power

Yesterday, a beautiful woman brought herself to orgasm.

She was imagining she had dressed up as a prostitute and waited for a call. When called, she was instructed to go to a hotel - the hotel where my girlfriend and I were staying. I paid her and then she did as I told her, while my girlfriend watched. She imagined these things and came, thinking about me pushing a vibrator into her wet pussy while my cock was deep inside my girlfriend's.

This morning she came twice more.

This afternoon she told me so.

And then she offered to get on a plane and come over to make it happen for real.

We'll see.

For now, I'm smug and horny. I love the thought that thousands of kilometers away, pussies get wet, clench and throb, and women come because of ideas I've put in their heads

I like, no, I love having that kind of power.

swing?

Code names. We agreed on code names, because being incredibly famous, unique and special snowflakes we didn't want the swingers Googling us if we decided we didn't like them.

The official plan: go to a well known pub, SMS the hosts, meet, greet, flock off to fuck.

Our plan: go to a well known pub, SMS the hosts, meet, greet, run away. Baby steps.

We had dinner together, not far from the venue. Walked hand in hand to the pub, nervously. What were we doing? Why? We weren't even horny, just nervous. Wrong time of the month really, but we were still curious.

We got to the pub, SMSed the hosts. We had convinced ourselves that it would be just us and the peeps organizing this, it would all be a miserable failure as we left. We were therefore bemused and surprised at the reply: at the back bar, about 8 couples

8 couples? 8 couples! That's 16 people!

Turns out they were pretty nice. Also turns out we were too flummoxed to remember our assumed identities and kept calling each other by our real names. The host at least humored us. Oh well. We stayed for drinks, relaxed. Chatted a bit with one of the couples, then another couple. The host wandered by now and again to make a joke and put people at ease. More and more couples kept arriving.

After about 3 drinks the word rippled through the crowd: time to go!

I looked at Rosa. This was our cue to run away; but I had relaxed, she had relaxed. We had people we were comfortable talking to and we were curious, so we decided to go along. We'd told people we were absolute beginners and probably only voyeurs at this point; noone seemed to mind.

Time to go!

Slowly the group made it's way out of the pub, gathered outside like students on a field trip, waiting for the teacher to lead them back to the bus. It was quite amusing, actually. Jokes were made.

Then a friend of a friend, an attractive young woman we'd met at a party a couple of times before crossed the street and looked right at us. Ohshitohshitoshit. Be cool.

I grin and walk right to her, bravely launching into routine small talk. Rosa follows, slightly more flustered, makes the excuse that she wasn't wearing her glasses and was unsure who she was talking to. Our friend of a friend jokingly replies "What? Two nights of passion and you've forgotten me already?"

We titter.

...and worry silently that one of the swingers might overhear, take her seriously, invite her along...

But instead the group wanders off without us, as we continue making conversation. Once we've exhausted all the mandatory pleasantries, our friend of a friend wanders off. Following the swingers, of course. Catching up with them immediately, in fact, leading her bike and having a hard time getting through the massive mob.

Rosa and I just stand still, laughing. Waiting for her to get far enough away that we can follow without giving away our lies. Hoping she doesn't overhear anything too incriminating.

We catch up with the group in the corner shop where everyone is buying booze. We follow their lead, buy a bottle. Follow their lead down the street and follow their lead into the apartment that had been rented for the occasion.

The tiny, barren, oddly shaped apartment. It felt quite crowded, with over a dozen couples milling awkwardly about. Many of them inexperienced like us. Young, older, all shapes and sizes and colors.

Someone tried to find some music on the tiny telly, but gave up. Bare light bulbs cast unflattering shadows; I turned off the light in the kitchenette where we'd pitched camp.

After a bit the host announced, somewhat formally, that he and his girlfriend would be adjourning to the bedroom and people were welcome to join them. From that moment on, whenever we saw him he was wandering around with a t-shirt, socks and no trousers. With his really quite impressive dong flopping about. Not exactly elegant, but somehow comical enough to not add to people's insecurities.

Soon after the announcement, his girlfriend returned, pouting. "It's no fun if no one is going to watch!" she whined.

