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Subject: Alphabet Stories:  J - Requested Repost
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                             July 4th
                             --------


You know what a 'beard' is? It's a woman who accompanies a still-closeted
gay man on public occasions, in order to give the impression that he's
straight.

As far as I know, there's no equivalent slang for a guy who performs the
same service for a lesbian. A panty-shield? Whatever - it was because
I had agreed to act in this capacity for my good friend Tessa that I
found myself in a hired evening suit attending the July 4th celebrations
at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square.

Tell the truth, I'm not that great at parties. I lack the knack for small
talk. Too English, I suppose. Too shy. I mean, this soiree was crammed to
the rafters with confident, gregarious Yank ex-pats, all of whom were
kind enough to attempt to include me, but I was all bashful grin
and wrung napkin.

"How y'doin', bud? Have a drink! Hate to see a Limey without a drink! So
you're..?"

"Martin. I'm with Tessa Hunter"

"Right, right! Listen, I can't tell you how much we appreciate Tess. Runs
that Press Office like a military operation." He lands a friendly punch
on my left bicep. "So you're the lucky guy, right?"

"Well, I am tonight, apparently."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, right!" Gales of laughter. "Gee, that British sense of
humour. Hey, Ellen, you know what this guy just said?"

See? Really chummy. Solicitous and kind. Me - I feel a complete shit,
incapable as I am of such well-oiled fol-de-rol. And I'm angry with
myself for feeling so superior about it. I mean, what do I want? An
in-depth debate concerning the writings of Kierkegaard? Well - yes.

"You know who this guy reminds me of, Jackson?" Ellen asks her husband.
"Hugh Grant! Huh? Hugh Grant - am I right?"

I get a lot of this. I'm boring and shy, and it makes me uncomfortable
that Americans flatter me by mistaking my tedious ineptitude for
depth-of-character. I feel as if I'm cheating them.

My sense of unease, by the way, is in no measure ameliorated by having
to hook up with Tessa every so often, and act the doting paramour. Not
that I have any trouble so acting. It's quite the opposite, and precisely
the problem. I fancy her like mad. Always have.

We had a brief moment when we were at Cambridge - before she discovered
where her sensual destiny lay. It was after the May Ball, the year we
graduated. I was pissed out of my mind on Methode Champenoise, and she'd
dropped one fuck of a lot of speed, and at six o'clock in the morning,
we were attempting to climb around the outside of FitzBilly's Bridge
to get back to her rooms for a nightcap. I fell into the river, of course.
She was bongoed to buggery, and thought it a wheeze to jump in too.

You don't need the details. Wet clothes, coal fire, hot toddy. Under-
graduate stuff.

I remember her breasts though. God, do I remember her breasts. There
was a moment in which I was lying beside her, moving slowly from the
angle of her hipbone to the corded muscle of her neck, and I caught the
image of her breasts profiled against the flicker of the flames. I stopped,
immobile with admiration. The curve and the light. The hard peak and the
shadow it threw. It was a vision at once abstract - pure line and tone -
and specific - the perfect, intimate, existential immediacy of a woman's
breast.

I think I stopped breathing, because Tess tugged my hair, quite gently,
and asked what was wrong.

"Nothing," I murmured, staring, like a dreamer. "Your tits. Nothing."

She grinned. "Well, not much, admittedly." She joggled one breast with
her left hand. "But not exactly nothing."

Isn't that wonderful? The perfect counterpoint to my pompous reverie. A
confident, self-mocking joke.

I'll tell you something I've never told anyone before. I don't know
whether it's pathetic or romantic, or both - but it's the truth.

I have split up with every single girlfriend I've ever had because -
whatever excuse I may have given at the time - none of them could give
me a moment of such off-hand naturalness. There's something in me - my
diffidence, I suppose - that inspires women to flights of erotic fancy.
I've been ravished by apparently-sane women in nun's habits, French
Maid's outfits and head-to-toe leather. I've had my cock sucked on
aeroplanes, and my arse licked in country greenhouses. I've been
pressganged into three-way splits with younger sisters and former
governesses and, on one occasion, a King Charles spaniel. But I've
never found what I need so much - that casual, erotic simplicity
that offsets my own brooding self-consciousness.

Not until... Bear with me here.

You'd think, wouldn't you, that Tess could find on these occasions a
companion with more aptitude for social lubrication? I've asked her
about this, and she says that, for a start, I'm trustworthy - I'm
not going to blurt any compromising indiscretion, or betray her deception
with an ill-advised untruth. And what's more, she adds, I'm not about to
upstage her by being witty. She means this observation kindly. Honestly,
but kindly. I do indeed act as a foil for her, and I'm sure her colleagues
go away thinking 'My, what a suited couple. He dotes on her, you can tell.
And she's obviously very fond of him.'

All of which is true. I'm the perfect panty-shield. Discreet,
comfortable and confidence-inspiring. And, of course, disposable.

