David Russell

Yes, I’m a narcissist and proud of it, happily fed by my screen and video role models. And after many years of sheer laziness, and being condemned for, I got into a bit of exercise and healthy living to give my attitude some substance and justification. The muscles gradually tightened, the flab burned away, and all the aftermath of that past accumulated sugar evaporated. At last, I could really show myself off to myself in the mirror.

I worked out my own self-revelation show. Late at night, under a dim light, I did my beachwear striptease by putting on a pair of very brief swimming trunks, synthetic fibre, with a leopard-skin pattern, and over them, a tight pair of Fifties trunks, dark blue, tautly straddling my slender hips. Still, over these a pair of boxer shorts and a singlet top. With the light just right, red, subdued, I’d do a slow dressing down in front of the mirror, acting like an indoor surfing beach boy.

Taking off my singlet, my taut, rippling torso shone. I swung it slowly through several alluring angles. Then on to the shorts, just wide enough to hold some extra thigh. I then took off the elastic waistband, which was as tight as my firm midriff. Down and off, giving off a butterfly breath, a rousing, flushing thrill as my blue trunks and full thighs were revealed in the mirror. I swung my hips—they jutted them proudly.

All that cycling, all that time in the gym and the pool, with all their on-going aches and pains, and the occasional buffeting, falls and sprains, had paid off. Getting into top condition sometimes means flirting with injury, but I had to get away from that drip I had been! I’d made it—could match those figures on any of the hoardings or in any of the supplements and glossies. Now, I was beautiful, a beach-girl’s dream, and dreaming of my beach girl. Unseen and undefined, my seductive partner was disrobing down to a super-clingy lycra one-piece, or maybe one of those gorgeous Jantzen suits from the Fifties they’ve just brought back on the market, so graceful, so lovely…

Down to the briefer trunks, more flexing, more hip-swivelling. That Retro wave gave me a huge flush of energy, a bridge to make up for all that time lost in the past—breathing the life of modernity into the archaic. Being alone, I cancelled the last revelation in the dark—had to save that for contingent reality. The whole atmosphere rippled with the waters of fantasy, swirling to immerse me. The reverie oscillated between the pool and the steamy shower room, immersion and towelling, mirrors sometimes look really good when they are steamed over…

Of course, I ever yearned for that special lady, someone with a bit of glamour and panache, for a gracious erotic encounter, but I was so shy. I was a bit alienated from my workplace. The female staff there very much had their own closed community and their own external partners. The usual public meeting places like discos seemed so cold, so anonymous.

As I became more relaxed with my body, though, bodies in general became a focus of fascination for me. I started going to life-drawing classes. I relished the graceful, svelte models. It would be lovely to have an experience with one, even more so if the encounter included some role-reversal. It was nice to feel some ripples of androgyny. Yet, I still could not bring myself to ask any of them outright for a date.

Then one evening the class was beginning to get impatient to get started, until the secretary came in and announced that the booked model could not make it that evening. I was aquiver—this was my opportunity. “Could I stand in?” I asked nervously.

“Yes, please do. You’ve really saved the day,” said the slender, gracefully ageing tutor.

At last, I’d broken the ice! It was a delicious turn-on, taking my clothes off behind the dark green velvet curtain, which was interesting comparison with a swimming pool changing room. I could reveal the unrobed me—my firm pecs, and my slender waist. I was a lithe, lovely model, and some alluring dames drew me with relish. I was the reversed-out, retroactive answer to the pre-Raphaelites.

At last, the sun peeped through the cloud-blankets after all those overcast days. I needed to be refreshed again. It had now been quite a while since that last fabulous foray, which had so beautifully realized my dreams, and convinced me unreservedly that I had overcome that fumbling clumsiness to attain tactile fulfilment. It had flushed me with a surge of my unrealized teenage —all those things I’d missed in those formative years, now the gaps and fissures filled in— made me feel I’d both frozen the body and mind in their freshness, and kept them pulsing, too. The intervening daily routines had levelled comfortably down, then dullness loomed again. So, it came to me in a flash, with light shards shimmering from my stepping into a puddle—I desperately needed a replay, a recharge—activate the spark plug.

Indeed, there was a twinge of regret coursing through me about having mislaid Sandra’s number. It was so stupid of me to throw out that precious piece of paper in that fit of impulsive spring-cleaning, which often has the effect of unearthing old snippets of sentimental value, and reconnecting with submerged, valid threads which are then slotted into reflective order. Not all was lost, though. No one is finally unique, no matter how exceptional she appears. There are always others. Just cast an eye on those other fish in the sea, those beautiful swathes milling through the shopping precincts, that visual, tactile kaleidoscope, brushing off on me, making me feel rejuvenated.

