Right On Time

New York is a busy place. A ‘New York minute’ is most definitely not just a saying; the question stands, is it a saying that you want applied to your sex life?

For me, that answer is NO.

I adore sex and I adore it with many men. Lately, I have been feeling like all the sex I have is ‘scheduled’. Perhaps this is a symptom of not having a boyfriend and not wanting to date the men I sleep with. However, it feels as though every time I have sex it is scheduled between meetings, lunches and drinks.

Don't get me wrong, the sex is still amazing; you know because you’re privy to all the dirty details, but I am desperately aching for some spontaneity. Perhaps this lack of spur-of-the-moment sex is due in large part to the lack of men that can hold my interest, or perhaps it’s because I have become fairly addicted to The Photographer of late. Either way it has been eating away at me and the thought of having scheduled sex with John Galliano Guy (as amazing as he was) or any of the others, makes me shudder.

My phone buzzed on the table, ‘Meet me in 20?’ John Galliano Guy’s name appeared in tiny letters at the bottom of my mobile screen. I had been anticipating him for what felt like weeks, but surely was only a few days. Out schedules were complete opposites and there never seemed to be enough hours in the day.

Taking a long sip of my soy late, I collected my belongings and headed down the block to his East Village digs. With each step I took I could feel heads turning to stare; what an empowering feeling knowing you can stop men dead in their tracks just from the way you walk.

I buzzed his door and held my breath that The Neighbor would not be home; the last thing I was in the mood for was to explain why I was hanging with John Galliano Guy. He opened the door to his apartment, half naked as usual. He had a black bandanna tied around his head and he looked smoking hot. John Galliano Guy looked me up down so expertly that one without a trained eye may not have even noticed. I loved that he didn’t ogle me like the men on the street.

It was one of those sweaty New York pre-summer days and the cold air in his place tickled my skin sending shivers down my spine.

I strolled into his bedroom and sat at the edge of his bed; he didn’t waste anytime. Following my lead he got down on his knees and pulled my lace panties down to my ankles. My smooth, tanned legs were on either side of his shoulders and I couldn’t wait to see if he was all talk, or as I had hoped all action. 

All In The Neighborhood

Some women look for love. I on the other hand look for one thing and one thing only; Sex.

In one of my many apartments over the years I had an adorable sports media guy who lived above me.  Although he was less than my type I enquired if he had any male friends who might be. As I had recently ended a fairly long-term gig I was really only interested in fun.

My neighbor blushed, laughing uncomfortably. My direct approach had clearly stunned him. Once he regained composure he looked at me straight on, “I have just the guy.” Let’s call him The Firefighter.

I tied the knot of my black, short robe and slid into my favorite sky high black Louboutin’s. The top of my thigh-high Kiki de Montparnasse stockings ended right below where my robe began. I loved the way my long hair swept across my face and fell down across my breasts. As usual I looked smoking hot and I was beginning to turn myself on.

Behind the front door of my apartment stood The Firefighter, a bottle of wine in hand. He was hot; hair buzzed short, raw denim Levi’s rolled to show the salvage edge. I was impressed, having little to no expectations when it came to style and firefighters. We stood in the doorway eyeing each other up and down. He smiled like a kid on Christmas, “Wow… your neighbor wasn’t lying!”   

Leaning towards him I grabbed his neck and pulled him in, deeply kissing him. He slid a hand around my waist while he closed the door. The Firefighter sat in one of my club chairs and I straddled him. As I ran my lips and tongue up his neck towards his ear I could feel him getting thick.

His hands were running over my shoulders; he was aching to find out what was under my robe. The way his eyes traced over my entire body beginning with my shoes, up my legs and over my breasts, was incredibly sexy.

He wanted to devour me and I wanted to let him. 

Boys Beware

There is no such thing as a total wash. Even the most obviously pathetic night can take a sudden turn for the best if you have the right attitude. Luckily, attitude is something I’m never short on. 

It’s a general rule of mine to steer clear of little boys. But every now and then, someone catches my fancy and I get blindsided. I met Hot 20-Something Guy poolside at Soho House. It must have been his tortoise-shell Persol sunglasses that made me give him my number so willingly. After a week of his cryptic Hot 20-Something Guy texts, he finally figured out how to properly invite me for a drink.

Soho House was packed. As the elevator door slid open, the heat and the music hit me hard. I made my way through the throng of beautiful people out onto the roof deck, where Hot 20-Something Guy was waiting. We stood near the edge of the pool, the Manhattan skyline glistening in the background. Hot 20-Something Guy was getting less hot by the second; making small talk, taking long sips of his drink without offering to buy me one.

Taking the evening into my own hands, I headed for the bar. As I passed through the thickening crowd, I bumped into my former boss – the CEO of a prominent high fashion label. Immaculately dressed in his signature dark denim, white button-down and blazer, he kissed my cheek (proper Brit that he was) and insisted on buying my drink.

