Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.
My instructions were pretty clear. Nothing complicated. Simple.
So as I enter the hotel room, after I’ve closed the door and walked towards the bedroom, I can hear that she’s followed these instructions.
Music playing?
No.
Is the television on?
Nope.
And I hadn’t asked for anything cute, like having us begin this affair with a cell-phone conversation all the way through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hallway...
But still, there are sounds.
I stand still.
Yeah; I know those sounds. It’s possible to mistake them for something else, but within the context of this morning, I know precisely what they are.
And moving to the bedroom doorway, this is confirmed: there on the bed, on the bed fitted with plain white linen, amongst a battery of matching pillows and shams, Mai masturbates.
Spotting me, her eyes go wide, then narrow...and then she flushes, her chest rises and falls noticeably faster, she licks those lips of hers...and she winks. “Alright...?” she says/asks, the standard British mixed-use greeting framing the moment perfectly.
“Hey,” I reply, taking in the sight. Or at least trying to. “Better than ‘all right’.”
Her fingerplay increases, and as it does, she gazes down at her efforts, her knees knock together, her shoulders roll, her breasts swell, pierced nipples filled with silver posts shimmering...and she brings herself off.
Me? I lean against the door-jamb. And stare.
Back arching, Mai lets loose a long gasp, a sputtering, guttering gasp, her torso jerks, her toes curl...
...and then she halts.
Entirely.
Goes rigid.
Right before she’s at it again, in motion, in full-motion, frigging away, one side of her mouth rising, coy, smug and proud in one expression.
“Doesn’t look like you need me,” I whisper.
“I don’t even bloody well know you, and I need you, you bastard!”
I say nothing.
“Get the fuck over here!”
“In time,” I laugh. “In time.”
She shakes her head, closes her eyes and goes at it all the more diligently.
I remember when I first saw her. It was a pictorial. And my ‘Amazon Radar’ went off in a huge way.
Not so much because she was ‘substantial’. More that she was tall and gangly and ridiculously fetching in a delightfully wonky way. A five-nine, lithesome filly.
But in all honesty, it began with her voice.
She’s Russian-by-way-of-England.
So her accent is- Well, it’s something to hear. There’s the expected Britishness to it...East London, if you will, but then there’s the underpinnings of Mother Russia...
I’ll tell you who she first reminded me of: a slightly-askew Icelandic Bjork, and Welsh Cerys Matthews.
Then there’s a certain amount of ‘Betty Boop’ thrown in for good measure.
What results is so unconventional, so utterly whimsical as to bring on a smile...even before she does anything salacious.
The first time we Skyped, I had to remove myself from the conversation for a few minutes while I composed myself.
“What’s going on?!?” she asked me when I final returned to the screen.
“I’m besotted.”
She frowned. “What does that mean...?”
“It means that I’m charmed-beyond-charmed.”
“Oh.”
“You’re just so Goddamned lovely.”
“Thank you,” she said, frown still in place...although it was being leavened by a smile.
“Talk to me,” I said, taking in the sight of her expressive face.
“About what...?”
“Anything. Just talk to me. I want to hear you talk.”
“You’re an interesting perv.”
“No...I’m not,” I laughed. “I’m merely besotted.”
Mai knew I wanted to fuck her. But she also knew...right from the start...that fucking her wasn’t what I most desired. And because I got under her skin, she allowed the exchanges between us to get far more ‘intimate’ than she normally would have, either as an adult performer, or as an escort.
In fact, very little of what we shared was sexual. It was...not wanting to make you gag...spiritual.
Which I believe is why she got on a plane and flew to Toronto.