That broke the ice. The voyeurs gathered in the corridor outside the bedroom, craning their heads. The hosts got it on, soon other couples joined them. The couples we'd been idly chatting with in the kitchen turned to each other and began to kiss, touch. I watched as the woman I'd been chatting with had her little dress lifted up, and up, and up, by her tanned boyfriend.

Soon we were alone in the kitchen.

At this point, we were both quite drunk. I was starting to get a bit horny from the things going on around us, but Rosa was in more of a bemusedly shocked state; she was happy to watch, but wasn't interested in making out with me, let alone anyone else. We spent some time in the corridor with the voyeurs, but after a while began to feel that I couldn't really stay there any longer without doing something. As Rosa was emphatically not ready to do more than watch, I suggested we leave and go somewhere private.

I shook hands with the man wearing no pants and we made our belated escape.

Well, we tried to anyway. What actually happened was we found ourselves stuck at the gates and ended up having to return to request a code which would actually let us out. I promptly forgot it before reaching the gates, but luckily Rosa has better memory than I.

So on the second try, we truly did escape, only to find it wasn't even midnight and we had time to go for a quiet drink together to talk things over. Which we did.

We were glad we went; it was an experience! Not a bad experience, not a fantastic one either, but definitely an interesting and amusing one. Once I'd regained my composure and we'd talked a bit, I began to regret calling things short. It would have been fascinating to see how things developed. But such is life; and it was the right decision at the time, we were out of sync and needed to regroup.

We'll probably give it another try, sometime.

I still want to see my girl on her knees in front of another man, she still wants to see me touching someone else...

games

I've got a roving eye. The rest of me doesn't stray much, but I love to look. Sometimes, if I'm feeling a little mischievous, it becomes a game. If I make eye-contact I score a point. If I get a smile, I get another. If she keeps looking after I look away, I win.

Another game is watching the married guys I work with. Funnily enough, most of them don't look around. At lunch, most of them just look at whoever they're talking to, look at their food, the table. Are they shy? Are they just not interested? It makes me wonder. A select few will, like me, let their eyes follow the faces or figures of girls walking by.

Does it mean anything? I dunno.

Yet another game. Go to a party, watch people drink. Follow their eyes, figure out who fancies who. Watch their bodies give away things they aren't even aware of themselves. It's not that hard, really. But I guess it's sort of the answer to that question I got the other day - how do you pick up chicks?

Eye contact, body language. Play the eye-contact game, flirt, plant seeds of interest. Pay attention to reactions and approach the ones that are already at least a little bit interested.

No one can pick up any girl he fancies. They do, after all, have minds of their own. But if you can read the signs and not waste your time on those who just aren't interested, then you've got a pretty good head start. Another game.

A game with the best prizes.

clones

Sometimes I wish I could clone myself. Follow more than one path. More than two.

Saturday, the night after I almost-but-not-quite had some sort of threesome, I was out again. And somehow, yet again, I bumped into that same blonde that I've been seeing now and again. I had asked her name the night before. I think I can pronounce it, but I'm not sure how to spell it. Deesa, or something like that.

As I went out I texted Rosa, just to see if she was out. No reply, but I've decided that doesn't mean anything much since most people are more absent-minded about their phones than I am.

First person I see in the bar is Deesa.

And then I get a text. But it's not from Rosa, it's an old flame from back home. Someone I'd love to shag again, but can't really, because aside from being in the wrong country, she's recently married. But, in spite of that, she texted me.

"how r u, iceland boy? am on train from galway, reminded me of u."

We met on that train. I remember how her elbows touched mine, how she sat just a little too close as we talked. How we met for dinner that evening and ended up in her tiny room, fucking until morning.

Such a loaded message.

"I'm grand. Train from Galway, aye? Good times! Hope you're well, give Pete my best."

Pete's her man.

Deesa was looking at me. I put the phone away and ignored the buzzing of the reply. We talked, I bought us both drinks. As the small-talk progressed, as I flirted, as I touched her arm and grinned my fuck-me grin, the back of my mind was following different paths.

I'd love to go back home, follow up on that text. I was always disappointed that she got away. She wouldn't be messaging me like that if those nights we had together hadn't made an impression. What if?

What if I had replied to Rosa's text last night? Would I have ended up in her arms? Would I be in her arms still? I wished I had.

