I started work in the September. By December I had a flat in an affluent suburb of west London which I shared with two friends and my adult life started. Days of routine. Nights of structure. A life of discipline and responsibility. Financially things were tight. But there was a sense of independence and of growing up. I found trying to come to terms with the understanding that everything I had worked so conscientiously for had led to this. Everything seemed overly-structured, rather too serious and lacked spontaneity. However, I was better off than many and felt duty-bound to accept my lot. At least for now.
I stayed fit by running around the streets of London and, at weekends, played football for my regular team and enjoyed plenty of male bonding. I had the occasional use of the family car so my social life ticked over. Girl friends were as elusive as ever but I still had acne and was able to conveniently hide behind a temporary, pubescent skin condition as a convenient explanation.
But I wanted s**. Someone had turned the tap off and I missed the excitement and the adrenal rush of having a date and knowing how it would end. I understood the conventional model involving ‘serious’ relationships, moral responsibility and procreation but it seemed to involve commitment and a lack of spontaneity. The rush of having a date where the outcome was pre-determined seemed somewhat more pleasing than taking a girl out and being endlessly polite and well-behaved. I had several very good female friends who I spent time with discussing politics, families and art cinema but it wasn’t sexy. It seemed that sex for sex’s sake had a place and it seemed arousing, erotic and highly desirable.
Days turned into months and nothing happened. I’d temporarily stopped writing letters to wanton strangers while my life settled down. I wrestled with the issue of the suspicion that might be caused by endless self-addressed envelopes popping onto the doormat of a communal flat. The boys were far too inquisitive and couldn’t be trusted not to steam open any mail that wasn’t a bill. I arranged a PO Box number where I had to go to a local postal agent to collect my mail. This seemed more diplomatic and discrete.
I started purchasing the contact magazine again and waited for the flat to be empty before scrolling through the contents in an attempt to secure more secret liaisons. This process involved identifying suitable ads which had either alluring photographs of attractive women, or wording which implied that I might be suitable. The more salacious the better, although I deeply suspected that such ads were fake. The one element that was essential was that I sought dates that involved visiting. Entertaining in the flat was a non-starter. Being interrupted by a fire extinguisher was inappropriate. These manoeuvres were to be conducted undercover. Furtive. The secret service.
Going to the agent to collect mail became something of an obsession. I picked somewhere within walking distance of my office so I could visit at lunchtime. I remember the knot of excitement in my stomach on the morning of a planned visit. The pregnant anticipation. Only to be massively deflated and devastated by the almost constant refrain of ‘no mail today’. This rather crushed my expectant spirit. Very occasionally my heart jumped on the production of a stamped addressed envelope with the familiar scrawled handwriting bearing witness to the instigator. Me. Often though it was the return of my original letter with no comment, just return to sender. Not my type. Not suitable. No. Not even ‘thank you’.
I became disconsolate and only visited the PO Box once a week. Then one day, out of the blue, there was a letter waiting for me and it was not a stamped addressed envelope. The handwriting was pleasing and the contents were thin. A letter of two paragraphs. Would I be interested in visiting an address in north London where an extremely attractive 28 year old would be very pleased to see me. In fact she’d be very excited and would dress as I desired. Or so said her husband. He was not to be involved but hoped I wouldn’t mind if he was ‘downstairs’. Just for security. Part of me thought this was odd. The other part thought it was exciting. Clearly they had an arrangement. Maybe he liked his wife being satisfied by a stranger. Maybe she liked the illicit excitement of something different. Maybe she liked depriving her husband. Maybe it was a game. Maybe it was just a fantasy. Maybe it wasn’t real.
I wrote back saying I’d be delighted to visit them. I half expected no reply. My visits to the mail house went back to being daily. I didn’t have to wait long as I received a reply within two days. This time different handwriting. A letter from her, Rachel, saying how much she was looking forward to my visit and how I was not to worry about him. We would be able to enjoy our time together without interference and that he would be invisible. I was to concentrate on her. Totally. Oh and she hoped I liked stockings and high heels. Silly question. Oh and she hoped I liked the picture. Rachel, deeply suggestive, totally gorgeous. The picture alone gave me an erection.
It felt like Christmas had arrived many months early. This concept seemed deeply arousing. Would he be listening…..watching…..excited…..tantalised…..aroused? We arranged to meet the following Saturday night.
I arrived at a nice suburban detached house in a smart north London street on time and rang the bell. A gorgeous apparition called Rachel wafted to the door and greeted my like a long-lost friend. Her scent captivated my senses and her lips met mine almost before I’d crossed the threshold. She was hungry and this was a banquet. We went into a plush living room and she made me a drink. A spirit and tonic. My spirits didn’t need a tonic but she insisted. While she was making the drink I was able to observe her slim and toned physique. Hair up. Long legs. Sculpted from the Renaissance. Wedding ring. When she handed me the drink I saw that her hand was shaking. Nervous. That made two of us. We sat and talked. Close. She wanted me close. No sign of Mr Rachel. I wondered if he was banned to the kitchen. Cleaning the fridge. Downstairs. Under the stairs. The invisible man.
Rachel was lovely. A sexy veneer, yet vulnerable and she liked me. I could tell. After 15 minutes of small talk she said ‘I really can’t wait any longer’. She kissed me imploringly, took my hand and led me upstairs. The bedroom we went to was small but well-appointed. Not the master bedroom, but who was counting. What followed was urgent, sensual and enrapturing. Totally mutual and almost loving. Sometimes sex is like a language. This spoke to me of a woman who was unsurprisingly shy but needy and extremely grateful to have found me. Her kissing became ravenous and her body opened itself to my advances as the temperature rose. I felt welcome and needed. I was only a young boy but I had the medicine and the cure. She clearly accepted that this was not a quick fix. A course of medication was required to make her well. I was the doctor and was happy for this house visit to last as long as required. Her noises came from her soul and her orgasms were plentiful. It was like releasing a blocked valve. I felt strong and valued. Each tremor came from a place deep inside her and she urged me to go with her to a place far away. I did with relish and exultation.
Afterwards we lay together for a few moments wrapped in each other’s arms. Briefly savouring our intimacy. Getting our breath back but with a sense of completeness. I saw what I thought were tears in her eyes. It seemed she felt the need to explain. Her husband it seemed had a ‘condition’ which meant he was unable to satisfy her. She hadn’t had sex for six months and they had been planning this for a long time. She hoped I didn’t mind. I didn’t. In fact it felt like a privilege.
I never met Mr Rachel. Possibly too embarrassed to reveal himself. I felt sad for him and for her. She said she’d love to see me again but I never heard from her. To this day, I feel that we shared something precious. I was delighted to have been of service.