The House of Elyot

Sex in the City: London

Posted on: June 13, 2016

In April 2010 one of my favourite anthologies, including one of my favourite self-penned stories, came out. Sex in the City: London was the first in a series of city-themed collections edited by Maxim Jakubowski and featuring stories from a wide variety of authors.

I think what I still love about my story Thames Link is how unapologetic and no-holds-barred it is. There is no softening around the edges here, and the ‘hero’ doesn’t fit the romantic mould. And why the hell should he? I find him all the hotter for his slightly sinister aspect.

I always love London as a setting too – the pace, the heat, the crowds, the infinite diversity seem made for erotica. I’d love to have seen more London books in this series – perhaps there will be one day.

The book is out of print now, but still available secondhand from Amazon. It contains stories by Matt Thorne, Francis Ann Kerr, Valerie Grey, NJ Streitberger, Kristina Lloyd, Lily Harlem, Maxim Jakubowski, Elizabeth Coldwell, Clarice Clique, Carrie Williams and Kevin Mullins & Marcelle Perks.

Here’s how it opens:

I sing the praise of the sleazy man.

The man with the shifty eyes, the man with the floppy fringe, the man with the sensual lips, the man who drinks a little too much red wine and eats a little too much cake.  You might see him on the train; his eyes follow you over the top of his paper and you try not to recross your legs too often.  He might be standing at the bar so you have to feign enormous levels of animation with your companions.  Perhaps he works with you and there is a rota in place among your colleagues so nobody has to go into the photocopier cupboard at the same time as him.

He’s a creep, he’s a sleaze, he’s a perve.  He’s my kind of guy.

I know, I sound insane.  Who on earth likes men like this?  I suppose it’s his honesty that appeals to me.  No ‘I really like you as a person’.  No discussion of mutually admired bands and comedians.  No number swaps or long waits for the phone to beep.  Better than the man who moves in with you before revealing his wardrobe of skintight latex.  Better than the man that waits until you have his ring on your finger before asking you if you fancy a pint down the swingers’ club.  This is a man who wears his cock on his sleeve, and quite rightly so.

He’ll speak fluent innuendo.  He’ll sit too close to you on the bus.  He’ll walk behind you in the park, watching the sway of your backside.  In the ultraviolet light of the disco, he’ll try to get a hand up your skirt.

No, he isn’t a rapist, it’s not about power.  It is about sex.  He wants it.  Not you.  It.

And there’s something about that I find refreshing.

I have a sleazy man of my own, tucked away in my address book for days when I don’t feel pristine or perfumed.  On days – and they come all too often now – when I feel rumpled and seedy, when my tights are clinging damply to the crack of my arse and my skin is grimy with the London summer, I call him.

I’m going to call him now, actually.

‘Morning, foxy.  What can I do for you today?’

‘When are you free?’

‘Hmm…it’s looking like a late one.  Could take a two hour lunch break, though.’

‘Lunch sounds perfect.  Midday?’

‘Blackfriars tube.  Wear the green dress.  Hold ups.  No knickers.  Got that?’

‘No knickers,’ I repeat, my clit puffing up, my silky scanties already wet.  Who cares?  I will have to take them off before I leave.

‘Don’t forget your perfume, Jane,’ he says softly before hanging up.

How could I forget that?  The application of scent is the precious first step in the ritual, setting the tone for all that is to follow.

These are his rules:  I must draw back the bedroom curtains and open the window, so that the block across the green is visible to me, and I to it.  I must strip naked and lie down on my unmade bed.  I must take my vibrator and masturbate to orgasm, plunging it deep inside, juicing it up until it gleams.  While I am doing this, I must think of some of the filthy, slutty things I have done for him in the past – easy enough, for there are plenty to choose from.  Once I am red-faced and spent, I must take the vibrator and rub it across my pulse points, making sure I am generously anointed before smearing any remainder on to my nipples, breasts, belly, thighs.  I must dip the vibrator back in and repeat the process until there is nothing left to apply.  Only when my skin is stiff and heavy with the smell of my sex am I allowed to dress.

Today, a sheer white peephole bra, some nude laced-topped hold-ups and the green dress.  The dress I was wearing when we met – though that sounds grandiose, as if we have a story or a future.  The day we picked each other up, perhaps.

The dress is made of very light cotton in eau-de-nil.  It buttons all the way up and has a short, flippy skirt whose hem is only just beneath the lacy bit of my hold-up.  The merest breath of breeze is enough to give my thighs a tickle, and on some of the windier tube platforms I have to clamp it down with my palms flat on my legs, shuffling bent double like an ancient babushka.

Then it is time to slap industrial quantities of gloss on my lips and mascara on my lashes before slipping into strappy sandals and running for my train.

Once again, it is a hot day, humid and dirty, the way it was the first time we met.  The station platform is crowded – several previous trains have been delayed – so I know I will stand no chance of being able to hide my sex-drenched self in a corner seat away from the masses.  I will have to force it on my carriage-mates, mingling it in with their smells of onions and cigarettes and engine oil and boiled aftershave, all with a sweaty topnote.

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