12 Eroticism on Legs

I decide to give up Marketing and Product Management. I am just not suited to it and it is very boring. The only other skill I can really sell is my knowledge of the P7000/Unix migration software, which I understand reasonably well but it is not much in demand in the UK. I decide to call a Dutch contracting agency. I am in luck.

"Do you know anything about the P7000/Unix migration software?" the agent asks after I explain my situation. I can’t believe my ears.
"Yes, yes (yes!) that’s what I have been working on for the last two years." This is a lie - for the last two years I’ve been a product manager writing technical reports but I have got all the manuals and I can read. The agent sets up a telephone interview with his client for early Monday morning. I have the weekend to read manuals.

Monday morning arrives. I’ve been reading all weekend with virtually no sleep. At the prearranged time the phone rings. After some preliminaries, Adolf says he would like to ask me some technical questions. Fortunately his English is not good so he will probably keep it short. He just wants a warm body. Anybody. I have all the manuals in front of me and tensely await the interrogation. The first two questions are straightforward and I can answer them. Then he asks me if I can give some examples of symbolic references I have used in the migration software. Fuck. Symbolic references. I vaguely remember reading something. I stall for time and begin rifling through the manuals. Time passes - it’s becoming embarrassing. Suddenly I find the page I have been looking for entitled ‘Symbolic References’. Thank God. I read some out and I sound convincing - I am, after all, a technical specialist. He’s convinced. I’m in. Hilversum, Holland here we come.

I talk to the agent again. The contract is for six months and accommodation will be provided. I will be paid twenty five pounds an hour - that’s a thousand pounds a week. I begin packing but then a problem materialises - no partners can be accommodated. Jenny will have to stay home. She’s gutted and I’m annoyed but I need the money - we both know it. I tell her that she can come over in a few weeks and find an apartment for both of us.

I fly to Schipol airport in Amsterdam and the agent meets me and drives me to Hilversum. I have been drinking on the plane but I am not expected to work today. Arriving at the company accommodation, I am introduced to the other three male inmates. They are all young men, eager but hardly tested in the fire of development. At 31 I feel old, very old. There are two Dutch guys and one Irishman. I spend the evening talking to the Irishman and drinking from a bottle of whisky I have brought from England. I will not be working with these guys, they are on other projects. They are just house-mates. I wish Jenny was here.

The next day I am taken to work by one of the Dutch guys who is working at the same huge A.T.&T. factory as myself. He shows me to reception and then disappears into the maze of corridors to find his own project, his own work-mates. I had a little port this morning (it was all I could find in the local shop) but I am feeling reasonably fresh. I meet Adolf and his team. They are all younger than me and very confident. We have a meeting and they explain their system to me. It is very, very complicated. Probably too complicated. I begin work and at lunch time I read manuals. I will read manuals every lunch time for the next few weeks. I read manuals in a bar, drinking whisky.

After two weeks of this I am going slowly mad. I don’t get on with my house-mates and drinking in bars alone in the evenings is depressing. I don’t speak Dutch so I can’t mix with the locals. The system we are writing is too complex and will probably never work. I don’t tell anyone this obviously.

One Friday evening after several large whiskys I do the predictable. I go to the taxi rank.
"Can you take me somewhere they have girls?" I say.
"Ah, you want girls." The taxi driver nods knowingly and sets off.

A few minutes later I am at the door of a respectable residential address. I ring the bell and feel almost like an old hand. The routine is familiar. I plant myself at the bar next to a gorgeous looking black girl wearing a tight bikini. I introduce myself. She is really lovely with dark chocolate skin, a fantastic figure and a beautiful smile. She’s fun to talk to and I buy her drinks of Piccolo champagne. It tastes like watered down piss but then it probably is. Her name is Monica. She is a 23 year old illegal immigrant trying to earn enough money to buy a marriage.

"Are you married?" she asks.
"No," I reply.
"I'll pay you 3000 dollars to marry me" she says.
She's serious and, with all the whisky in me, I am tempted. She is eroticism on legs. She looks like a great fuck. I hand over my gold American Express card and we go upstairs.

Monica looks even better naked with her shaven pussy and large firm breasts. My dick is as stiff as a board and she slides the condom on easily. As I lie stretched out on my back, she sucks greedily on my dick before moving herself up and sliding my erect member into her warm, wet cunt. With her feet flat on the bed, she rides me for a while, bobbing up and down, moaning and licking her lips. It’s a good show. Then she stands up and towering over me says "I like you - I’ll give you something special". She reaches down, slips the condom off and proceeds to give me the best blow job of my life. It’s ecstasy. I’m just about to come when she says "Now fuck me. Fuck me hard". She rolls onto her back next to me and spreads her legs as wide as possible. In an instant I am banging away at her juicy pussy.

"Oh I like you. Fuck me. Fuck me" she begs. As she moans, I climax. It feels beautiful. A complete release. Immediately I’ve come, she’s licking and sucking on my dick again. I am in love. This is the best fuck of my life. Ever.

There's a knock at the door and the brothel madam tells me that my two hours is up and do I want another two hours. Yes, I say. I end up staying all night, which costs me six hundred pounds but it is worth every penny.

In the very early morning, waiting for my taxi, I slip Monica my address on a piece of paper. It’s Saturday today and all the other guys go back to their real homes for the weekend so I have the house to myself.
"I’ll come and see you later at 4pm" she whispers. I don’t believe her.

Back at home, I sleep. I wake up again around 3pm and have a shower. I drink some more port. She won’t come. At 4 o’clock, standing in my bathrobe, I glance out of the window. A beautiful, statuesque black girl is walking towards the house. It’s Monica. She is wearing a light, breezy trouser suit and I can feel a stiffening in my loins. I let her in. She looks ravishing. I look a wreck.

I take her to my room where she immediately notices the hard-on under the bathrobe.
"Do you want to fuck me now and then I thought we’d go to Amsterdam."
It's not really a question; it's a command. Pulling off the trousers of her trouser suit, I fuck her doggy style on the carpet while she purrs happily.
"Get dressed while I have a quick shower" she says.
"Yes ma’am" I reply.

We take the train to Amsterdam and have a romantic chinese meal. I do like Monica. She’s witty, funny, clever and just the best fuck ever. I consider proposing marriage. Back at Hilversum station, I kiss her as we say goodbye.
"I'll come and see you next Friday" I promise. I never do. Monica did give me something special. The clap.

Desperately Seeking Sex & Sobriety - Copyright Paul Pisces 2002-2004
(A Cautionary Tale of Sex Tourism, Drugs, Alcohol, Prostitution & Suicide)