And yet I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Deesa's hand on mine, her smile lighting up the room. Her cleavage distracting my eyes from her face. Part of me thinking she may be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. For now anyway. Older than she looks, actually my age. Not many girls are that hot at 30. Curves and maturity, that amazing Icelandic look of youth. They all look like kids here. And this kiddo has her hands and eyes on me.

Later that evening I sneak a look at my phone, turns out that message wasn't from my Irish lady friend, it was from Rosa. She's at Kaffibarinn again, I'm at Sirkus. I don't feel like moving.

I need more of me. One to be here. One to chase Rosa. One still playing the field in Ireland. One that made all the right decisions and moves and kept Maria. One that never got divorced. One that never got married.

The one of me here, was drunk. Dancing.

Deesa in my arms, dancing, spinning around and bumping into people, not quite spilling our beers. Or theirs.

When the world stops spinning, we're in my bed.

She's not wearing anything, I'm between her legs, my face all wet and my tongue on her clit. Her back is arched, a pillow between her teeth and covering most of her face. I slide a finger into her and use it to tell her body to come to me, for me.

Come here. I move my finger as I lick her clit harder, then relax both.

Come here. Harder, relax.

Come, lick, relax.

We fall into the rythm of it and soon I can feel her stomach muscles pulsating, her pussy grabbing my finger gently. She whimpers.

Come here.

Her hips buck, her pussy mashing into my face. I can't breathe, but for now that doesn't matter. I try my best not to lose the rhythm, to keep her moving, keep her gasping like that. She comes, crying out, pushing against me and then curling up in a vulnerable ball of girl.

I move to kiss her lips and eyelids, hold her as she relaxes and comes down.

We'd earlier discussed my warts, I knew she wasn't going to fuck me. Through my drunkenness I vaguely remembered her sucking me off. Or at least having a taste.

As we fell asleep, I drunkenly wondered what my clones were up to.

partner in crime

My flatmate's party, the flirting at Kaffibarinn, that was all last weekend. Now another weekend has passed and I'm behind in writing about what's been going on. I've been busy, and if anything I'm even more confused now than I was before. Hopefully writing about it will help me work through things.

But, on with the story while I still have access to the laptop...

--

Turns out the toasting was all a little premature. Rosa never actually made it all the way back to us, she got mobbed by friends, distracted and swept away. Soon after, Karl got bored and left.

I was still lurking around, hoping to see her but ended up leaving the bar too and heading to Sirkus to see if any of the others from the party were there. The queue wasn't moving, the weather sucked and I eventually just headed home, drunk and tired.

As I walked I got a text message from her, but I didn't feel like responding. I was pretty disappointed.

But we were probably all too drunk for that sort of thing anyway and now that a few days have passed, I'm more intrigued than disappointed. I find that sort of slutty behavior very attractive.

I'd love to have a "partner in crime" like her.

I'm still not sure what to do about the flatmate situation though.

why not?

So, my escape from the smokers' party was foiled by the blonde's request for a drink. I took my time finding it though, wandered around the downstairs party, checking who had showed up while I was upstairs. Plenty of people. Plenty of chicks.

I was feeling a bit conflicted. Part of me just really wanted to get Rosa into bed again, but I was worried about my flatmate and from our last encounter I knew she liked my player aspect. So making the most of my opportunity with the blonde was a good strategy either way.

One thing I've learned, is you concentrate on one girl at a time, or you end up with none. On the other hand... I've also learned not over-analyze things. So I just grabbed some beers and went back up to see which way the wind would blow me.

I didn't end up going back down. Rosa and the blonde sat next to each other, chatting. I leaned against the opposite wall, sipped my beer and looked slyly at them. Now and again I'd take part in one of the conversations around me, but mostly I listened and watched, enjoying the glances they took turns making and the feeling that I was in control and could have either one I wanted. I was beginning to toy with the idea of having them both.

Just as I exchanged yet another meaningful glance with Rosa, my flatmate showed up in the door. He was pretty drunk, but he also seemed a little bent out of shape. I think he noticed the way Rosa was looking at me. He said something odd and then announced that he was leaving, heading downtown. We could do as we damn well pleased. Then he turned off the bathroom light and disappeared down the stairs.

