An Ecstatic Rendezvous

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 it, 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 was 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 onto 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—strutted them proudly.
All that cycling, all that time in the gym and the pool, with all the ongoing 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 in 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.
Contrary to my apprehensions, I was able to remain motionless for the duration of each pose. Through taking this step, I overcame my natural nervousness and got a delicious sense of calm. The multiple poses in the session were of varying lengths, from a quick-fire minute to probably twenty minutes maximum. I felt so caressed and relished by the pencil, crayon, chalk, and charcoal strokes, fleeting attraction captured in the sketchpads. What a positive charge!
After that, how much more I ached for my encounter match, further induced at the following week’s session when a couple posed, deliciously intertwined. How my heart ached to be both object of adoration and active agent. Not ready to model photographically, I would still resolutely not want to do that for money. The latter still seemed degrading, what I had just done definitely not so.
There was an uncomfortable week, suffused conjointly by aftermath and anticipation. Then, one sleepless night, after days of indecision, my mind racked by weighing up—probably imaginary—pros and cons. I was propelled by a dream in which my room was smothered in incense. The mirror melted and gelled into my beckoning lover, in her bathrobe, which floated off to proclaim her bathing-girl glory, celebrated by ethereal accolades from an invisible choir—a heavenly body come to perfect flesh!
She wafted upwards as she sank downwards, cancellation of contraries in perfect fusion. I was galvanised into action for the next day, feeling every bit as energetic as if I’d had a great night’s sleep. Now I must find a lady. Gradually, and with painful trepidation, I plucked up the courage. There were years of reticence, of moaning, about my ability to chat up and charm and some disappointment about subscribing to respectable dating agencies, which led to so many blank, negative meetings—at a ridiculous cost.
I finally got over my quite heavy inhibitions about shady back pages of newspapers, and those upper shelves, so long strictly beyond the pale of the civilised, cultured, and proper. The censorious voices of the past continued to reverberate in my memory—surely you could never think of descending to those depths… That would be quite unthinkable. These frowns and tut-tuts faded off to let in a flood of memories of past rebuffs, with subdued shakes and turnings of the head, curls of the lips and movements away. Now, the wheel had come full circle. My new tide would overcome that old one, and confound all those old bêtes noires who had said I was ugly, probably groaning with their beer bellies by now!
At last, the voluminous curtain rose on the beginning of my great drama. I let my desires out of their near-subterranean fully through steeling my nerves to buy a contact magazine. I felt quite hesitant at the retail counter, but the Indian woman there gave me a knowing nod. I looked through the London contacts, and in the midst of a mass of others, many of whom repelled me, my eyes lit on Sandra’s photo, which radiated allure and classy refinement, crying take the plunge. Here was someone whom I would formerly have considered out of reach, but now that the intrepid spirit reared up, I was going to reach out for her, and our astral spirits would fuse.
Through the monochrome photo—retouched by my yearning if by nobody else’s action—her radiant aura of a super-Hollywood morale booster beckoned alluringly to be unbuttoned, unzipped, and caressed. So, I nervously wrote my letter to the box number, did several circuits of the mailbox before posting it, and remained quivering on tenterhooks for those few days until my reply came through my letterbox. In some ways, I wished I’d had a copy of one of the sketches of me to enclose with the letter.
She wrote a response along with her phone number. I rang, and after four rings, her voice on the answer-phone was as electric as her photograph: velvety smooth, with the slightest trace of a husk and perfect breath control. Emboldened, I left my message in the deepest, silkiest tone I could imagine. My instruction to her was that she must ring me back on the dot of midnight. I managed to sound firm with that instruction.
My bonus-prize digital watch bleeped away with its glinting green flashes in my tense hand. Then Sandra showed perfect synchronicity in following the instructions—twenty-four hours to the very second, the very cusp of night and day!
“We’ve synchronised watches,” Sandra whispered.
She sounded refined, if with a slight suspicion of quivering shyness, tentative with each word, but beneath that surface there was eagerness, intense, burning with passion and experience. Here was an authentic connoisseur. Through breezing, blowing breaths, and coded tappings of our receivers, we tongue-kissed, petted, caressed, petted some more, and disrobed, holding some fibres close to the receivers for authenticity. Then, slowly surgingly, we worked up to a two-way telephonic orgasm, panting through the thunderstorm of our making—true fire-raisers in the flesh.
