I had some experiences in the past involving more than two people but it only involved kissing.
Today I have arranged with Susan to meet at a friend’s house to watch a movie. It is the third movie of Angels and Demons, with Christopher Walken on it. The second instalment had been satisfactory so we have gone for the third, just to screw things up.
Susan and I decide to sit down in the sofa and my friend Larry sits on an armchair. He can’t see us unless he turns around.
Now, Larry is my best ‘male’ friend. He is an absolute disaster when it comes to tidiness in and around his life but he is fun to be friends with. I’ve known the guy since he was a virgin at sixteen and had never been out later than one o’clock.
We have arranged to move to England together after the summer. I can only imagine how much fun that will be.
He is the son of a cardiologist and a GP. Quite intelligent academically, Larry always lacked common sense when choosing women. I suspect he is a magnet for psycho-bitches.
He is also part of the alternative community and the group of roleplay friends we normally hang around with. He is good to get drunk with and somebody I never had to keep secrets from.
As the daylight starts to fade we find ourselves immerse in the darkness of the room, only illuminated by the dim light of the tv. Little by little I start squeezing my hand between Susan’s legs, who is wearing a skirt. My other hand keeps sliding under her t-shirt and underneath her bra, to find her tender yet erect nipple. We start kissing and she starts panting as my fingers find their way amongst the curly pubes and between the moist labia. Larry keeps watching the movie like nothing is happening. If he wants to look he would have to do more than just look through the corner of his eye. I know he was aware of everything going on and I realise he just wants to finish watching the movie.
After I come to conclusions with what is happening I make Susan lie down on the leather sofa and I remove her already wet g-string. I pull down my trousers as her hands find immediately my penis, hard as a rock. I don’t wait long before I penetrate her there and then. She starts panting, and then gasping. The sweat rolls down our bodies onto the leather sofa. I kept an eye on Larry but he keeps his eyes on the screen.
I keep penetrating Susan in different positions and every time I remove a piece of clothing from her. The thrill consists on having him turn around any moment and find a girl he barely knows there, having sex with his best friend. If that happens I am not willing to stop, and I somehow know she is not going to stop either.
As the movie finished he turned around. We had already reached a couple of orgasms and we were just sitting in the sofa, playing with each other’s genitalia. Susan smiled at him. Larry said “let’s go to my bedroom”.
Larry’s bedroom is not only his. It was also his little brother’s bedroom. His family was out and wasn’t going to come back home till the day after.
As we got in the bedroom we took off some of our clothes. Susan sat in the middle and started doing oral sex on both of us at the same time. In some point I decided to sit down next to her and start playing with her breasts and her vagina, masturbating her and playing with her pubic hair.
The end of the experience comes. Larry can not stand up much longer in the same position, but since his trousers are around his ankles he trips. As he tries fast to find somewhere to support himself in order not to fall his hand ends up on my scalp. Immediately his erection abandons him, not to return anymore for a while.
Susan and I leave the house soon after and I walk her home. We kiss. She waves her hand from the entrance of the block. I go home amazed of how adventurous and brave sixteen year old girls are these days, if they are in the right situation, with the right people. They are still ok with anything as long as the whole atmosphere seems relaxed. I take good notes from that.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Better than a matress: August 2001
Meeting in a summer afternoon around four o'clock, where I come from, is normally pure suicide. I grew up next to the beach but for some reason I refused to even look at the sea since I became "a goth". You just need to keep yourself pale and going to the beach in summer is not the best way to achieve it, but at least is refreshing. Going around town at that time of the day is another word for "I want to faint in the middle of the street soaking on my own sweat and tears".
Spanish tardiness is chronical. If you are meeting somebody at, lets say twelve o'clock, that means "from twelve o'clock onwards". You can be waiting forever just to realise that your friend has fallen asleep in the sofa. Fortunately for us, as we grow older and wiser, we tend to leave a margin of time and relaxation in order to make it just when we are meant to. We call that "the lazy clock sincronisation".
Today I am fashionably late but not too much. Just ten minutes behind and knowing that women take generally longer to get ready I am getting ready to sit down in the dusty, ruthless marble doorstep and wait. To my surprise Susan is already sitting in that very doorstep I was planning to sit, outside a nearby blockbuster. I have always liked her aroma, but I miss the scent of danger. She smells of shampoo, conditioner and deodorant. That, compared to what I am used to, is meant to be an improvement.