Ouch.

We switched the light back on, the night went on. But it had all gone a bit sour and soon afterwards the party broke up and headed downtown.

Me and some of the others from congregated in Kaffibarinn. For me it was the obvious choice, that's where both Rosa and the blonde were headed, that's where Rosa and I hooked up last time. Trendy girls, rock'n'roll guys, beer and music. It was a happenin' place that night. I bumped into one of my other mates near the bar, bought him a beer. Let's call him Karl. Karl and I exchanged jokes and conversation for a while, until Rosa showed up and took a position between the two of us. It was crowded, she couldn't help but rub against me.

Her scent and presence had me sporting a stiffy pretty quickly. I played cool, acted like nothing was up, kept chatting with the both of them. But Rosa only had one of her hands on the bar, the other was on my knee, my thigh, stroking the bulge I was pretending wasn't there. Naughty girl.

I had forgotten all about the blonde.

As the conversation went on, Rosa stopped feeling me up, but turned a bit so her pert little bottom was pressed against my erection. She was facing Karl, talking to him. I discreetly put one of my hands on her hip, slid it under her top and caught my breath as I felt the warm, toned skin of her stomach. She wriggled just a little bit, letting me know she liked my hand there.

I had forgotten all about my flatmate.

Another beer, more talk. It slowly dawned on me that I wasn't the only one getting attention from the girl. Karl was standing pretty close to her as well and as before, Rosa had one of her hands out of sight. But it wasn't touching me. I began to suspect it was touching him... and when Rosa headed off to the loo I asked my friend what was up. Sure enough, her hands had been all over him, and he knew she was flirting with me at the same time. I was suitably impressed.

"She's quite a handful," he grinned.

"Yeah. Shall we give her what she wants? I'm up for it if you are."

He paused. Thought about it. Neither of us had ever been in that sort of situation together.

"Fuck it, why not? Fuck her, in fact," he replied.

We raised our beers and banged 'em together, just as I noticed her making her way through the crowd towards us again.

party

I sat in the living room with my flatmate, a bunch of our mutual friends gathered around to drink with us. On the coffee table there was a growing pile of empty pizza boxes, beer cans, bottles and dirty glasses. The laptop I've been borrowing sat in the corner playing random songs from Flatmate's mp3 collection. An hour or two, maybe three, and people would run out of drinks and start heading downtown in search of more.

Rosa hadn't shown up, but oddly enough the blonde I'd been fantasizing about earlier this week was there. Friend of a friend, this is such a tiny town. I had my charm on and was getting to know her a bit, making it clear I found her interesting. She flirted back like a champ. I liked where things were headed.

Every once in a while the doorbell would ring and more people would join the party, it soon fragmented as they always do into a kitchen party, the living room party and the smokers up stairs, sitting together on the edge of the bath tub and smoking out the window. I was up there with them for a while, mostly chasing the blonde but also on the off chance that someone would pass around a joint.

Most of the conversations were in English, not only for my benefit, but because there seem to be a lot of foreigners in this town. Exchange students and people who've just decided this is the place for them. Every once in a while people would lapse into Icelandic, but during the past few months I've begun to understand a little bit. I was usually able to follow the gist of things, which made me feel pretty good.

When my beer was empty I abandoned the smokers and went back downstairs for more. Guess who had turned up in the meantime? Rosa! She was chatting away with my flatmate, and she was lovely. I felt awkward, I could tell from the way my flatmate was behaving that he was totally into her. He was at his most charming, telling tall tales and making her laugh.

I retreated back up the stairs before she noticed me. Chicken.

One of the girls in the bathroom party had decided it was too hot and had taken her top off. After all, her bra wasn't any more revealing than a bikini anyway, she claimed. And she was hot. Sure... I grinningly encouraged the blonde to follow suit, but she was a bit more reserved. Laughs and banter and innuendo ensued. Someone brought beer up from downstairs.

And then Rosa joined us.

Of course, I thought to myself, she smokes.

We exchanged hellos, smiles. I tried not to act too familiar, tried not to make it obvious to the whole room that the image of her naked frame on my cock was flashing before my eyes. She was similarly cautious, but you could probably have cut the tension with a knife. I was already thinking about how to get her into bed again... or maybe I should play it cool? Be a little hard to get? Maybe I should keep working on the blonde?