“I’ve never before encountered such telephonic aplomb. Are you that good in other areas?”
“I am confident of that. I’m all agog till we meet face to face, darling,” I said between pants.
“Reciprocal assurance—for the visual-tactile re-enactment. You won’t be disappointed,” she replied.
This level of communication felt truly telepathic. Every sound, every verbal hint felt absolutely delicious. Now, it was just a matter of a telescoped stretch of time. The flood of destiny swelled and surged. It was now confirmed that we were to meet for the real, now the non-virtual, get into the tactile dimension. We fixed the rendezvous at her place.
The big day arrived. I was aflutter throughout its earlier part. True to the fashions of the future, I decided to have a body shave before my shower. This took me a delicate, sensual hour, the buzz of the razor feeling like a prelude to the touch of the hands. The shower mirror was a little narrower than the one in the bedroom, but it gave me a foretaste, in subdued light of course. I relished my smooth, dried form in the mirror, then splashed myself liberally all over with aftershave and deodorant. Still naked from the shower, I ironed my white shirt and underwear, fresh from the washing machine and dryer. The clothes made a beautifully laundered fit.
I got to her place at the dot of 3 p.m. It was in an apartment block, eight storeys high, I think. She told me that she was on the third floor. I could have walked to the place from the bus stop, but my heart was so aflutter that I took a taxi just around the block so as not to lose my way. We’d worked out the complete wardrobe over the phone—mini-skirt, elastic-topped stockings over crisp white linen underwear, and beach change at the ready—her one-piece for the dramatic entry of the bathing belle. Of course, I had trunks, shorts, and a loose singlet, good to sway and suggest the underlying figure to be delicately unwrapped. Don’t ask me why, but suspenders never work for me. They seem to obstruct the aesthetics of revelation, off-the-shoulder blouse and slip
Her luxury apartment was in a leafy, secluded part of town, interspersed with plaques of great artists’ and writers’ past sojourns. The area’s overall sense of accumulated history added to my sense of initiating a unique, transcendental occasion. Passing a church or two en route added further spice to the anticipation. A couple of nuns passed me, and I pondered on their possible secret thoughts. A sense of sin perfects all sensual contents.
There was a porter’s lodge at the vestibule. The attendant was a tall, lean grey-haired man, crisply uniformed. On noticing me, he gave a nonchalant half-smile and a half-knowing nod. I only needed to follow the directions for the flat numbers. The motor of the lift was in the deepest bass register I had ever encountered. After leaving it, and negotiating what felt like a labyrinth of thickly carpeted corridors, I found her flat door and gave three rings on the brassy doorbell. There were ten seconds of breathy silence, which was finally broken, delicately, by the padding footsteps of destiny. A heady blast of perfume greeted me as Sandra opened the door, far exceeding my own lotion and gels.
Then, we became truly face to face, like two legends now in the flesh, having a mutual eye feast! That brow, those cheekbones, that aquiline chin, that graceful neck, those azure, deep-lashed eyes, that fine, loose, lovingly kept shoulder-length hair! As she looked into my eyes, there was almost the touch of an optician giving me a test.
The stage lighting was just right, with embroidered shades all around the lamps—soft, dark, and red, deeper and richer by far than anything at my home. The mirror was full-length, at a perfect height, hanging flush from the wall. The whole decor, burnished with loving care, radiated old money and old-world courtesy—yet another condiment for the tryst—with ample stepping room around each item of furniture. There were stately mahogany bookshelves, not overcrowded but containing some venerable tomes bound in dark-brown and maroon leather. They were literary and philosophical texts—great to have some exotic vocabulary!
A tasteful array of porcelain and impeccably polished silver graced a medium sized cupboard and her low table. In addition, on the table was a framed photograph of her—the same print as in her advertisement. So, there the distances were just right for the most carefully studied maneuverings.
Sandra took me by the hand as if I were her partner in a grand ball, with her being the empress and I the chosen favourite. She ushered me to her purple velvet sofa, and there we chatted for a few minutes about the movies and current affairs. Sandra beamed into my face and moved my hand to the zip of her mini-skirt on her left hip
I’ve always loved the thought of disrobing women from exotic evening dress. I had asked her on the phone if she had a ball-gown, and she had replied in the negative, so I was happy to go on with the other extreme, but there might always be a future occasion.
