The very thought turns me to stone.
I don’t want to.
Who with? And so on.
I sit at home on the loo.
My mother brings me tea, she says: ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
At school they hammer on the door: ‘Are you done yet?’
‘Quiet in there, isn’t it?’
‘Can we go too?’
So I wait until there’s enough of them waiting outside, start moaning until there are more than enough outside the door and then stroll out, unmoved, not curious as to who will be first to break down the door.
Do I have a problem?
It seems to really matter at my age. Lust, seeping from every pore. I have dressed accordingly. A prickly bright orange bolero jacket that looks the part. But it doesn’t solve my trembling bottom lip. People tell me, ‘Your lip’s trembling’. I never noticed it before and now I don’t notice again. In the whole Rotterdam community, thousands of lips tremble. I’d do well to keep my eyes open. Our mouths get their kicks anyway.
To start with, not much happens. I do a few exercises, right, left, keep my head still and let my eyes dart back and forth from a still point. It’s already half past four. It’s one of those times of day when people really want to get home. I am on Oostplein. You won’t know it, but it’s windy there.
Just an aside about the girls in my class. They catch sight of a man, say. They let their eyes roll around like crazy – really, so that they almost fall out. The man in question shudders. It’s as if he knows he is being watched. All the same, the girls go about it differently – differently from the boys, that is. The girls nail their victim without an improper word. They always win. Encircle him from the neck down. Past his imagined hollow chest, their eyes circle to the middle area, where his breath heaves and then, so I have been told, they wonder whether his belt is really pulled tight. They’re prepared to lend a hand there. What happens next we know, but is worth telling anyway. The girls stare, at first suspiciously, then with a continuous, steady gaze, at his flies. This is what the girls call, and here they are not doing themselves justice, ‘a bit of practice in the penalty box’.
My eyes are rolling and my hair is blowing in my face, causing me to miss the frontal view of the Redhead and the words no-one dares to say: ‘Fancy a bit of him?’ or whatever creative phrases are used whenever a luscious-looking guy walks by. When the Red-head comes into view, and for this occasion I am happy to be sexist, the girls all imagine his lederhosen sliding off his gorgeous bum.
Here and there a mouth falls open, now and then one of the girls fumbles with the skirt she has been drawing up over her knee, there are even a few who lose control completely and let their tongues hang out. In short, it turns into a repressed frenzy of lust. As for me, I am really good at times like these. Even as I freeze in the moment, my libido takes over. I am talking about the area around my genitals. Hair, lip-shaped formations, jellyfish and sea anemones heave and surge, foam and swell at the estuarine opening between my Rotterdam legs. Nature runs its course, gurgles and drives, yes pulses me forwards, towards the leather trousers just observed, wrapped around that so-called Redhead.
It is as if I am being sucked to the metro entrance. And it is the Oostplein metro entrance that the Redhead has just disappeared into. The lower half of my body lurches its way across the tiles, I can’t keep up with it. I can’t keep up with the Redhead either. Has he disappeared? Surely not? I approach the Redhead. Or is he coming towards me? To make matters worse, the metro itself is approaching. Over the thundering roar I read do not board, but I wasn’t planning to anyway. I wanted to shout: ‘Slow down! I’m not ready yet! My bottom lips are giving way!’
Resistance is useless. In a final peristaltic movement of nature I am squashed against the electric body of the Redhead like some or other fruit. Whereupon he places his dark lips onto mine unbidden, his searching tongue sliding between my teeth. I don’t say a word, yield my whole wet mouth to him, open his mouth with mine. I caress his palate with my tongue, sliding two of my fingers inside underneath it. Twisting and feeling, they find their way over his gums to the back of his throat. He gags gratefully, then sucks hard on those two fingers. The Redhead is hungry, I want to know how hungry.
By now he has got me in the direction of the lift. I, clamped to his mouth, press my nether regions against his inimitably swelling lederhosen. His cock is barely concealed!
I want to say something to the girls. Yes, girls in my class, there you stand holding your skirts up. The best thing you can do is to surrender yourselves to the way of things.