Instead I just prepared to escape again, headed back downstairs "to get another drink".

The blonde asked me to bring her something too.

Okay...

surprises

I've been pretty down in the dumps about the warts for the past few weeks.

I'm rubbish at getting to know girls socially and slowly turning a friendship into something more. I've always started at the other end. Pick them up, get them naked, fill them with cock. See how things go from there. I suppose that's backwards compared to what most people do, but it's worked for me and it's great fun.

How do you do that with warts? It doesn't really work at all.

If I fuck someone and she finds out I knew I had warts, then I'm a right bastard and if she has any backbone at all she'll dump my ass and warn the world about me. If I feign ignorance, then I'm setting myself up for a huge mess when I find someone good. I don't believe in building relationships on lies. If I tell the truth then girls won't sleep with me in the first place and I can't help but wonder, would any girl really want such damaged goods for a boyfriend?

And before you tell me condoms are the solution, no they fucking aren't. They don't cover the warts.

So most weekends I just stay in feeling sorry for myself.

Not all though, a few times I've gone out, had fun, flirted a bit and then run away leaving confused girls in my wake. Good for my ego, but damn I hate the running away part. Some of the girls here are hot like you wouldn't believe.

Friday night I was feeling a bit less depressed than usual, so I put on my runners and went out.

I accompanied my flatmate to a bar named Dillon's, where friends of his were celebrating something. A birthday I think, but most of the celebrations and congratulations were in Icelandic and I didn't really get what was going on. Said flatmate is helpfully refusing to speak English to me, claiming that will help me learn Icelandic faster.

Who told him I wanted to learn Icelandic, anyway? Arrogant bastard.

I just had drinks and chatted and flirted with more cooperative people.

One of the girls caught my eye early on, I had also noticed her with this group a few weeks back and we'd chatted a bit. A lovely ginger, red curls, freckles, pale white skin. Her shoulders were bare and I could tell she had strong arms. Sexy.

I remembered her name, Rosa (rose?), asked her if she remembered mine. She did. She introduced her friend Harpa to me, a very flirtatious brunette. I watched them together and thought about getting the two of them into my bed at once, someday, once the warts were gone...

Rosa and I got on like a house on fire. I jokingly asked her if she had gotten tired of guys trying to pick her up by offering to count her freckles, surely they must try that line all the time? I made a point of admiring her assets as I said so, putting on my best leer. She laughed and agreed that yes, it had become oh so tiresome.

Poor girl, I promised not to try any lines like that then.

The night went on, drinks were drunk, the bar closed. Dillon's is one of the places that closes at 3am, further down the street bars are open longer.

Most of the group said goodnight, either couples eager to get home and shag or singletons feeling put off by the cold and dark. Somehow I ended up heading to Kaffibarinn with Rosa and Harpa and no one else.

Kaffibarinn ("the coffee bar" although I don't think they actually serve coffee) is where all the hip theatre and film types get arsed on weekends. During the week the same crowd hangs out there with shiny macs, being incredibly important and brilliant. Not to mention cleverly dressed. Tossers the lot of them, if you ask me.

But it's the place to be if you want to fawn over movie stars passing through Iceland or dance in a throng of drunken Icelandic hipsters. Not quite as sleazy as Sirkus, but pretty close. And since the pretty girls wanted to go there, so did I.

There was no queue for a change, but we had to stand outside in the cold and wait a bit anyway. While we waited Harpa suddenly remembered that she really wanted to shag one of the guys from the party and ran off to his house to make that happen. Oddly conveniant, I wondered whether the girls had planned it. I wouldn't put it past them.

So I had Rosa all to my drunken self in Kaffibarinn at 4 in the morning.

We were both pretty drunk, but I figured another pint each was probably an excellent idea all the same. At the bar I got distracted by a coworker for a bit, but at the first polite opportunity Rosa put her hand in mine and whispered to me "let's go somewhere we can be alone". I let her lead me to the dance floor.

And we danced.

Smiles, eye contact, we moved around each other, together. I put a hand on her hip, the other on her elbow, keeping contact and slowly bringing her closer and closer to me, until we were pressed against each other from knees to nipples.