As we have already somewhat hit the sex bit on our dating we are not taking middle steps on what we are about. I am not talking about romance, not talking about commitment and definitely making very clear that I am going back to London as soon as October hits, obviously without her.
We stride around the neigborhood and we reach my parent's house. I introduce Susan to my mother (my father wasn't around)and there I go straight to my bedroom.
I must describe Susan as sturdily built. She has a slim waist, pretty friendly face, slightly asimetrical upper teeth, more than prominent forehead and a bigger bottom than what I normally like. She has a problem on her left ankle, something to do with a fracture that never healed properly and it's a bit wider than the right one, so she is prone to have accidents when she is not careful. Her torax is quite solid and round and that might be why I find her heavier than I would guess from somebody of her stature. She is tall for a girl, but still shorter than me.
I find it all very cute and amusing, a bastard as I am.
We proceed to kiss passionately and remove each other's clothes. The room is an absolute oven and we try to lie down in bed and start playing with each other's genitalia. Like many spanish women, she has only done her bikini line but that's about it. Her pubic hair is pitch black and it is long enough to cover her labia. Her breasts are just the right size to fit on my hands, which I appreciate, but I find them slightly too far apart. Then we get confronted by a double trouble: the bed is too noisy and it is too damn hot to have sex at that time of the day.
So I go and use the old trick of putting the duvet in the floor. As we don't sink down in the mattress we don't get so surrounded by fabric and material, hence granting more freedom of movement and less contact with the surfaces. Also grateful for the extra balance support I am off to give her the time of her life.
She is, as usual surprised by the size of my penis, which is something that I have never been able to fully understand. Since I live with my penis my entire life, every waking second, I look at it every day and I don't see anything strange about it, but definitely everybody else who sees it does.
Nontheless she is amply lubricated by the time and I start penetrating her with no problem. I drive her to the orgasm three times before I have my first one. Then I get a bit more adventurous and decide to give it a shot: "have you ever had anal sex?" - I ask. Her answer was no but I could recognise the little smile of "go-on-let's-do-it".
Now, in all my years of having sex previous to that point I found that the best position, the one most helpful for both parts when it comes to anal sex is, ulike porn movies and other media makes us believe, having the receiving part lying down on her back and, lifting the legs up wide open, put them over your shoulders at the length of the ankles. That way the pelvis lifts, the anus opens and you keep balance enough to do it slowly, so it is not so painful. Silicon based lubricants work better than water based because they tend to keep the moist for longer rather than being absorbed, and since most of the times I had to try three or four times and the process tends to be slow, there is an awful amount of reliance demanded from the lubricant.
Susan only needs saliva and a little push. Off we are having anal sex, she has two more orgasms and I have to cover her mouth so she doesn't scream. I don't want to startle my mother who probably would be stiching socks or doing croche in the living room.
As soon as we are done I look at her face. I know that Susan had a few boyfriends in the past and she wasn't definitely a virgin when I met her. Then I hear a sentence I had already heard before, and I am definitely going to hear a lot more in the future: "Best sex of my life".
I am glad. I might be a bastard, but at least I am giving something in return.
Spanish tardiness is chronical. If you are meeting somebody at, lets say twelve o'clock, that means "from twelve o'clock onwards". You can be waiting forever just to realise that your friend has fallen asleep in the sofa. Fortunately for us, as we grow older and wiser, we tend to leave a margin of time and relaxation in order to make it just when we are meant to. We call that "the lazy clock sincronisation".
Today I am fashionably late but not too much. Just ten minutes behind and knowing that women take generally longer to get ready I am getting ready to sit down in the dusty, ruthless marble doorstep and wait. To my surprise Susan is already sitting in that very doorstep I was planning to sit, outside a nearby blockbuster. I have always liked her aroma, but I miss the scent of danger. She smells of shampoo, conditioner and deodorant. That, compared to what I am used to, is meant to be an improvement.
As we have already somewhat hit the sex bit on our dating we are not taking middle steps on what we are about. I am not talking about romance, not talking about commitment and definitely making very clear that I am going back to London as soon as October hits, obviously without her.
We stride around the neigborhood and we reach my parent's house. I introduce Susan to my mother (my father wasn't around)and there I go straight to my bedroom.
