duvet on the couch. Spotify and Facebook. I didn’t ask Valentijn why he  wasn’t doing the work he said he would.

“ I’m doing really good,”  I lie to Nubian Prince.  Valentijn’s dancing. His near-marriage proposals. All the sex fantasies he massaged, seduced or forced out of me.  I soak my mind in four months of bliss.
“ You’re not going to lose me,” Valentijn’s last email said.
My heart presses to my chest, then yanks away in uncertainty.
“ I‘m so happy for you,”  Nubian Prince says, to an answer I must have typed, or a question I must have missed.

A white towel turns to black, and leaves traces of dust on ebony skin.
Blue eyes turn brown, and a blinding white smile kisses my cheek.
Dark fantasies sink back into my subconscious, and an old memory emerges. Nubian Prince and I making love. I was in my period.

“ How do we end? A kiss? Hug? Ciao?” I chat type to Nubian Prince, after our goodbye dialogue has fallen into silence.
“ A kiss definitely,” he answers. “ And we add: see you very soon.”

Valentijn. This is not the time to get dodgy.

*

On Saturday November 19, 4:35 pm, five minutes after I saved this draft blogpost, Valentijn called and broke up with me

Me & Nubian Prince

mini post, originally published on Facebook on Friday August 20, 2010

Nubian Prince and I dated last year. Weird break-up. We never understood each other and he was offended easily.

He switched studies and now he’ll study at a Uni near me. He contacted me, when he was still in the middle of his 10day introduction.  He contacted, rescheduled and cancelled seeing me about three times, within 48 hours, before coming to my house looking absolutely STUNNING. Lees verder →