“Would you like to take it off?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I replied. “I want to save that supreme pleasure for the right moment—build up a little anticipation.”
“I congratulate you on your excellent taste, even more so as I sense this is your first time you’ve given this matter some really serious, careful thought. At last, your courage has fused with your admirable circumspection. Now, please tell me, is there anything you really like in a lovely get-together?”
“I love wearing swimming trunks—retro ones especially,” I said blushingly. “I feel great in them. I brought some along!”
“So, I’m going to see you in your swimming costume—oh, darling!”
Although we had pre-discussed this on the phone, the revelation still felt really fresh and daring.
Her aura, spiced by her exquisite scent, so full and strong, was really driving me wild, my breath heating, my juices simmering. The whole scenario was quite overwhelming. The moment for the grand ceremony had come. I took her by the hand and lifted her to stand facing me. “We’ll have a romantic undress,” I said.
“The prelude for our symphony,” she said.
“As an impassioned Mozartian—and I assume you are too—I just love well-orchestrated sonatas of love! I’ve been yearning for someone with your finesse, dreaming about it for ages!”
I had chosen non-laced shoes to avoid any possibility of fumbling. My jacket and socks were no trouble, and I placed all the garments aside of the main action area to be. Then, Sandra skilfully thumbed my buttons and peeled off my shirt and vest, feeling the muscles of my torso and my arms as she did so. I stood before her, proud in my tight black bikini briefs.
Her face lit up. “Oh, darling, you’ve got such a wonderful physique; I’m so proud of my catch!”
“I’ll do the same for you, so for the next stage of revelation, let me take your blouse off first.”
It was off-the-shoulder, flimsily, casually, and alluringly worn. The motion of my quivering thumbs echoed the firmness. The three pearl buttons undid with ease to make a gracious parting. Then, my hands went under its top and eased it off to reveal her glorious, firm, sun-tanned shoulders and her willowy back.
“Okay, part two. Now I’ll undo your skirt.” I peeled the zip along very slowly with my left, feeling her hips as I did, and edged it down, with my hands smoothing her bottom and then squeezing her firm thighs. Sandra gave a knowing smile and a giggle.
“Is that nice?” This was the next delicious stage of revelation, to see the full shape of her legs. I loved elastic-topped stockings—so much more alluring without suspenders. I touched their tops and felt her firm flesh beneath them. Her thighs and calves had an absolute sensual iridescence.
“Now, off with them, darling. I want to see your lovely legs as they really are.” The stockings looked so delicate, I didn’t want to risk laddering them. Sandra had to do that with her faultless, firm but delicate hands. Supremely at ease with her aura, she lowered them with tender, loving care. Now, with matching caresses, we felt each other’s thighs and calves.
“It’s great that we’ve kept up our fitness routines in anticipation of the big day,” she said. “You don’t drink beer either, do you? I really appreciate that.”
Her silky white briefs gleamed with promise—their own special luminosity. It felt like a ballerina’s pirouetting, but frozen motionless.
As the tactile sensations built up, my breath was heavy with suspense, laden with the weight of long-repressed desire at last so blissfully released.
“Now, darling, remember all your favourite scenes on film and video. You’re going to re-enact all your star idols’ peak moments when you desperately ached to be there in the middle of the action. Now we’re going to be our own celebrities and super-directors, bringing all those lovely visions beaming into real life. This scene is going to make the perfect fusion of the boudoir and the beach. We’re going to enter the deep embrace of the ocean of love. Our fantasy beach, our fantasy sea, is beckoning us. Let’s put on our bathing costumes now. I’m a turn-on in briefs, and you are in that gorgeous underwear, so let’s go on to the next pieces of costumery.”
Sandra went into the bedroom to do her change. As my erection began to mount, I got a thrill pulling on my trunks, feeling them vibrate around my waist. Sandra’s mirror was great.
With shorts and singlet on, I looked gorgeously sporty—fit and confident. In deft response, Sandra tiptoed out of the bathroom wearing a primrose-yellow beach wrap, loosely tied by a sash, which still dropped a substantial hint.
“Let’s really relish this, darling.” We stood facing the mirror. “Now for the fabulous—the ultimate beach party.”
