Pollocks a Tango and then a Fandango – Soho Part 2

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I took breakfast at the hotel. I had little choice. The rain that had been forecast had arrived and in a big way. It was raining buckets, it was raining cats and dogs, it was coming down in sheets. Fucking rain. Actually, it worked to my advantage because the buffet breakfast was exactly what I wanted. Muesli (with yogurt and fruit if I wanted), ham, salmon, cheese, salad and bread and unlimited coffee. It wasn’t as good as The Krasnapolsky in Amsterdam but it did the job (and was considerably cheaper). By the time I’d finished (taking my time with a house copy of The Times), the rain had stopped and I was ready to tuck into London as a tourist. I headed for The Royal Academy, off Piccadilly. It was on the recommendation of my hairdresser, a Toni & Guy guy. He’d visited a few weeks before and had enthused about an all black canvas which wasn’t actually black. Apparently, when you observed closely it was made up of red, blue and green specks. Well, y’gotta see something like that.

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My first mistake was over the expression Abstract Expressionism. As I approached the counter to buy a ticket for that exhibition I was priming myself to buy a ticket to the Abstract Impressionism exhibition when I saw a sign: Abstract Expressionism. Shit. How embarrassing if I’d asked for the former.

“Can I help you, sir.”

“I asked for one ticket.”

“I’m sorry, sir. There is no such thing. It’s Expressionism, not Impressionism.”

“Oh.”

Quick recovery.

“I’ll have one of those, then.”

We exchanged money for ticket (is it really different to money in exchange for sex). It seems that they had run out of the catalogues that are included in the ticket price. My ticket cost £13.30 instead of £17.50. I was given a more modestly printed overview, which apparently did the same job. I later discovered that it was the text minus half a dozon illustrations. Good deal!

After surrendering the ticket for an audio tour guide I launched myself into the exhibition, some twelve halls. There were some Pollocks, which I’d particularly wanted to see but most of it was bollocks. Including the commentary. People see what they want to see. But what the fuck, I was in out of the rain. And it occurred to me that my photo interpretations of the some of the window girls in Amsterdam (one in Soho) fitted the expression Abstract Expressionism. And that gave me an idea. But it would have to wait until I got home.

Around 2.00 pm I was contemplating walk ups. I haven’t been in London on a Saturday for a while and most of the names in my address book didn’t mean anything to me. I went to a walk up where I’d met a new girl a couple of months before. There was just a chance that she was still there. She wasn’t. The name on the door told me that. However, the name had the phrase ‘new girl’ beside it so I decided to give it a go.

“Oh, dear. This looks like a mistake.”

The girl who opened the door just wasn’t my type.

“She’s with someone. She’ll be five minutes but you can wait if you want.”

It wasn’t the girl, it was her maid.The crazy thing was that she could have worked there (just not my type).

I took up her offer and while we waited I enquired about the girl I’d come to see. She’d never heard of her but suggested another walk up. It was one which I had associated with the girl a few weeks before.

I asked about the girl working there at the moment.

“Dark, shoulder length hair. About my build.”

I decided to try the other walk up.

When I got there I heard footsteps descending. I passed a guy on the stairs. He was Asian. Chinese maybe. About forty. Maybe forty-five.

The door was opened by a blonde who I guessed to be in her late twenties. Cute. But not the girl I’d come to see. I stood there hoping that my disappointment wasn’t registering. She stepped aside to let me in. She introduced herself and held out her hand. I took it and shook it and introduced myself.

The connection wasn’t right. I could tell straight away but I was there and there were few alternatives.

“Where are you from?”

“Poland.”

Shit. No ice breaker by using some native tongue. That would have to wait.

“I’d like half an hour. It would have to include sixty-nine, though.”

“That’s OK.”

She gave me a price. It was unexpected. Then she apologised and reinvented it. I would learn why later.

“And something for the maid.”

I recognised the maid who was busying herself in the kitchen. She is always busy. Always on the move. I decided that I could test my game (the one I have been considering for a while). I dug into my shoulder bag and drew out a small sack of white chocolate, silver covered coins (Christmas is on the horizon).

The girl had them in her hand before she realised what they were.

“It’s OK. Let’s see what she says.”

The maid got the joke and said thank you. They didn’t mention the absence of real money but I coughed up a two-pound coin anyway. It was a mistake, though. I should have waited until I knew both maid and girl. I was probably coming across as weird to the girl (and not in a nice way).

