Tag archieven: Samuel

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.

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.

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.




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.

I am that

Yellow street lights reflected on the silent cars. Our voices echoed off of the old stones of the deserted alley.  Something was odd, and I just couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Can you believe Google maps insisted this was the best place to park?” Samuel asked as he scanned the narrow street for his car. “Look, mine’s there. It has Sahara sand on it, from the rain this afternoon. ”
I stepped into the low sports car and abandoned my riddle. Who cared what was odd, or why. I was with a big black man, and I was determined to soak up and enjoy every minute God granted me.

The big black man. I wasn’t aware I had that fantasy. I knew I liked colored skin, mixed race. Whenever I had a lover he was usually brown, young,  with his height, income and strength matching mine, and most likely his testosterone level too. We were equals. And it took Samuel before I realized that I didn’t want an equal. I, Lauren, wanted to be overruled, dominated. Desired, tasted, consumed. I wanted to be broken and rebuild.
That night, these thoughts remained unconscious.
But I knew I wanted Samuel in every way a woman can want a man and for him to be the last man I ever had. When he left I desired his baby and that was when I knew I was in way over my head. And definitely way over Samuel’s head.

10 days after our one night we broke up
We have not spoken since.

I twisted and turned, counted pros and cons. Did I win because I wasn’t broken? Did I loose because it never got beyond one night? Could I go back to the way I was?  Would I still be able to love, when I wasn’t rescued? Able to give, when I wasn’t taken? Able to commit, when I wasn’t owned?

Five and a half weeks since that one night I still don’t know if the price I paid was worth it.

Samuel’s place has not been taken, nor do I have feelings for another man the way I had for him. But two men who have been in my online life for a while, have come closer. One sometimes calls. One lives nearby. One is married. One has a child. One has a religion that isn’t mine. And both are torn, intrigued, in doubt. Will they see me? Do they even want to? What is the best case scenario and what the worst? And it wasn’t until tonight that I realized why they have set dates and then cancelled. Why they are unable to  make up their minds. But now I know.

Because to them I am the older woman who understands them. Who listens, who flirts. I am where they feel mature but sexy. Strong but free. To one I am the embodiment of love, creativity and intimacy but to both I am lust. To these two mid20 men I am their big black man, a sexual fantasy in the flesh, that once there? – can not be controlled nor manipulated, but will simply have to have its course.

In retrospect I don’t blame myself for not giving them clear cut advice on what to do, because how could I? How far would I have been willing to go, if I had met Samuel when I was involved? Which vows would I have been willing to break? Which lies would I have told? Which Gods would I have forsaken?

In the case of the two taken men, who long for me, it is not my decision to make. It is not I, who has to draw up the list of pros and cons.

Tonight I had a drink with a friend. It was in the same bar where me and Samuel met, where we shared our first kiss, I crawled onto his lap, and the waiter joked about us fondling.
My friend finished her drink and I left. I headed for my bike, passing noisy terraces and avoiding the groups that prowled the main street. I felt men staring. Piercing eyes on my butt, my bag. I smelled booze and pot. I quickened my pace.

I squeezed my eyes and clenched my jaw. On edge, ready to defend myself.

Everything was normal.




The Story of Feline

Men may want to withdraw at the sign of blood, and stick with the (first) fun and sexy part of my relationship with Feline.

 “Don’t introduce a new character unless you know how the story ends.”

It is not uncommon for new dates to curiously inform if they are going to make it to my blog. Samuel was even disappointed I didn’t mold our failed affair, or perfect one-night-bliss depending on how you look at it, into a steamy erotic story. And Feline too, must have known I would write about her one day. We just never thought it would be under such stressful circumstances.

My relationship with her has been a blissful one, in which our personalities more often than not, melted together harmoniously, as opposed to the stand-off we are experiencing today. We’re in a tug-of-war, and we both blame the other for the mess we’re in.  In silence of course. On the outside we pretend to be in this together.

I’ve know Feline all my life, although I didn’t know her name. It’s a Dutch girls name pronounced; Fay-lean-nuh
But she was named after the English word Feline.  Which means cat-like or belonging to the family Felidae, which includes the lions, tigers, jaguars, and wild and domestic cats.