I rose up my arms, and Sandra pulled off my dark-blue singlet and, casting it aside, put her hands on my waist and let go. I put my right arm around her shoulder, my left around her waist. I undid her sash and slowly drew off the robe, over her shoulders and back. There she stood, in all her voluptuous glory, hips and breasts pulsing in her clingy black strapless one-piece, baring the radiant totality of her toned shoulders. It was like a thrill of first attraction, just like when a boy and a girl really take a fancy to each other, decide to go for a swim together, have that beautiful turn-on at the beach or at the poolside, and take a delicious foretaste of each other with clothes off—teenage perfected in retrospect with maturity…
“My God! You’re so breathtakingly ravishing!” I gasped in awe and ecstasy.
“And you, my Adonis incarnate, are out of this world,” panted Sandra, touching my waist and hips, feeling the fabric, and feeling me through the fabric. “Hmm, these are really nice boxer shorts, darling. Shall I take them off?”
Her tender hands, pulsing with desire, seemed to electrify the elastic in my shorts with a dreamy tingle. I felt quite levitated as they went down from my waist, and she pulled them down over my thighs—hands and fabric made a lovely blend. I stepped out of them. Our pride in our bodies, and desire for each other, really lifted to the stratosphere. My trunks were a wow, and did she respond! In that light, in my mind, I was any model and film star. Sandra could have been Liz Hurley, aching to embrace me.
My eyes turned from the mirror into her face. “Don’t I look great in trunks, darling?”
Her eyes and lips reciprocated my move. “You look wonderful,” she breathed.
We absolutely took our fill of admiring ourselves, and each other, in the mirror. We were lovely for each other. Our excitement and desire made us beautiful, more super than any stars or models. I whispered the names Esther and Deborah, and she got the drift.
“Okay, Burt, Rock, and Victor, don’t we look great?” sighed Sandra. “It’s no good. We’ll have to go swimming together.”
“You’re my bathing beauty, and I am yours,” I replied.
“We are going to enter a couple’s beauty contest. Those enraptured eyes will be riveted on us. We will be receiving massed clapping and cheering! Then, we’ll plot an itinerary to the most exotic beaches.”
Geometrically, theatrical, she tried all the angles in the protractor—acute and obtuse—in front of that riveting mirror. Sandra went wild, started dancing, making such a stately sway, raising her arms in the air high above her head, her hair swaying. I took down my blue trunks and stepped out of them to reveal the briefer ones. Her eyes lit up at the leopard-skin pattern
“What are these, darling?” she asked breathily. “They’re even nicer than the other ones.”
“The penultimate item in Pandora’s box,” I replied. Now coming up to the boil, I took her hand and led her to the bed. “You’re having a gorgeous sunbath among those secluded dunes, darling, immersed in reverie of your beautiful lover. I want to lie by your side, then move on top of you like we were on the shore of a deserted lagoon—our beach and our lagoon.” At that, I unzipped her bathing suit at the back.
Like spreading flower petals, it expanded and fell to reveal her lovely, firm breasts. So, there was the double sensation of a svelte, tightly-encased body entering the body and of that body being revealed by a receding wave. She lay on her back, arms wide open. I lay down beside her and then eased on top of her. The weight of my slight body was gentle upon her.
After a minute or so, Sandra initially reversed the role, lying on her belly on top of me. Her body felt firm upon mine. Our thighs pressed together. Then, Sandra rolled me over, and now I was back on top of her. She squeezed my thighs and sighed.
“You’ve got really fine legs, darling. I can see your penis swelling inside your trunks. What shall we do now?” Trunks and one-piece slipped off compliantly—full revelation at last and supremely worth the build-up.
Well, premeditatedly, I had my condoms at the ready, and with impeccable aplomb, Sandra opened the packet without tearing it and fitted one on with all the self-assured composure of experience. All of that apparent hesitancy had been carefully calculated, a skilful bit of acting, carried over convincingly into real life.
“I see you’re always prepared, darling, as you should be. I really appreciate thoughtful men.”
Ours was a strong but gentle love. The hardening was slow but sure, the penetration delicate. I sustained a slow-tempo, circling motion, rotating slowly to caress and arouse all the erogenous edges. She raised her shoulders and mine so that she could see my buttocks moving.
“You’re so sensual; give yourself to me!”