When she returned from the kitchen along with the maid’s smiles and ‘thank you’ I followed her to the bedroom. Great body. Great bum, fully exposed (with the exception of a thin strip of black thong up the crack). Pretty little face (pixie-cute). Neat waist. Slim, shapely legs, accentuated by five inch heels. I’ve used the room before. Indeed, I know it well and I have had some sensational sex in it. We undressed. I washed my hands. I’m making a statement.

“Have you washed? I passed your last client on the stairs.”

“Of course.”

Maybe that was a lie.

I encouraged her to lie down on the bed and set about working my magic. To cut a long story short it didn’t work. She lay there dutifully, passively, and putting up with it.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

She inquired as to whether I had a girlfriend or wife.

“No.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

It appears that she has a thirty-year old brother and a twenty-six year old brother.

I played with her (cunt). First I played with her clitoris (finger sliding up and down the slit for a few minutes) then I swirled my finger around her clitoris (for a few minutes), then I rubbed it hard and fast (but lightly) in an ‘up and down motion (for a few minutes). Then I knelt between her legs and gave it a lick calculated to bring her to orgasm. No luck. I might just as well have been fucking a corpse. I set about a missionary fuck, which was very nice. For me. Then we did doggy, first in the traditional position then with her prone on the bed with her legs closed and mine either side of hers, trapping me in a deliciously wet, soft space. It was nice. Then we did her on top. It was OK, I guess.

“I think we should do Spoons.”

She looked down at me, still impaled on my erection. She felt hot in there.

“No. You on top, doggy or me on top. That’s all.”

She said it like a ticket collector on public transport giving you options.

“Do you know what Spoons is?”

“No.”

And she clearly didn’t care or want to know.

“How old are you?”

“Guess, then I’ll tell you.”

She guessed. She did it like she was messing with me. She clearly wasn’t messing with me enough because she got it right. I confirmed her guess. Her jaw dropped and her eyes popped. I figured that this was pointless. I told her to get off. We dressed. I won’t be going back. To make sure, I asked her when she worked (like I was really interested). It seems that this is her only afternoon gig. On top of it she works two night shifts. The indications are that she is a suck and fuck girl and not looking to engage with the clients. It might have something to do with the night time experiences – get ’em in, get it over with and get ’em out. Obviously, it might just be me. However, she is the first girl I haven’t connected with this year (and there have been a lot of connections). Indeed, she’s the first for a long while but I did sort of know as soon as we made eye contact. So did she. If I had been there for a quick ten minute suck and fuck it would have been good (very good), but I wasn’t, I like to take my time and I like to play. She doesn’t.

After that experience, I decided to play safe and went to a girl who is a known quantity. The maid sent me straight through to the bedroom and into the arms of someone I’d never seen before!!!! Like the last one she was pretty but (like the last one) she wasn’t my type. I did my best to cover for it and paid for half an hour. After depositing the money with The Bank of Maid she came back and went to cuddle. I was unprepared. It was a clumsy cuddle. I suggested that she lie down on the bed. She suggested that I lie down. Indeed, she was insistent. So I did. I soon realised why. She has a routine, an act, just like I do. And it’s good (just like mine). I went with it. She has good hands. She’s a bit too theatrical (Ohhhh, Ahhhh), however, like every time she’s touched it’s a stunning pleasure sensation for her. After a while we swapped places but it wasn’t the same as usual (it definitely wasn’t what I wanted). She pretended to respond (Ohhhh, Ahhhh). So I fucked her. It was going pretty good and then it started to feel really good which, in turn, led to me fucking like a maniac.

And then it was over.

“Oh, I needed that.”

Not as much as I did. It was more unnecessary theatre (on her part).

As we dressed I asked her about her plans. She plans to make enough to set up a business. Maybe a travel agency. In Russia. I said I was pleased to contribute to her project. She said she hoped that I returned. She has a beautiful little hole and I enjoyed licking it, so while it’s not likely, it’s not out of the question. I checked her work days, just in case.

Then I went back to the hotel, picked up my laptop, found a Costa, ordered a coffee and set about writing this up.

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I had a substantial complementary snack with wine at the hotel then went along to The Phoenix Theatre to see The Last Tango. There is a lot about The Last Tango which isn’t my thing (including the plot, the music and the songs) but I do like to watch Flavia dancing (subsequently my stylist told me that he has cut her hair!!!!!!). I arrived at 7.30 (by my watch) and was told that the performance (which I expected to start at 7.45) had just started. No worries. They would sneak me in after the first number. I waited at the back of the stalls and noticed a spare seat at the end of the aisle at the very back. The usher said it would be OK to take it (instead of my seat in the third row from the stage). An absolutely clear view.