A few years ago, I was having a fit over Dutch people calling their daughter Feline. “What the f*ck are they thinking, naming their daughter pussy?”

Just before I exploded from indignation, I realized this logic could also be used the other way around. Because who WOULD be the perfect candidate to be named Feline? Yes, of course, my pussy.

It was one of those moments when you know the Universe is unveiling a great secret, and that it is your sacred duty to enlighten the masses.

Since then one friend has uncovered the identity of her vagina, and one lover has found out the correct name of his penis under my inspiring guidance, but I still hope that one day much more genitals will be acknowledged as separate entities with their own personalities. Just like Feline.

Feline and I were of course born (although not named) on the same day. I remember masturbating from the age of five, but that’s because I can’t recall earlier memories of anything.

Yet despite this early awakening, I wasn’t aware of what I was doing, until I started reading girl magazines in my early teens. Apparently there was such a thing as “having an orgasm” and the most common phrase about it was that it was completely normal “not being able to have them yet”.

Not only was I perfectly able of having them, I had also found my way to my own pussy without any help, before I could properly read and write.

A warm glow of self-love and sexual arrogance came over me!
I can’t say I was very compassionate towards my sisters at that time. If I had known the word frigid I’m positive I would have used it.

Together with the first boyfriends, I learned to know Feline in her full glory. Here she was: wet, willing, loyal, adventurous, sweet. I still sometimes talk about “my body” (an often used euphemism for Feline, not just by me but by a lot of women!) as “the perfect beginners model”; it works exactly as it should, very easy to make it come, very rewarding to make love to. As a true altruist I wish my body upon every boy loosing his virginity.

Despite our pleasant companionship, Feline and I didn’t always agree.
When a relationship was past it’s due date? Feline would fall into hibernation, suggest a few side lovers, or she would tear the house down until I gave up and broke things off with the guy.
And Feline has tried to convince me twice that a completely uninteresting, annoying man was a good candidate for sex. She has won that argument once.

The past year Feline and I have lived dull lives. One time even dropping down to zero; I went on a Tantra Challenge and vowed I wouldn’t masturbate for 20 days. After 20 days I had taught myself to have an orgasm exclusively by squeezing my pelvic floor muscles. A skill I would otherwise have not discovered. I intended to write about this journey me and Feline took, and made a photo of my lower belly on day 15, I used it with this post.
The second half of the challenge? 20 days of masturbating twice a day!
But this turned out to be so exhausting that I (we) gave that up after a day or ten. Including the inspiration to write about the whole thing. In my mind, not being able to do it twice a day ranked my libido only slightly over that of the girls who couldn’t find their own clit.

So in Spring 2010 a lover left me and, aside from the Tantric experiment, nothing happened for a year. And although I’ve gone without lovers for longer times throughout my life, this time it was when and why the trouble began…. bleeding. Heavily. I had never used super tampons, but after months of unreliable tamponing I leaped for the biggies so that I could teach my yoga class without having to worry about leaking.
“I have to get on the pill, to calm things down,” a voice in my head said. Or maybe it was Feline’s voice.

But although I liked the safety of being able to “Double Dutch” (to use  condoms and pill, when having sex) the thought of having to use pills because I, A Yoga Teacher, was unable to control my period, repelled me. Yoga heals. Yoga conceives. Yoga detoxes. Yoga soothes. Yoga aborts.
There is nothing yoga can’t do.
And we all know how easily the menstruation ceases when a woman is too stressed.
Then why wasn’t I able to turn down the volume?

When in early Spring this year, the heavy period was preceded by 5 days of pre-menstruation blood I gave up.
The pill! The pill it was.

I waited for the next cycle, for that pre-menstruation to end, and the real period to begin and swallowed! DAY 1, was a fact. Let the healing begin.

The first weeks after my menstruation I was blood-free and had a lover. Samuel. And after that? 10 days before my New Chemically Induced Period was supposed to begin? Blood. After a week or so? More blood. Second pill-planned cycle? Maybe I was blood-free for whole week before the cycle repeated itself.