My climax was slow but rich and full through its suspension. I felt I had made a waterfall and was under it. The calm was so euphoric after the blissful intensity of the storm. Sandra detached, wiped and disposed, all with near-clinical efficiency.
”Hmmm, you practically gave me an orgasm,” she groaned, deeply sated. “You’ve made me hungry.” Sandra stood up, put her bath robe back on, took a green apple from a bowl on the sideboard, and started munching it. She sized me up further. “When you go swimming, do you see some lovely girls in the pool?”
“I certainly do.”
“And do they see you?”
“How could they not?”
We chatted a bit longer. Just before we parted, Sandra told me that she was a formerly married—had tied the knot too young—and was now enjoying her newly acquired independence. So, this was the way she expanded, liberated herself, and I was helping the growth of her soul.
“I like what I’m doing. And when once in a while I find real, reciprocated feeling, it makes everything worthwhile. As for marriage, you might call it a bout of transient fever. Then it went stone cold, and all the sweetness turned sour. I had to detach myself from its aftermath. Maybe I’ll enter something long-term again, but only when I’m good and ready. However, to me you honestly do feel rather exceptional. It really is a good job we both agreed in advance that this was to be a one-off. You’re the most beautiful man that’s ever made love to me. If it got any closer, I don’t know if I could ever let you go. The most beautiful can be the most hazardous, the most vicious. But you really put out a vibe of peace and gentleness. I hope I have enlightened you, initiated you. Now you must go on and enrich your experience. I must go on enlightening the masses!”
We kissed and parted.
The encounter had been breathtakingly euphoric. I still tingle when the phone rings. It would be great some time if I could ask someone outright. Maybe I’ll get over the initial coldness and anonymity of those singles bars. Yes, I had stepped out of my rut into the world of virtual communication—formerly, and sometimes still, called the red-light area—that once, that special once, after literally years of torture, doubt, and deliberation. It was an utterly beautiful and benign experience. I remember every second of it with total affection, perfectly preserved in my memory. Come on, you shy blokes like me. You’ve all got your vain, narcissistic fantasies.
Just once in a while, give them external tactile reference. Sandra made me feel that between us. There was pure, ecstatic, fully-reciprocated lust, and that lust passion could be pure and beautiful—that she really wanted me, that I was the male body beautiful, her ultimate catch. The sight of me in trunks was her peak, a luscious turn-on. So either it actually was, or—if she was just pretending—it was an absolute, all-absorbing command of an acting role, which would merit a mass of Oscars, perhaps make the ultimate video. Yes, there was a supreme element of dance and drama in it, complemented by the warm, glowing, soft red lighting.
That brief encounter was one of my highest peaks of euphoria. It wiped off years of bitterness and misery, outdid the work of myriad arty films and steamy novels. I replay it endlessly; the replay fulfils and sustains me. Sandra was so fully sexual, so deeply desiring. There was an element of deep challenge about her, and I felt that I met that challenge. Was I her special, her peak? Maybe, maybe not, but for the duration of that get-together, she really made me feel that I was. So much for that literary jargon about the suspension of disbelief.
Here it really had worked. The imprint of that rendezvous was indelible. I had practically given her an orgasm. The preliminaries, the lovely disrobing build-up were indispensable for the ultimate, but the suspense was exquisite. We were our own film directors—getting an organic camera turn-on from what we showed of our bodies. And she was faultless about safety and hygiene. Stuff the old ways; these are better. They actually heighten delicacy in dealing with other people’s feelings. I was lifted.
Has this all become super-rosy in retrospect? I guess so. And I suppose it’s only a prissy, edited-out fraction of real experience. Does it take all the guts out of real passion, real obsession? Perhaps it does, but I love it all the same. So, it presents this image of independent, largely celibate workaholics, having occasional, oh-so-polite, oh-so-arty blowouts, then returning refreshed to their solitary treadmills. Real workaholics, of course, get far more screwed up than that, far more likely to fly off the handle. Still, isn’t it nice to be nice, to hold a breath? Isn’t it good to save up for it and really relish it, just sometimes? Great to control the revelations. Yes, a meaningful casual encounter can really enrich life. It is one of life’s special punctuation marks. One should cherish these liaisons as much as any committed relationship they may counterpoint.
If they are set against an austere, solitary canvas, their light shines ever brighter. Sandra and I met in the happy hinterland between domination and submission. We modulated the role balance beautifully.