I knew she could feel my erection digging into her thigh, but I didn't care. She didn't seem to either.

We danced, and we kissed.

I knew I had to have her in my bed. I just had to see her naked, touch her and taste her, smell her. I pulled her closer and spoke into her ear as our bodies kept moving in time to the music.

"I have a somewhat odd proposition for you. I'd like to take you home, but I'm afraid I can't have sex with you. And I'm afraid I have to get up very early in the morning too, a friend is coming over and I promised to make her breakfast... and then I have work. So it's not a very good invitation. But I would like to invite you over all the same."

I was shocked and amazed that she said yes. We went home.

I was pleasantly surprised how good her pussy tasted.

It was her turn to be surprised when my fingers and tongue brought her to orgasm.

As we cuddled afterwards, she asked me why I wouldn't fuck her. My erection wasn't exactly lacking, I had told her I was single. She didn't get it. So I told her why.

That's when she totally blew me away.

"That's all? I had warts a couple of years ago, they're no big deal. Where's a condom?"

And just like that, she ended my celibacy and ruined my carefully constructed complexes of frustration and self-pity.

How did I get to be so lucky?

I felt a sense of wonder as I watched her impale herself on my erection, pressing her lovely tits together and moving up and down on me, giving me what I've been aching for for what seems like an eternity now.

I remember a time when it would never have occurred to me that I could have such a beautiful girl in my bed. Let alone under circumstances like these.

And yet there she was, riding me, slowly but surely coaxing the cum out of me and relishing every moment of it. I held back as long as I could, gazing at her perfect body, loving how her pussy felt on me. I just wanted to last forever. But I couldn't, she made me come, hard, gasping and digging my fingers into her hips.

And then we did it again.

And again.

And now I can't wait until next weekend! I'm back!!

tart

I dance. Sip my vodka, enjoy the burning sensation as it rolls over my tongue. I discovered early that if I drink it straight, I don't drink it too fast.

That was before I got used to the taste, before I learned to love it.

I still drink it straight, but count the shots.

The heavy beat of the music has me back on the floor, dancing. Leather and latex and black hair surround me. My everyday clothes are out of place, a splash of colour on a goth dance floor. But I don't care, I just let the vodka and the music move me.

Soon I notice another out of place dancer. Tight jeans hug swaying hips and a brown top cover a fit frame. Perky breasts that would fit perfectly in my hands. I'm amused and a little intrigued by how delighted she is with her own reflection, repeatedly lifting her top halfway up to admire her own flat stomach in the mirror by the dance floor. Not for my benefit or anyone else's, but for her own.

As if she isn't quite used to her own body.

We dance. Exchange glances, smiles. Dance.

The D.J. is doing a poor job keeping people on the floor. Great songs and truly awful ones alternate, people come and go. During one of the lulls I go to the bar to refill my glass and meet the self-absorbed dancer there.

She smiles flirtatiously at me, I smile back and introduce myself. Her name is Sally. Or Sandra. Or Samantha. I can't remember. Her face seems strangely older than her body, her hands too. Her voice has a hint of gravel. I have another sip from my glass, relish how it burns. She tells me that I'm very cute.

So cute.

A few songs later, another glass, we meet again and she asks me to follow her to a quiet corner of the club. Sure. I enjoy the attention, try to strike a balance between flattering her back and not leading her on too much. I'm not going to do anything tonight but drink and dance.

She explains to me how her boyfriend is out of town, how he is so often away. She emphasizes how she always likes to play it safe, and it's clear she is talking about sex, offering sex. She says I look fit, can she put her hand on my stomache? Sure, why not? She caresses my stomach and I see hunger in her eyes.

I can imagine her getting down on her knees right there, putting her mouth on me. I'm entertained by the thought of suggesting just that, but nothing escapes my lips but a sly grin. I wasn't going to do anything tonight but drink and dance.

More vodka. More dancing. She's looking pretty good.

Another conversation, she confides in me that she has a strong foot fetish and would love to take me home and just rub my feet. Do I find that repulsive? No, I don't, but it seems a little unusual. Somehow I've never really thought about women having foot fetishes. Although few things would be nicer than a foot rub after dancing for hours at a gay bar turned goth club, I politely decline.