I used super tampons only one day, instead of my usual three, so the pill was working a little bit. But being at some stage of prolonged periods half of the time (this is an estimate! I still don’t dare to count) was obviously not the effect I was hoping for.
“I m giving you the lightest pill there is,” the doctor said.” Please come back if it doesn’t work.”
It didn’t work.
Yet it didn’t feel like the pill was failing. It felt like I was failing. Feline was failing.
And I caught myself considering to become anorexic, so that the bleeding would stop.
Or do so much ashtanga yoga and fitness that I would loose all my fat and the bleeding would stop.
I was willing to exchange my fertility in return for control over my own body. In return for control over Feline.
Because that was of course the real tragedy: my best friend had become a blood spitting foe. A nemesis who I was about to finish off with starvation and sports anorexia.

Since living in an infertile  bag of bones would also have it’s draw-backs, I decided to try a more gentle approach, before I brought mayhem to my body.

So instead of my typical morning with a big fruit, honey and nuts feast breakfast and hours of yoga postponing, I drank tea, ate a banana, and went to my yoga mat. From all the yoga and stretches I normally do, I selected only the ones beneficial or at least harmless for when you’re in your period. During my hour long practice I asked Feline why she was bleeding and she answered me. And we cried. We cried a lot.

And I still don’t know if the bleeding will ever stop, if I will ever be lover-worthy again, or if I will one day give up the idea of healing and ask for medical help.
But I do know that before this episode in my life can have it’s ending, Feline and I have to figure things out between the two of us.

And I hope we come out as friends.







At the sound of the door, two small shadows make their way towards us.
“ Ah! You’re a cat woman.”
Samuel’s big sweater fills my tiny hall. He places a messenger bag on the saddle of my bicycle.
He squats down, big fingers plucking through the white fur.
“That one is diabetic,”
A wide smile crosses his face. “So was mine! You give it insulin too?”

He leaves his phone and keys under the mirror. His empty shoes next to my high heels.
“I had no idea it would still be so cold at night,” I shiver.

I flip the switch. The bare light shines on us, on a pile of boxes, an unconnected computer, on a roll of carpet for my spare room.
“I don’t even have blinds yet.” I excuse myself.
“You have a Nimba!”
The wooden fertility sculpture with the sharply hooked nose looks small in his hands. The black layer of coaled wood has worn down.
“We used to live in Nigeria,” I say.
A solemn glance crosses over his face. “So does my father.”
His voice has dropped. There is an African word in his sentence that I don’t understand.

I reach up to kiss him, caress the biceps and chest through his clothes. Light as a feather he lifts me up. I bury my nose in his neck to smell him.
“I think it took ten whole minutes before you kissed me at the bar!” he smiles in my ear.
“It’s your scent,” I say between sniffs. “No. That’s not true. It’s everything.”

White carpet. White bed. White sheets. In the only room of the house that looks decent we undress each other. Passing cars, streetlights, moonlight. My skin looks fairer, his looks darker. I rub my legs to his. I press my breasts to his chest. Cub my hands around this skull. I cry tears in his arms when he asks me if it has really been a year.

“Tell me about Nigeria.”

And he tells me about spending his holidays in Lagos, about the sea. About the Yoruba, and missionaries who converted the parts of Nigeria where the climate was mild. He tells about the Jos Plateau, still torn between Islam and Christianity.
“Where did you live?” he asks my skin.

He tells about the North, about the Sahel, and that the desert expands every year, robbing the Touareg of their cattle.
“The drought started in the 70s, when you lived there.”
Touareg were our night watch,” I whisper.

His Dutch mother raised him in the Netherlands.
His dark skin on Dutch schools and my light tan between my black classmates.
He got swimming diplomas when I jumped in pools without supervision.
Samuel sled snow, while little Lauren caught snakes.
Our youths are a distorted mirror image of each other.

I stumble out of the bed naked. “Give me some time to find my condoms. I didn’t bother to unpack them.”

His head is resting on his hand and he throws me a superior smile.