For some time now, I kept that next in preference, special, alluring phone number lying alluringly in the top of my desk drawer, together with its seductive picture, throbbing in that electric corset, with a bit of plastic sheen, but not too much. The photo was in the back number of Rendezvous magazine. It was Darlene, her firm breasts feeling like power switches throwing out energy to my delicate touch. Some evenings, I alternated between looking at her picture, watching Madonna’s Erotica video and looking online at the catalogues of retro lingerie. It was a turn-on flashback to those relics of a repressive era relating in some way to current tastes for bondage and corporal punishment— probably now that the horrid past is now at a safe distance, for some of the people, some of the time.

Everybody is constrained a bit by workaday routines, but the right amount of delay never fails to add relish to any quest.. Contrast is essential to any definition. Going too fast always detracts from the final effect. So there was a happy, breathy anticipatory gap of a few days, which honed the expected savour to perfection, the oven simmering at a low heat to prepare the exotic dish. All through it, I was flooded with a rapturous cocktail of reminiscence and anticipation. It started with the exquisite euphoria of my first, unpremeditated, off-balance one-night stand. This included an opening, long drawn-out kiss, tiptoeing back to the flat, the body revelation, the love, the bath, the idyllic park walk, and the farewell. It was the perfect memory, frozen expressions of affection and always there for replay in my mind in times of stress and depression Now, with the extra bonus of all those breathy film and video scenes to spice it up further, every thought was a metaphorical caress. Cameramen have a good time, which must be great to touch with the eyes, and great to have the senses melt into each other.

Bethesda and Hector, the two objects of mutual desire, recently moved, at roughly the same time, but unknown to each other, into 10^th floor apartments in facing tower blocks. Both were workaholics and frequently laboured on their terminals through the night. Both were shy, but they ached inside for a charismatic stranger. Both found it hard to initiate conversation and wondered if some sign language could help to break the ice.

Taking a breather from his tiresome statistical database, Hector looked out of his window and saw that the apartment facing his did not have its curtain drawn. He could see its warm, reddish light and a full-length mirror on its wall. His own form must have been clearly visible from the other apartment. He caught a glimpse of a tall, graceful figure of a woman in a maroon dressing gown. His heart fluttered, but as her face turned towards the window, shy politeness took over. He felt she might resent the presence of a voyeur and so drew his curtains and return to his toils.

Could it have been her whom he had seen at the party, full-skirt, petticoat, doing that Spanish gypsy dance, her hips propelling an elevating swirl, to hint—as a foretaste, of what he had missed at the pool? Or was it she striding along the street that time in the white jumpsuit, which caressed her as he longed his body to? Like a dream she had flitted past. Now was the time to infuse a little wakefulness into that dream—but not too much. It must be at the pool they would meet again, be openly undressed and break warm water ice with bodies free. She’d see his progress, enjoy his physique in its new trim—arm, shoulder, calf and thigh muscles toned up to match her form. His black trunks would set off the other parts.

Trembling with anticipation, Cedric set off. He recalled the old adage about finding something once one had stopped consciously looking for it. His eyes drank in trees, sky, sunlight—enjoyed their immediacy…but gradually, that shape ahead grew clearer. So sunny nature was to be the setting and, like himself, did not have to stand alone. Energy suspended became energy decisive.

So, how did I, Jim Herrington, come across this place? By inspired fumbling, which is the way most things cross my path. In those far off days, like so many people of my ilk, I was an impassioned hitchhiker. Somewhat fashionably and rather typically, I followed a long, meandering route around the country, taking occasional prompts and directions from my Alternative Organic Living magazine. My destination house was charted there.

Having previously been socialized into the YHA, I didn’t really foresee any problems getting on with whomsoever I might encounter, unless they were the problematical ones, in which case I would split.

The girl who came to the door, wearing a long patchwork robe, obviously home-made, looked rather like an alternative Youth Hostel warden. “What brings you here,” she asked me, as if I were one of many who had passed through the house, “Time warp? Culture shock?”

“A bit of both.” I felt that my turgid, disordered thesis and my messed-up academic career merited those tags.

“So, life got you into a bit of a tangle, and you’re interested in straightening yourself out? That’s cool.” Not as a stranger! We could have taken those words out of each other’s mouths.

“Your bread’s ok?” She gave me a suspicious, sidelong look which she quickly covered with a tight smile. “This is a safe address for giros,” she said, “within reason.”

“I’m into grants and fees,” I replied.

Her eyes lit up. “OK, Jim, then there’s room for you. I guess you are familiar with the kind of set-up we have here. There’s a rota of weekly tasks to keep the place shipshape—the living rooms and the other shared rooms. What you do with your own room is your own affair, again within reason, of course. And you must be prepared to attend house meetings. Domestic business is done on a communal basis, that is, based on democratic majority decision.”

“I’ve been an aspiring student politician, honey, so that’s second nature to me.”

“Do you…take anything?”

“Only the soft ones, in harmony with organic diets and herbal medicines.”