I must describe Susan as sturdily built. She has a slim waist, pretty friendly face, slightly asimetrical upper teeth, more than prominent forehead and a bigger bottom than what I normally like. She has a problem on her left ankle, something to do with a fracture that never healed properly and it's a bit wider than the right one, so she is prone to have accidents when she is not careful. Her torax is quite solid and round and that might be why I find her heavier than I would guess from somebody of her stature. She is tall for a girl, but still shorter than me.
I find it all very cute and amusing, a bastard as I am.
We proceed to kiss passionately and remove each other's clothes. The room is an absolute oven and we try to lie down in bed and start playing with each other's genitalia. Like many spanish women, she has only done her bikini line but that's about it. Her pubic hair is pitch black and it is long enough to cover her labia. Her breasts are just the right size to fit on my hands, which I appreciate, but I find them slightly too far apart. Then we get confronted by a double trouble: the bed is too noisy and it is too damn hot to have sex at that time of the day.
So I go and use the old trick of putting the duvet in the floor. As we don't sink down in the mattress we don't get so surrounded by fabric and material, hence granting more freedom of movement and less contact with the surfaces. Also grateful for the extra balance support I am off to give her the time of her life.
She is, as usual surprised by the size of my penis, which is something that I have never been able to fully understand. Since I live with my penis my entire life, every waking second, I look at it every day and I don't see anything strange about it, but definitely everybody else who sees it does.
Nontheless she is amply lubricated by the time and I start penetrating her with no problem. I drive her to the orgasm three times before I have my first one. Then I get a bit more adventurous and decide to give it a shot: "have you ever had anal sex?" - I ask. Her answer was no but I could recognise the little smile of "go-on-let's-do-it".
Now, in all my years of having sex previous to that point I found that the best position, the one most helpful for both parts when it comes to anal sex is, ulike porn movies and other media makes us believe, having the receiving part lying down on her back and, lifting the legs up wide open, put them over your shoulders at the length of the ankles. That way the pelvis lifts, the anus opens and you keep balance enough to do it slowly, so it is not so painful. Silicon based lubricants work better than water based because they tend to keep the moist for longer rather than being absorbed, and since most of the times I had to try three or four times and the process tends to be slow, there is an awful amount of reliance demanded from the lubricant.
Susan only needs saliva and a little push. Off we are having anal sex, she has two more orgasms and I have to cover her mouth so she doesn't scream. I don't want to startle my mother who probably would be stiching socks or doing croche in the living room.
As soon as we are done I look at her face. I know that Susan had a few boyfriends in the past and she wasn't definitely a virgin when I met her. Then I hear a sentence I had already heard before, and I am definitely going to hear a lot more in the future: "Best sex of my life".
I am glad. I might be a bastard, but at least I am giving something in return.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sweet Susan does her best: August 2001
The other day, working at the door of "The closet", Susan stayed with me the whole afternoon. It was 'Feria' and clubs open during daytime for a week. I had the feeling that Susan was attracted to me as much as I was attracted to her. There was my chat up line "I bet you a dinner that you don't have the guts to kiss me". And she did.
Women need an alibi for everything. They need an excuse for anything that could potentially be a mistake and leave them exposed. Like men, they don't want to appear vulnerable (not sexy-vulnerable or cute-vulnerable, but stupid-vulnerable or sickly-vulnerable). You need to give her a good reason why something between you should happen, but not something you or her can think of a good excuse. She needs something OTHERS would think it is a good excuse. Dinner for free in exchange of a snog wasn't too bad.
Think about it, imagine a woman goes to a pub, finds a stranger, snoggs him, grabs his crotch and takes him home, all with a straight face. There is something missing. The general disapproval of the mass demands an alibi. The easiest one is alcohol. If she is drunk is OK for her to assassinate femminity with a japanese sword. If she is sober she would need him to say "I love you" in a way she finds believable (or more importantly, in a way OTHERS find believable).
Note that a sober woman who pretends to be drunk can also get away with murder if she does it well. Also note that there should be some previous attraction for this to happen. You can come up with the best excuse of the whole wide world but she might have even better reasons not to even talk to you.
So there I am with little Susan in our first date. Dinner, like I said, was just an excuse. In our way back we decide to make a stop next to the bridge where that dry river is. Mostly surrounded by eucalyptus trees there is little amount of plants to cover up our little indecencies. With a swift move I undo my zip and there she goes down to please me the best she can. I haven't found many girls who could please me with oral sex and she wasn't going to be amongst the ones who did it as if she mastered the art, but it wasn't bad. In fact, I always appreciated the effort rather than the action itself. It turns me on to see somebody so eager to please me, I find it very flattering.