How was it? The show, I mean. Good enough. Because I have watched quite a lot of the BBC series Strictly Come Dancing I found myself concentrating on the footwork, the rondes and armography and arm extensions and the quality of the lifts, etc., etc. I expect you get the picture. And Flav was Fab!!!!

Increasingly, I find theatre productions end ‘early’. That is to say, they end at a time which makes it possible to do something else afterwards. I went to Poppies on Old Compton Street (the Ann Summers end), the site of the original 2-i’s coffee bar for a fish and chip meal, which was seriously excellent – boneless fish in tempura batter, a bucket of mushy peas and the weirdest song collection you ever heard. All the staff were foreigners. Fuck Brexit!!!!! And nearly all the diners were hyperventilating at the prospect of getting staff to pose with them for selfies. After stuffing my face I went back to the hotel, a stride away, and changed – and headed for a strip club.

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I breezed in, paid the entry fee, ordered a drink and was immediately set upon by a girl who was sitting at the bar. The girls will invest in talk-time in order to be asked to perform a paid dance. That way the customer has a pleasant time which extends well beyond the actual dance time. The problem is that the girl who hits on you is unlikely to be the one you actually want to marry (if you know what I mean). This one was (marriage material, I mean), she was East European. But not someone I can romance in her own language. I looked for a connection. I told her about one of the interviews I’d done for an Vice online magazine (there was a version in her country). That led naturally to my interest in taking photographs. I showed her some photos of some Dam Girls on my phone. She looked at a few of them, then paused.

“I don’t believe that you took these. I’ve seen this one before.”

Interesting (I think that it appeared on a Russian news site which plundered my own – she’s not Russian, by the way). I logged on to janvanderdamm.wordpress.com so that I could offer a measure of verification. She scrolled through the blog entries, including the ones devoted to photographs.

“Pervert. You’re a pervert.”

I’m not sure that she really understands what the word means. I suspect that she just likes the taste of it in her mouth.

“It’s your passion.Taking photographs.”

That has a more agreeable ring to it.

“It’s a blog. You will be part of it in a few days time.”

“You can’t do that, write about people without their permission.”

“I can. If I want to.”

“It’s Karma. Karma will get you.”

She may be correct about that (certainly in a few days time I will have a string of bad luck – let’s hope that it’s over and done with). I decided that I would like to see what she has between her legs (maybe I am a pervert, after all). I told her that she could dance for me. We went to the private dance area and hit a queue. Good. It meant that we could talk and I could play with her bum while we waited. It seems that touching is permitted if both couples are standing. She’s petite. She’s slight. Her bum is cute, enough to make a very feminine, soft cushion when she is being fucked from behind, but not enough to be an obstruction.

She’s older than she looks. She’s in her late twenties. I would have said twenty-two. She’s here in London to make money to ‘fund her passion’. She’s an artist and a photographer. She showed me a selection of photos and artworks on her phone. I know, everyone takes photos but there is a difference between photography as an art and taking pictures of yourself (and your plate of food) for Facebook. And here was the difference. I’ve met some very interesting women while doing this. They aren’t the sad, desperate losers that the rescue industry portrays, they are intelligent, articulate, focused young women. And many are artists.

“Do you have a website?”

“No. To be honest I’m not a computer person (no, she’s an artist).”

“You mean you’d like to dump the photos on someone and say sort it for me.”

I guess I had me in mind when I said that, like if I could get her number maybe I could get to fuck her. She returned to the theme of pervert a few times then said that I reminded her of someone.

“I’ll tell you who afterwards.”

Wow! Someone famous? David Bowie? George Clooney? Aidan Turner?

It seems that she lives in Soho. (Fuck! I want to live in Soho.)

“What do you like to eat?”

“I’m a vegan.”

She said it like it was a challenge (to me).

“I want to become a beegan. Do you know what that is?

“No.”

“It’s someone who lives on air alone.”

She means breatharian. I didn’t disillusion her. It sounds like a group that lives Beyond the Wall, doesn’t it? We eventually got into the dance booths and she immediately started getting rough. I’m sitting in the booth and she has her clothes on (the bras is made of quite robust material) and she starts crashing into my face with her chest. It doesn’t feel good. It’s happened to me once before and that time I rode it out. This time (with hindsight) I didn’t.

“Stop it. That hurts. Do gentle or don’t do it at all.”

I don’t know if she was being playful or spiteful. Maybe she thought that I would like it rough. She changed tack and settled down to erotic as opposed to crazy.