Not giving up, she asks me if I enjoy oral sex. I answer, how could I not? But I'm not doing anything tonight except drinking and dancing.

By now the flirting has gone quite a bit past the point of not disappointing her, I hazily think to myself. Do I care? I'm enjoying myself and I can't bring myself to feel very bad about playing hard to get with a woman who is so blatantly trying to cheat her man. So I flirt, play hard to get. Quite the tart.

The bar closes, the music goes off.

I head out with my mate, she's going in the same direction, we walk her home. We decline her invitation to come in for tea, she makes a point of letting me know where she'll be next weekend. We continue walking. Once out of earshot, my mate tells me he was more than a little amused by the performance. Tells me she had plaintively asked him at one point whether I had something against transsexuals...

Trans... oh.

I hadn't realized. The vodka cushions the blow, I don't feel nearly as dumb as I probably should have. But then again, it didn't matter, did it?

Could have been interesting though.

sirkus

I think I've found my place here.

It's a dive. A sleazy little bar with a low ceiling, sticky tables and far too many people in it. It's called Sirkus, because the locals love all things American but don't care much about spelling.

It's a dive, and it's a meat market.

After a few weekends here, you begin to recognize faces. Regulars, here all the time. I've popped in a couple of times on weeknights, same faces then too, just not all at once.

If you ever decide to visit the place, I've got one piece of advice for you: don't worry about which is the men's room. The ladies will happily occupy the mens' for what will seem like hours and come out oddly more awake and better made up than when they went in... so turn about's fair play. But be a gentleman and don't pee all over the place. Bring a friend or two.

I've had good luck losing myself on what passes for a dance floor. Just moving with the crowd, in time, swaying, rubbing, sweating. Making eyes at the lovely little things all around, grinning slyly when I catch them watching me move. It's what bodies are for. Moving.

Seems this particular meat market is the place to be. I think the owner is Bjork's sister or something like that, musicians who play here often pass through this little dive while sampling the Icelandic nightlife. Maybe I'll get lucky and pick up Lily Allen here one night. But usually there aren't any celebrities here, just drunken Icelanders, horny exchange students and tourists.

It was a couple of weeks back. I was on the dance floor lost in music and beer and intoxicated by the lovely women all around me, when I noticed a pair of eyes on me. A stunning brunette who didn't look away when I looked back. I grinned, she grinned back. And we danced on, each in our place, exchanging glances and moving, dancing.

Eventually, the lights were switched on, the music switched off.

The girl who minds the door started stomping about, shouting something in Icelandic which obviously meant it was time to bugger off, get lost, go home. People stood around finishing their beers and gathering up their things.

I ignored the shouting Icelander and walked up to the brunette. She looked even better with the lights on. I said hello, introduced myself, asked her name. Nadine. American, tourist, alone. Chit, chat, small talk. I tried the straightforward approach; would she like to spend the night with me?

She'd be delighted.

I acted cool, but I could hardly contain my excitement, my desire. We chatted a bit more, our hands met. So civilized. But I ached to get her out of here and into my bed, any bed! I wanted to put my hands all over her pale body, touch her and taste her, fill her up and make her moan. I could see her eyes glancing at my chest and my arms, the lust in her eyes mirroring mine.

We were interrupted.

A big blonde guy with a bushy red beard hiding most of his face. "Hey baby, lose this guy. Look at him! Mediocre! I can treat you better than he could even dream of." I looked up at him incredulously, not letting go of Nadine's hand. "I don't think so," I said calmly. She moved closer to me, her breast brushing against my chest.

The guy walked off without saying another word, the Icelandic girl stomped past us again, still shouting that it was time to leave.

So we left.

The two of us ended up at her hotel, our clothes ended up on the floor.

Hours and hours later, when it was time for her to go on some sightseeing tour with friends, she still hadn't slept at all. She kissed me goodbye and told me that our bearded friend couldn't have been more wrong.

So I'm not mediocre. I wonder if she'll ever e-mail me.

staring

I sat at the bar, talking to ex-gf #5 and checking the door periodically. No sign of Maria. We had been exchanging messages, she knew where I could be found. Part of me wanted her to come find me, part of me didn't like that idea at all.