And why am I there, doing it in the street, you might ask? As I mentioned in a previous post, Spanish people tend to live with their parents for quite a long time. I am no exception, although in my case it is different from any other guy's house. My parents DO allow me to bring girls over and have sex with them. I have my parents approval and I always have the feeling that my dad feels proud of the amount of new faces he sees every now and then. But there are rules; it is ok as long as they can't see or hear anything about my activities and I am taking precautions. Also, no girls past ten o'clock and at this point, today, is already past twelve.
I have the privilege that other people of my generation don't have in my country. I have my bed for sex, while other guys have to do it in their cars or the forest, the beach, etc. And Susan was going to experience the commodities of my bedroom the day after.
Women need an alibi for everything. They need an excuse for anything that could potentially be a mistake and leave them exposed. Like men, they don't want to appear vulnerable (not sexy-vulnerable or cute-vulnerable, but stupid-vulnerable or sickly-vulnerable). You need to give her a good reason why something between you should happen, but not something you or her can think of a good excuse. She needs something OTHERS would think it is a good excuse. Dinner for free in exchange of a snog wasn't too bad.
Think about it, imagine a woman goes to a pub, finds a stranger, snoggs him, grabs his crotch and takes him home, all with a straight face. There is something missing. The general disapproval of the mass demands an alibi. The easiest one is alcohol. If she is drunk is OK for her to assassinate femminity with a japanese sword. If she is sober she would need him to say "I love you" in a way she finds believable (or more importantly, in a way OTHERS find believable).
Note that a sober woman who pretends to be drunk can also get away with murder if she does it well. Also note that there should be some previous attraction for this to happen. You can come up with the best excuse of the whole wide world but she might have even better reasons not to even talk to you.
So there I am with little Susan in our first date. Dinner, like I said, was just an excuse. In our way back we decide to make a stop next to the bridge where that dry river is. Mostly surrounded by eucalyptus trees there is little amount of plants to cover up our little indecencies. With a swift move I undo my zip and there she goes down to please me the best she can. I haven't found many girls who could please me with oral sex and she wasn't going to be amongst the ones who did it as if she mastered the art, but it wasn't bad. In fact, I always appreciated the effort rather than the action itself. It turns me on to see somebody so eager to please me, I find it very flattering.
And why am I there, doing it in the street, you might ask? As I mentioned in a previous post, Spanish people tend to live with their parents for quite a long time. I am no exception, although in my case it is different from any other guy's house. My parents DO allow me to bring girls over and have sex with them. I have my parents approval and I always have the feeling that my dad feels proud of the amount of new faces he sees every now and then. But there are rules; it is ok as long as they can't see or hear anything about my activities and I am taking precautions. Also, no girls past ten o'clock and at this point, today, is already past twelve.
I have the privilege that other people of my generation don't have in my country. I have my bed for sex, while other guys have to do it in their cars or the forest, the beach, etc. And Susan was going to experience the commodities of my bedroom the day after.
Working in "The Closet": July 2001
With going back to London in three months time as a clear goal on my mind I start looking for a job like crazy. So I end up, just by chance, working as a bouncer in a gay club called "the closet".
There are no goth clubs here. There are a couple of metal bars and some alternative, hippy-ish punk places but nowhere to dress up in black AND wear tons of make up.
Also, spanish goth people have high sexual engines. Not because gothness does that to people, but the other way round. Long story short, I am already quite familiar with the gay scene because scary people with fishnet t-shirts and lots of make up had only one scene where they could go. It also had something to do with the "Sinister" scene (how the post-punk people used to call themselves in the eighties). With a very few exceptions, "Sinister" guys were gay and sinister girls were either bisexual or lesbians.
I belong a bit more to the goth metal scene, which was starting to be heard of, but I am probably one of the five or six men in the entire city that were into that kind of music. And to make it worse, all the female counterparts like men with long hair. I have no hair, by the way.
So there go three months working at the door of the place. My bosses are fantastic. A couple who,I have the suspicion, are swingers. He had lots of children in the past from a previous marriage and now, grown up men, are working for him in a number of clubs. They are kind people who look after the staff like they are family.