…And it is the Oostplein metro entrance that the Redhead has just disappeared into. The lower half of my body lurches its way across the tiles, I can’t keep up with it…
It takes him a bit of tugging at his trousers to get the flies over that member but it doesn’t matter, my hands grope at his blond buttocks, and when he peels the T-shirt from his tight skin, I already come. That soft, hairy, taught chest of his says: ‘Yes, go on, now.’
His cock momentarily gives me a standing ovation, as it pulls, quivering over the top of his pants in order to survey the scene. He bends towards my territorial waters, wants to enter the opening as straight as he can, slurping up the vegetation, pushing aside the pulpy creatures, but he isn’t paying attention to my pussy. What’s more, we have found our way inside the lift. It’s all going just a bit too fast for me.
Technically, I am still keeping the gates shut for now. After all, I am wearing a pair of brown knickers, I am wearing a bolero jacket, really I still have the initial shame to overcome. Oh, girls in my class, everything has its own dynamic.
So I push him away from my body a little. When that makes him lose his balance and collapse against the wall of the lift, I jump onto his stomach in a single movement. He tries to wrestle his way from under me with all his might, but why? I’m sitting comfortably.
‘This doesn’t feel right’, protests the Redhead, looking at my back.
‘It doesn’t matter’, I encourage him, ‘that’s what whole generations of women have been saying for centuries, and see how strong we are now.’
I place my whole hand around his penis; with the other I knead both his bulging balls until that generous flesh shines. Then I pull the skin over the top of his cock. I slide the soft skin back and forth, slowly raising the tempo to a climax. Behind me, he has long ago given up all resistance; he has no doubt understood that he is dealing with the libidinous sex of some or other non-specific species. He puts his hands around my hips, cupping my buttocks above his stomach and I carry on pulling. At the same time, I check my own internal moisture levels. It’s turning into a syrupy mess down there. What a urinal, that metro lift, our first mattress! Undeterred, the Redhead has now really started to moan, ‘oh, oh, oh!’.
I need to get rid of my knickers without damaging the composition. I rub, I chafe, I get down on my knees, I hook my toe around my knickers to drag them down my other leg. There. And then I bend down and move my mouth towards his stomach and scrotum and all over that cenotaph incarnate of his. I am eager for that savoury breadstick, sink my teeth into it, nibble at it and lick every fold I come across clean. My tongue finds its way through the red forest of his pubic hair, skulks around there, while I breathe in the autumnal scents and suck on an acorn, washing it in my spit, until numerous glistening droplets are dripping from his penis. That isn’t spit, it’s that stuff, you know, so I clamp my lips around his cock and sip from the salty cup. It makes the Redhead growl, he cradles my buttocks in his hands and squeezes his fingers along the inside of my thighs through my pussy and into the wet swamp.
Which means that I, my hands free, am able to devote myself fully to my breasts, never taking his cock out of my mouth for a second. I am now sucking like crazy, to the tempo of a metro rushing by, ker-dung, ker-dung. At the same time I massage my tits, twisting my writhing nipples until the tips are red, just like the glistening tip of the cock of the man underneath me. The Redhead doesn’t see that, he is too busy pushing my buttocks to his mouth; I bounce hot on his tongue, slide my pussy over his nose, what a nose. And again that rhythm, oh girls in my class, and so on. I rub my buttocks in his face, his balls in my face, we rub everything in each other’s faces, he wet, I wet, competing to be the very wettest.
Then I turn myself round, stretch myself over that bleached and downy body, I slide backwards towards his prick, he is aching for it, I see his penis rearing up. I spread my legs so that I can now give in to my aching, and then I throw that estuarine opening wide open; the whole Rotterdam hydrobiotope heaves as one towards the Redhead; blood-shaped anemones sprout from my pussy, his cock dives into the middle, swims out, washes in, swims in and out again and then his face turns red.
Jolting and grinding, the lift starts to move.
‘Only now!’, I hear you say.
But there is his seed, flowing hot between my legs, just as I come, jolting and shuddering.
Thereupon we rearrange our pants, shirts, lederhosen and bolero jacket. He brushes off some dirt he picked up from the lift and I clutch my address book. My jacket is warm, as ever.
I thank the Redhead for his cooperation but he is already elsewhere in his thoughts. So I note down the address of this station, and the date – that is memorable too, after all. The girls should go there, it’s a great protection against the wind on Oostplein, metro sex.