Tag archieven: Snow White’s brother

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.




The Blank Book

Did Cinderella write erotic stories?
Fantasize about the stable boy?
Leave juicy messages in the armour of her favourite knight?
Did the maiden fancy phone sex?
Because if she was anything like me, she didn’t waste those 100 years sleeping.

It’s been a year now since I had sex. A year sizzling with potential that ultimately died out before anything caught fire.

Schoonschrijven, the young writer. When even his sarcasm started to sound like poetry, Cinderella must have known she was in trouble. And that she was about to be turned down of course.

The Jock, a professional sportsman. She liked him on video and loved his voice. He would always call when she was in bed. And she would always cry after she came. Maybe because there was a Mrs.Jock.

The disarming McDreamy. She offered herself hoping he would do everything men and doctors do to naked women. But like all doctors he was emotionally unavailable. Cinderella picked up her red string, and left for home.

Three times in love, all to be turned down.

“Wasn’t three once a magic number?” she must have sighed when arriving at her castle.

It was conveniently located behind the station, the lucious garden free of thorns. The bushes were trimmed and there was central heating in every room.
Yet instead of princes riding out to meet her, she met a stampede of sharp tongued frogs.

“Your demands are too high.”
“You’re too easy.”
“You shouldn’t Twitter that it’s been a year!”
“SO not charming you behave!”

It was clearly all her fault.

One year down, 99 to go.

She slid into her nighty, between the fresh sheets of the white double bed and thought about the last time.
He was only a little taller then her. Only a little stronger.
She remembered his raisin brown eyes, the raven black hair.
“You must be Snowwhite’s secret brother,” she tapped his shy nose. “The fairest of them all.”

She never renamed him for her stories.
And she wished she could have bled.


I’m not eating. I’m not eating because the restaurant has put garlic in all warm dishes and the last thing I want is to create more problems in my love life.

I unfold an A4, carefully avoiding the wine stains and Joyce’s pumpkin soup.
The virgin. Salvatore. Valentino. A few recent dates and a young journalist I email with. There are rates for love and for past hurt. There are estimates for risk of future drama.
“The more I love someone, the more I get hurt, “ I fold the paper and put it  away. “But I think I nailed it. I should go for someone I don’t give a shit about.”

“Nailing?” Tantric mistress Joyce frowns as she folds her hand into a long phallus like shape and thrusts.  “You shouldn’t be nailing, Lauren. You should be nice and soft.”
“Yea-hea, and look where that brought me.”

I don’t date. I don’t have sex. And a lover who fell into my lap this Spring, has left me for a girl with a hamster. At the time, I was already too weak to fight it.
“It’s been a year since Valentino,” I admit. “I think this all goes back to him. And he didn’t even bother to close things off.”

“Do you know what Valentino wanted?” Joyce asks. “In retrospect? “
I shake my head. “I think me being in love was just a bit too much to handle,” I dab my eyes with a napkin. “Even girls his age are more aggressive than me.”

Girls his age. The bright happy 20 year olds, who juggle boyfriends on my Twitter Timeline. Who chat and tweet, and remind me every day that boys are like ripe fruit waiting to be picked. Like dogs waiting to be trained. Like toys ready to be tossed away when you’re done playing.

Joyce puts down her spoon.
“Lauren, I know you. And you really only have two choices: One is to have sex with a man you love, and yes, you will get hurt if he doesn’t love you back. Or two: to have sex with someone you don’t care for,” she drops a silence. Her eyes turn watery. “But you’ll end up loving him. That’s just who you are.”

I snivel. “I’m a pathetic excuse for a cougar.”

“I don’t know what kind of cougar you are,” Joyce says as she too wipes her eyes dry. “But as far as nice and soft goes, I think you nailed it.”