He’s sitting there, very close to me, with his fingers tapping on the electric piano. Considering the music he’s creating (techno, house and dumb remix), I wouldn’t call this a proper musical exercise. To my ears, it’s more an exploration of sounds, different tones converging into a noisy yet sweet project.
But he’s a man and since the very first moment I got into his place, his smell was the thing which immediately broke into mind. From the nose, first up and immediately after, down into my throat. I could feel it so strongly, like if I was already having it. From my mouth till the deepest I could swallow. As we were walking around the house and he was explaining the rules I had to follow, I could see myself bent down to his legs looking for the fountain he’s hiding underneath. He was talking slowly and we were going for rooms and rooms, till the toilette.
A part of myself reckoned the same smell of my dad’s bathroom. Masculine, strong. Everybody says that women – conscious or not – we always link our present experience with men with the memories and the figure of our male closest and primordial example.
Carried away into my secret, erotic movie – after having left the figure of my dad, pretty intrusive – I suddenly felt a smack hitting me inside, right in the middle of my stomach. We were now stopped at the second floor hall, right in between the master bedroom and my own, and I could see from the way he was looking at me, desire. The sounds of his words were now irregular. I was looking straight into the deepest part of his eyes, burning, with the eye of my brain, already in flames.
I was playing with him and I was feeling so powerful. I really realized in that exact second how a woman can turn a man into a puppet, sometimes. It was me now the master of the game and I was making of him whatever I pleased, to please myself and my senses.
The more he was talking, the more he was looking embarrassed. Not because he’s shy – he’s not at all – but probably because the situation wasn’t allowing us to be carefree. He doesn’t know me at all, after all, and the worst you can do when availing of Airbnb is giving manifestations of sexual desire, especially the very first moments you meet your guests.
“What if it’s me, the guest, giving some advances?”
While I was fantasizing of jumping on him, embrace his waist with my leg and hold his body tight towards mine, I think I had one or two working neurons left, which discouraged me from attacking him, flaring up my nature – which almost always acts shamelessly and wildy.
All this scenario turned me on like a wild animal. Above all, the fact that a lot of dirty sex was floating in the air but nothing was physically happening – yet.
When we were having our coffee, once the house tour was eventually over, he was looking nervous. I could see it from his forehead, changing shape, drawing on and off , thick dunes. The good girl inside myself, at the vision of this scene, took advantage of my real self. I started to interact in a way that was sinless. How bad! It didn’t last long though. I was like a personification of a cruel war, where the two myself were fighting. The one with the tail, high heels and handcuffs and the one dressed in white, with sweet eyes and closed legs.
Though the noise and sparkle of hungry swords, at the very end, my nature prevailed. As he killed his cigarette in the experienced ashtray, he passed very close to me to get himself some water from the tap. I was on the couch, resting my body and contemplating the show I was part of. As his shape left my side, another smack hit me inside. Deeper. He was going to work and while trying to collect his stuff, he was literally flooding the living room with his smell, with his endless coming and going, back and forth.
From my nose, this time up to my brain. He was leaving, so the game is still on, the evil inside me immediately thought. I had waterfalls pouring from me and the only thing I was waiting for – at that point – was him to close the door, go upstairs and have a session of self-pleasure.