“That’s perfectly cool. We’ve just got to draw the line at the hard stuff. Well, stick around. You’ll meet the others in a couple of hours or so.”

Here she was on a beach, pure and simple. Now the sea breathed heavily, whispering and murmuring to her. It was returning her, stare speaking to her. It was the spirit of love beckoning her with a pulsing, sinewy body. In all its lines, shades, and fleeting forms, Selene saw the essence of pure beauty, all grace of form, flesh, limb and feature. It was in one all the lovers of whom she could possibly dream, conflated into one elemental ideal. He, pure love in soul, bade her to enter his domain and make it hers. His arms moved her hands to unclasp, unbutton, and unzip…the blossom emerged. The sun became the eye of all that was not earth, and Selene loved fully, though the pallor of her skin left her momentarily abashed.

At first she lay in the tide's path, the top of her head at its most extreme mark. The sand bank made a soft bed. The sea lover smoothly caressed her calves, thighs, hips, breasts, shoulders and cheeks before retreating to pause in his mossy pinnacles. Three times this action was repeated, and then Selene stood up, wading in with arms outstretched. Her arms were linked as she stood up to her neck in the saline flow. The balls and heels of her feet wobbled, slithering on the moss. With the next wave, she lost her balance--her breath heaved in unison with the hissing around her. She threw her head back once again horizontal, and launched into a backstroke, sweeping and circling. She parted her legs wide with each thrust of motion, each sweep of self-propulsion pushing out to answer the cavernous currents of his passion. Seven circles gave her a delicious, warm bliss--then the sea lover, well pleased, carried her back to a near-dry bed. Aching and contented Selene dozed a while.

A breeze smiled on me, soothing the migraine of the day’s travelling.

Rowena, my therapist, was so soothing. Her almond eyes were a warm synthesis of liquidity and matured resin, her lips verging on purple. She was dark, sultry, feline, laid back, reserved, and accommodating, but with such potential for elusiveness! Her low velvet voice melted my reserve and made me ache, my fingers poised to do that touch talk. She had a hold on me, so tender, so yielding, but so firm, I had some token resistance, some caution, but I wanted that, I arranged it, but I did not know what to do about it.

I’d been in my self-protective shell for so long, and always tended to put others down for being conned. It was good that I finally got out of that job. I had had to stretch my upper lip to near the snapping point. Considering what I felt about my supervisor, that good lump of severance pay would give me time so sort myself out. Still, I had committed myself to what I had decided was essential treatment. She had to bring me out, and it would be a sustained operation. She outlined to me that there were a multitude of blocks. We had been consulting together for several months, and at the mental level, we had melted many defensive barriers. How often had our breath felt like a string, pulling us closer to that introductory caress, how often had I felt we nearly touched each other as we delicately paced our minds through those in-depth confessions! Or, how skilled she was at covering up a possible web of stresses and tensions, which was strictly her private area! What traumas must she have experienced to get that delicious equipoise that now faced me, defined me, challenged me, the positives balancing the rejection taboos of my past? Her body language rippled and throbbed—the way she controlled the crossing and uncrossing of her legs, the way she wore skirts of just the right length, or jeans just loose enough to ripple, knowing how to caress herself, knowing how to make her clothes caress her. Her favourite delicate fabrics must really turn her on. She certainly showed me a wide variety of outfits at our various consultations. My wishful thinking simmered. Perhaps there was a coded message underneath her assured professional front. My eyes alternated between her body and her file, between the hand controlling her pen and the eyes, brain and body controlling me. I had laid myself open to her by consulting her…there is always two-way potential…

She had put on no scent, but the natural perfume of her aura permeated me. I was a confused cocktail of trance and clear-headedness.

She had spent one long session struggling to coax me into positive thinking. Through the usual heavy family conditioning and through a good number of snubs and vicious deceptions, I had grown so many defensive membranes, layers that now felt congealing, coagulating.

Next session, I had to go back to her with a progress report on the programme of self-redirection she had drafted for me. As ever, Rowena urged me to incorporate my dreams into the healing process. She switched on some rippling, vaporous meditation music with a background of natural sounds, water and breeze on her sound system, got me comfortable on the couch. She then sat beside me, looking me hypnotically, straight in the face. I felt that she always mentally undressed me in these sessions, putting out laser rays on my buttons and zips. That was what made them so effective and sustained her hold on me.

Her soul embraced me, so that I wanted her to absorb my essence into her own body and mind.  Her lips and nostrils were in titillating accord as she faced me and acknowledged me. I ached for her hands, I longed to reciprocate. The buttons on her blouse, the suggestion of the crisp bra within, were so magnetic. When she touched the buckle of her belt, her fingers almost clinching to undo…Rowena induced a trance in me, barely repressed by formality, and I felt it was taking hold of her, as well. It was obeying a non-verbal instruction, tunnelling out of the prison of routine obedience. I ached for her hands to undo my clothes.