When the bras came off I could see that her tits were really small. We had a conversation about it. I told her not to change them. She said that she was quite happy with small tits but that a lot of men like big ones. Soon after, she gave me her thong. It was clear that she expected me to sniff it. I don’t do that. I put it down on the bench beside me. Of course, there are things that I do do.

“I’d like to tie you up and do things to you.”

“No. I’ll tie you up.”

“Sorry. That doesn’t work. I like the girl to be helpless.”

“Well, maybe, if you’re gentle.”

During the second dance she played with herself.

“It’s wet.”

She put her fingers to her nose then mine.

“Pervert.”

I told her that I only lick clean pussy.

“No, it has to smell, otherwise it’s not really pussy. Another dance?”

“Of course.”

While she danced she told me about a particularly perverse thing that she had once done for money (a lot of money, and very perverse, and with a Turkish guy – maybe ten years from now I’ll explain what it was). She is a curious combination of calm, cool and collected (and talented and artistic and articulate and bright) and completely off the wall. I didn’t touch her much but at one point another girl told me to take my hands off her arse.

“Why does she care?”

“I’m a new girl. She’s looking out for me.”

“Another?”

I hadn’t seen her bumhole during her routine. I wanted to. I sometimes find that the direct approach works.

“Okay but turn around, spread your legs, bend over and show me between your legs.”

She obliged. And obliged. And obliged. She has a beautiful little slit, cute arse cheeks and a really nice bumhole. It was the best twenty pounds worth of fun I’ve had for a while. She stopped posing and started to rub her bum up and down my chest, then settled down on my cock and gave that a rub too. I don’t usually get an erection when the girls do that but this time I did.  She seemed pleased with herself. Then she seemed to have a thought. She broke off from the bum fun, turned around and then knelt down between my legs at cock sucking height. And then she frisked me. At first it was a pat down, then she opened a couple of buttons on my shirt. She did it like it was ‘more fun’ but I believe that she really was looking for a hidden camera. If that was the case, she was going to be disappointed. She got up and stood with her back to one of the mirrors on the wall. She stood with her feet apart and then slid her back down the mirror until she was squatting at piss on the floor height. I liked that too. I would like to have watched her piss, and maybe put my hand between her legs while she did it. Pervert.

“Another?”

“No.”

You can have too much fun. We left the booth together. I was trailing her, hand in hand as we snaked our way past other couples who were waiting to use the booths or just standing and talking. She stopped abruptly and turned to look me straight in the eye.

“My father. You remind me of my father.”

It took a moment to register what she had said and why. It wasn’t what I was expecting to hear but I didn’t miss a beat.

“So what was it like showing your dad your bumhole and the slit between your legs, knowing that he wanted to lick both of them and play with them?”

She treated it like a rhetorical question. Instead of answering she told me how she was feeling.

“I’m wet. Really wet.”

I put my free hand on her upper arm. She was, indeed, damp. So was her back. The exertion had made her sweat; she was clammy to the touch. However, I’m sure that she meant wet between her legs.

“What are you going to do?”

It was getting late. There was maybe another hour of playtime before the shop shut for the night.

“Up to you. You want to work that’s OK, you want to talk that’s OK.”

She said that she would give it a go with the Muslim boys (I assumed) who were making up most of the audience but if she didn’t click she would come up to the bar and talk.

I went to the bar and ordered a drink and was immediately accosted by a twenty-year old Spanish girl. I had no interest.

“The girl behind you. What’s her name?”

It had been bugging me all night. She was the very first girl to dance for me when I first visited the club, She had told me that she was from Brazil. It had been nice. She is by far the most attractive girl in the club. However, since I saw her that time she has had breast implants. It’s just not my thing.

“I don’t know. You like her more than me.”

“No, no. that’s not true.”

It was true but it would be mean to let her think that. I explained the situation and that I couldn’t recall her name. Later it would come to me. Her name is Olivia.

Soon after, my little artist friend re-appeared and came my way. Fuck. I’m too polite to tell Spanish Girl to go away (and my girlfriend read that as her cue to fuck off). I told Spanish Girl I had no money and she moved on, but her place was taken immediately by Romanian Girl (by this time my girlfriend was with someone else). I played my Romania card to good effect then told her that I had run out of money.

“No’a barnee.”

“What?”

“No’a barnee.”

She still didn’t get it.

“No money.”

“Oh, no’a barnee. That’s not a problem. There’s a place just along the street where you can get money from the wall.”

I relented and let her perform a totally unmemorable dance for me. Then I went back to the bar and found my girlfriend in the clutches of two (distinctly heavy) guys. I dumped my glass with its unfinished drink and left. Outside I was accosted by a black guy who wanted to take me on to my next good time.

I declined.

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