And what happened to the girl who moved with me to Somerset? She stayed there for those two weeks and a half that I spent in london and then she decided to come back to Spain.
I think she was hurt that I never announced her as my girlfriend. I never told her I loved her. We were shagg baddies and I made it very clear at the beginning. I think she assumed she could change the roles but it didn't work. There were too many little bits and bobs here and there that made me feel she wasn't a good person. I thought I had left the thing as "friendship" but next time I saw her in spain she handed me a letter she sent back to my ex, pretty much crucifying me for not being emotionally reachable.
Next thing I know she has gone back to that worm of her ex boyfriend and there is a gang looking for me around the city loaded with knives and having the clear intention of stabbing me to death, probably out of making up a lie about whatever. She really didn't take it well that I wasn't into getting married to her or something. I really don't know and I really don't care.
Anyway, I am working at the door and I get introduced to a nice girl called Susan. She is sixteen and although she looks very posh she hangs around with all my geekiest friends and she seems like fun. She is very attractive and I definitely have to try to get in her pants. Not literally, though.
My work at "The closet" is easy. I always have my honesty as a flag. If somebody just looks too dodgy to come in I tell him or her bluntly "sorry, you don't look like they expect from the clientele in this place and I don't want to get in trouble and lose my job". I never even had to be rude to anybody, for three months. I never had to use my second line "Don't even try again because you are not going inside".
I also have to keep away kids who "have come out of the closet but want to get in back, as, inside the club". Under aged gay kids are loud, I'm telling you, but they are easy to manage too.
Overall, nights go quiet while I wait for the date I'm going back to that city I'm so captivated about.
There are no goth clubs here. There are a couple of metal bars and some alternative, hippy-ish punk places but nowhere to dress up in black AND wear tons of make up.
Also, spanish goth people have high sexual engines. Not because gothness does that to people, but the other way round. Long story short, I am already quite familiar with the gay scene because scary people with fishnet t-shirts and lots of make up had only one scene where they could go. It also had something to do with the "Sinister" scene (how the post-punk people used to call themselves in the eighties). With a very few exceptions, "Sinister" guys were gay and sinister girls were either bisexual or lesbians.
I belong a bit more to the goth metal scene, which was starting to be heard of, but I am probably one of the five or six men in the entire city that were into that kind of music. And to make it worse, all the female counterparts like men with long hair. I have no hair, by the way.
So there go three months working at the door of the place. My bosses are fantastic. A couple who,I have the suspicion, are swingers. He had lots of children in the past from a previous marriage and now, grown up men, are working for him in a number of clubs. They are kind people who look after the staff like they are family.
And what happened to the girl who moved with me to Somerset? She stayed there for those two weeks and a half that I spent in london and then she decided to come back to Spain.
I think she was hurt that I never announced her as my girlfriend. I never told her I loved her. We were shagg baddies and I made it very clear at the beginning. I think she assumed she could change the roles but it didn't work. There were too many little bits and bobs here and there that made me feel she wasn't a good person. I thought I had left the thing as "friendship" but next time I saw her in spain she handed me a letter she sent back to my ex, pretty much crucifying me for not being emotionally reachable.
Next thing I know she has gone back to that worm of her ex boyfriend and there is a gang looking for me around the city loaded with knives and having the clear intention of stabbing me to death, probably out of making up a lie about whatever. She really didn't take it well that I wasn't into getting married to her or something. I really don't know and I really don't care.
Anyway, I am working at the door and I get introduced to a nice girl called Susan. She is sixteen and although she looks very posh she hangs around with all my geekiest friends and she seems like fun. She is very attractive and I definitely have to try to get in her pants. Not literally, though.
My work at "The closet" is easy. I always have my honesty as a flag. If somebody just looks too dodgy to come in I tell him or her bluntly "sorry, you don't look like they expect from the clientele in this place and I don't want to get in trouble and lose my job". I never even had to be rude to anybody, for three months. I never had to use my second line "Don't even try again because you are not going inside".
I also have to keep away kids who "have come out of the closet but want to get in back, as, inside the club". Under aged gay kids are loud, I'm telling you, but they are easy to manage too.
Overall, nights go quiet while I wait for the date I'm going back to that city I'm so captivated about.
Back in my country again, darn!: July 2001
Right, the first try failed. I tried to move to London and couldn't make it.