I returned to find Hot 20-Something Guy surrounded by a group of friends. After making cursory introductions, he charmingly announced that he was going in search of beer. I chatted up his very unstylish girlfriends (apparently some people still wear giant hoop earrings in earnest) in between deep drags on my Marlboro Light. A camera flashed as someone snapped my photo; I could not believe I’d donned my vintage Chanel navy matte sequined dress for this.

Just as I was about to call it a night, another attractive 20-something guy approached. A friend of Hot 20-Something Guy, this specimen was actually far cuter. Let’s call him Media Guy.

We sat on the plush couches and I couldn’t help but notice our knees gently touching as we talked. Hot 20-Something Guy was nowhere in sight – much to my relief. I placed my hand on Media Guy’s thigh while smiling and gently biting my lower lip. The conversation turned heated; I could tell he was aching to get me home, aching to slide the silk straps of my dress off my shoulders. He invited me back to his place for a nightcap; I couldn’t wait to see what he had in mind.

Chloe Is My Alias for ASVO Fashion Fiction

                    

"There is no such thing as a total wash. Even the most obviously pathetic night can take a sudden turn for the best if you have the right attitude. Luckily, attitude is something I’m never short on."

Please check out my latest piece written for Diane Pernet's blog, ASVO Fashion Fiction.

The Dark Side

I have never really wanted children. I don’t like most children; or rather I don’t like how most adults parent their children. I have never really wanted to get married. What marriage stands for today a far cry from the ideals people seem to desire when they embark up on it.

What I do want is someone who is my equal. I want a man who will push me to be the best I can and who will let me push them back. I want a partner in crime. I don’t have the same ideals that other people do. I am not blind to the fact that passions fade, that this man may not want to bed only me for the rest of his life. I am also quite aware that I may not want to sleep with just him.

I was in love once, but not really. It would be more accurate to say that I wanted to be in love; I wanted a boyfriend. At the time I genuinely believed I was in love and thought I would spend the rest of my life with him, marry him and have a child with him. Hindsight is a delightful thing.

Right now I feel frustrated. I am angry. As unfortunate as this is going to sound it is true; women are master manipulators. If I wanted to I could make any man fall in love with me, just a game I used to play when I became bored.

It was the same thing with the above noted love. I was in love with him because I wanted to be in love and he was in love with me because I wanted him to be.

Only one man has ever really been in love with me, my true self. I was not in love with him. It was something else, something bigger than that.

We would lay in my bed, naked. I adored the way his skin felt next to mine; our arms gently resting next to one another. The way he looked at me. He knew everything about me, about Chloe too. He didn’t care, not for one second. He would kiss me so softly and slowly and tell me he loved me. I would run my fingers through his long hair and rest my head on his naked chest. I would trace the outline of his tattoos with the tip of my finger.   

We would talk and pleasure each other for hours. My bed, his bed, the park; it did not matter where we were. It was like no feeling I have ever had with someone. I felt like we had the oldest souls and from the moment we met we understood everything about the other.

Why am I going on about this? Because it’s gone, he’s gone. Its over before it even really started. It is for the best. I do not think he was in love with me, even though he told me countless times he was. In truth it was something beyond love and neither of us could fully describe it; the irony of which is painful as we are both writers.

I am not worried about finding someone who will love me, that is an easy feat. But rather, I am terrified that no man can ever understand me the way he did. The way he did with out me having to say a single word. 

This feeling is crippling. I am numbing the pain with mindless 'fucks' and nothing seems to work. I don't want him back, I just want that feeling. That beautiful feeling of being understood. That nonjudgmental, unsympathetic understanding we had of each other. 

As I write this hot tears are streaming down my cold cheeks. I just want to be understood.  

The Next Fix

It’s not necessarily that the grass looks greener; it’s just that you want to know what it feels like under your feet. Who dictates right and wrong in a relationship? Who sets the standard for what is acceptable and what can sustain a relationship over time?

We live in a world of quick fixes and instant gratification. How does the old model of marriage and relationships fit into this modern world? I have grown up in a generation of people that want it all and right now. Why are the relationship expectations of [the general public] today still very close to what they were some 80 years ago?

I don’t think it makes you a bad person for wanting sex and wanting sex with more than one person for the rest of your married (committed) life; wanting a new thrill every now and then.  

There is nothing like the rush of a fling, whether you are married or single. The urgency one feels when your lips finally touch after aching to feel each other. The way his hands slide up your legs; your nails dig into his shoulder as you push your hips against him. It is pure desire, full of silent temptations. 

Who says you cannot truly love and care for someone while desiring another physically? There is nothing like the sexual rush of being with someone your entire body craves, so why must we choose between love and lust? I do believe that what you don’t know cannot hurt you.

Maybe I am being idealistic... After all I grew up in a generation that wants it all. And preferably right now.