Each time I checked the door my gaze crossed the face of a women sitting on the other side of the oval-shaped bar. She invariably had her eyes pointed my way, although I couldn't be entirely sure she was staring at me and not someone behind me or next to me.

After a while my glances became about checking whether she was looking first, the door second.

Did I know her? She seemed familiar.

I got off my chair and made my way to the toilet, holding my glass and scanning faces as I walked. A curl here, a freckle there, eyeliner, earrings, smiles. So many women. The atmosphere seemed charged with pent up sexual energy.

As I stood by the urinal, I remembered. I had met the woman across the bar at a party a couple of years ago, we had somehow gotten into a detailed conversation about the pros and cons of monogamy. She'd been a bit weirded out by my opinions, but at the same time she had also been intrigued.

I made my way back to the bar, went the long way around so I'd pass by her. I caught her eye, grinned.

"Hi, remember me?" I asked.

"Yeah, we met at Finnegan's place didn't we?"

"Right!" I introduced myself, not expecting her to remember my name after all this time. "How've you been?"

She got a funny look on her face.

"Actually, that conversation we had at the party made me reevaluate some things I'd been taking for granted. I've always wanted to tell you." She leaned closer to me and said quietly, "I've also always regretted not going home with you that night."

I grinned.

"I was quite disappointed that you didn't. I'd invite you over tonight, but I'm afraid I have previous engagements." I glanced meaningfully across the bar at #5.

After a moment's pause I added. "Although, she probably wouldn't mind you joining us. If you're interested in that sort of thing."

She looked at her shoes.

"You saw me staring at her, didn't you?"

So that's why she'd always been looking in my direction! Hah!

My grin got a couple of millimeters wider. I introduced them and thus began what turned out to be a very interesting night.

skin

"Shall we spend the night together?" she asked, frank as usual.

My drunken mind mulled that one over. A warm body would be nice.

"Yeah, but I'm pretty broken up about Maria. I'd like company, but that's all."

Sounded good to her.

We took a cab, stumbled haphazardly up the stairs, in. Jeans off, tops off, socks off... but we left the underwear on. She was wearing a blue bra and matching knickers. Simple but nice.

Climbed into bed together, touched.

She had the most wonderful skin. Smooth, firm, tanned skin, covering a surprisingly muscular body. I love the skin of a woman who takes care of herself, works out. This young lady was in good shape.

We experimented with a kiss or two, but it didn't click.

I helped her remove a contact lens.

We cuddled, enjoying the feel of each others' skin. Slept.

The next morning we cuddled a bit more. She gave me a short back-rub, I gave her a coffee.

Maybe I'm getting old, but lately it seems like some of my best one-night stands don't involve any sex at all. Sometimes just warm skin is enough.

hot tub

Meeting someone in a pool, hot tub or on a beach turns the flirtation process on it's head a little, in my opinion. Single people will inevitably check each other out, whether they do it subtly or with catcalls. There are fewer secrets, you can tell if she has firm breasts, she can see whether you have a hairy back.

Flirting in this state is a subtle, delicate thing. It's so easy to get sleazy with all that flesh on display; there are fewer props and less neutral ground. Touching a clothed arm isn't as intimite as touching a naked one, standing close enough to smell someone in a noisy bar is fine, but less so if people are barely dressed.

Complimenting an item of clothing is one of my favorite nonthreatening ways to let someone know I'm looking and like what I see. Women often put alot of effort into their wardrobes, so these compliments are almost always appreciated. But bikinis just aren't really substantial enough for that to work.

So it's about the eyes, smiles, body language. Suggestive conversation.

This morning a 36 hour romance ended with Miss Hot Tub getting on a plane and leaving the country she was only visiting.

It was a flawless little relationship. Delicate flirting in the hot tub and pool, meaningful conversations, hot, sweaty, multiorgasmic sex. Extreme sleep deprivation. I stroked her hair and watched her finally sleep a couple of hours this morning, woke her up in time to catch her plane. We took pictures of each other at sunrise, kissed goodbye.

We'll almost certainly meet again, someday, but I somehow doubt the both of us will be single.

Damn geography.