It is 2001, I'm 24 years old and I cannot stay in my country any longer. Spain sounds great for tourists and people who grew up in places with miserable weather or people with miserable moods.
I am absolutely fed up with so much sun and people insisting that there is something wrong with me. I have tried everything, even changing the face of things around me but to not avail. I can't walk down the street without having somebody shouting anything about the way I look, normally making references about "the Matrix". "Hey, you look like the Matrix!" they would say. No, it is not a typo, they actually say I look like an entire movie. I couldn't expect more from such shortbrained people but there is always hope that some day they will say something more refreshing. Probably when they release another Blockbuster tittle with pale main characters wearing long black coats.
It is very tiring to have abuse every day, from the same people all the time. A couple of bleeding noses later I decide to move to Madrid, where I have some friends I met through an IRC goth channel.
It all started with having another piercing done and bang!, big argument at home, my plans of moving to Madrid get truncated because I can't wait any longer. I am heading for England. Free accomodation working on a hotel in Somerset.
Spanish people are sedentary by nature. You would rarely hear from large communities of spanish, or spanish ghettos, since most of the population just stay living with their parents until they are past their thirties, so all their urges to leave to explore the world get numbed. We only move out when we marry (in most cases) because we refuse to pay any rent. We only like to pay mortgages, and they way things are you only get one of those with the help of your other half, and those are tricky enterprises, both finding the one you want to marry and a mortgage to match.
I had a girlfriend in the past who, let's say, 'adapted' my mind into moving to England. I left her because she was mental. Clinically speaking. She also had a very unrealistic view of London. Actually, she had a very unrealistic view of everything.
So, after arming myself with determination, I went for the interview and I got there. I also managed to bring with me the girl I was seeing at the moment, a somewhat gothy girl with an unconscious crush on her father. She was fun in the sack and had exhibitionistic fantasies, but nowhere she could exercise them in such little village.
A couple of months after I move to Somerset I visit London. Two weeks later I handle my notice and I move to London. Two and a half weeks later I have to leave London to go back to Spain because I run out of money. London had captivated me already and had it's "rubberband effect" on me quite firmly.
But for the moment... Darn! I'm back with this bunch of peasants!
It is 2001, I'm 24 years old and I cannot stay in my country any longer. Spain sounds great for tourists and people who grew up in places with miserable weather or people with miserable moods.
I am absolutely fed up with so much sun and people insisting that there is something wrong with me. I have tried everything, even changing the face of things around me but to not avail. I can't walk down the street without having somebody shouting anything about the way I look, normally making references about "the Matrix". "Hey, you look like the Matrix!" they would say. No, it is not a typo, they actually say I look like an entire movie. I couldn't expect more from such shortbrained people but there is always hope that some day they will say something more refreshing. Probably when they release another Blockbuster tittle with pale main characters wearing long black coats.
It is very tiring to have abuse every day, from the same people all the time. A couple of bleeding noses later I decide to move to Madrid, where I have some friends I met through an IRC goth channel.
It all started with having another piercing done and bang!, big argument at home, my plans of moving to Madrid get truncated because I can't wait any longer. I am heading for England. Free accomodation working on a hotel in Somerset.
Spanish people are sedentary by nature. You would rarely hear from large communities of spanish, or spanish ghettos, since most of the population just stay living with their parents until they are past their thirties, so all their urges to leave to explore the world get numbed. We only move out when we marry (in most cases) because we refuse to pay any rent. We only like to pay mortgages, and they way things are you only get one of those with the help of your other half, and those are tricky enterprises, both finding the one you want to marry and a mortgage to match.
I had a girlfriend in the past who, let's say, 'adapted' my mind into moving to England. I left her because she was mental. Clinically speaking. She also had a very unrealistic view of London. Actually, she had a very unrealistic view of everything.
So, after arming myself with determination, I went for the interview and I got there. I also managed to bring with me the girl I was seeing at the moment, a somewhat gothy girl with an unconscious crush on her father. She was fun in the sack and had exhibitionistic fantasies, but nowhere she could exercise them in such little village.
A couple of months after I move to Somerset I visit London. Two weeks later I handle my notice and I move to London. Two and a half weeks later I have to leave London to go back to Spain because I run out of money. London had captivated me already and had it's "rubberband effect" on me quite firmly.
But for the moment... Darn! I'm back with this bunch of peasants!
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