But I serve another purpose for Tess. I attract snatch. I don't mean
this to sound arrogant and I'm not asking for your admiration. I might
as well take credit for being six-foot-two, as if it were something I'd
achieved. It's just a fact. Women aggregate around me. I'm used to it,
and I don't really notice it - it's like the hum of the fridge to me.

But Tessa finds it useful and exciting. She says that in any random group
of four women, there's always one who wouldn't object to a female tongue
up her slit. (I'm quoting her here.) So, if I drag in eight, all she
has to do is figure out which two to hit on.

At this Independence Day bash, I'm sucking them in like a whirlpool. There
are five or more congregated at our table. Glancing at Tessa, I see a
predatory glint behind her mascara. I scan the assembled talent myself,
but nothing particularly captures my fancy.

I'm thinking about sliding away home - it's nearly midnight and I've done
my stint. Tessa can trot out some excuse for my departure. It would even
make the relationship more believable. But suddenly there's an
announcement. We're all to make our way out into the grounds for the
fireworks. I like fireworks and decide to stay.

The french doors are opened and I lose Tessa in the crush to get outside.
I stand at the back of the crowd. When you're over six-feet it's impolite
not to.

I listen to that low-murmuring hush that always falls over an audience
before the curtain goes up. It's exciting, the anticipation. I light
a cigarette and lean sideways against a decorative urn at the bottom
of the steps that lead down from the doors. As I take the first drag,
there comes the zip of a rocket, and then a starburst of green in the
blackness above and, a moment after, the chesty thump of the explosion.

In front of me, heads crane heavenwards, and there's a chorus of 'Aaah's.
Another burst of bluewhite, another physical thud from all around and then
skycrackers, takka-takka-takka, like gunfire.

I'm looking up when I feel a presence behind me. I start to turn, but
a hand presses against my cheek, stopping me.

"Hush," says a voice in my ear. "Relax."

I don't relax. Arms encircle my waist, and I feel a body pressed tight
against my back. I think, at first, that it must be Tessa, but I can
see her, twenty feet away, whispering in the ear of a woman from our table.

"I just find fireworks so exciting," says the voice, low. It's a southern
accent - Missouri or Mississippi. "All that noise and light. It goes right
t' my pussy."

The hands have slipped from my waist to the front of my trousers. I drop
my cigarette and clamp my own hands over hers.

I hear a chuckle. "Hey, sugar. Don't fret."

She pulls her wrists from my grasp and undoes my fly, and then slips
one hand inside. Her other hand gently pulls my arm back, and leads my
fingers to the inside of her thigh.

"Nobody's watching. And, anyhow, nobody cares."

Now she has my cock in her hand, and she's squeezing it gently as it
hardens. With her other hand she guides my fingers up beneath a very
short skirt. My fingertips brush against stocking, then flesh, then wet,
naked lips.

"That's it. That's it."

Above us, a rocket explodes with a deafening retort, and a blinding
fountain of blue strobes shadows from the trees. She catches her
breath sharply in the echo, and simultaneously pulls my dick out into the
warm air. My fingers catch a sudden squirt of moisture from her
cunt.

"We can't..." I protest weakly.

"It's okay, it's okay." She 's whispering in my ear, and working my
cock in rhythm to the whisper. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay..."

With my arm bent behind me, I push my middle finger into her
crack ("It's okay, uh, ah, it's okay...")  and stroke my thumb across
her clitoris ("Its..oh, fuck..it's okay...Jesus, yes...").

The nightsky is delirious with colour. Reds and greens and impossible
whites billow above us, and the darkness reels with lurching thuds and
booms. The noise vibrates around me, walling me as I stand there with
my hard shaft in her hand, making me invisible to the spellbound crowd.
And the light and noise seem to earth through her, this woman behind me,
conducting themselves along her body and coming out in a rush of juice
that spurts between her labia. Each knee-trembling explosion from the
night inspires another aromatic splash.

The display is reaching its climax now, building up to the last
apocalyptic orgy of colour and noise. Her hand is moving faster along my
cock, and she's leaning into me. Her chin is on my shoulder, and I
look sidelong at her. She's fine-featured, dark. Her lips, naturally full,
are blood-swollen with excitement, and her eyes are glad, sparkling and
mad as she gazes up at the sky.

She glances into my face, laughing. "Light and sound, honey. What the
fuck else?"

Indeed. What the fuck else? As the finale breaks over our heads, I pull
my hand from her cunt and turn. I push her back against the balustrade of
the ornamental steps and get my knees between her legs. With one thrust,
I'm up her.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, yes!" she screams, howling above the thunderous
fireworks.

My head thrown back, I plunge my cock into her. I watch the sky
go insane as I shoot my load up her snatch, and feel her biting deep into
the flesh of my neck, screeching.

This was months ago. Things have moved on and perhaps you would like
to know how it all turned out. You might wonder about her name, about
whether we got caught that night, about what Tessa thought.But it doesn't
matter.
That's just story, details, plot.

All that matters is light and sound - what else?






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