The Choice

"So how long has it been? Ten years? God, you've hardly changed at all!"

She laughed, taking another sip of wine.

"Thanks. But we both know that's not true. You've changed though. You never used to care what you were wearing."

And it was true, he had changed. He looked even better than she remembered him, although it had been years since she had thought back to her college days. Now, there was undoubtedly something about the tailored jacket, the tight white t-shirt, the cut of his jeans, which really suited him. He had never been exactly handsome in the conventional sense, but there was no doubt that age had added something extra to the mischievous smile and the way his slouched casually beside her, arms sprawled over the edge of the booth at the back of the Soho pub.

But had it really been ten years? Where had the time gone? And, when he had suddenly stepped into her field of vision and greeted her enthusiastically, she thought back and wondered. Had she forgotten something about herself?

She had known The Friend with Benefits during her first year at one of London's universities. She had been twenty then, a castaway in the big city, and he had been five years older and had seemed to be everywhere, involved in everything, an old hand in his final year. There had been something about his confidence that had first attracted her to him, as she knew it had to others in her year, but it was his vulnerability in her company, the fact that he clearly wanted her, that had excited her more. So one night at the end of the first term, drunk on cheap shots that gave her the courage she never thought she possessed, she had seduced him. And it had started a friendship that was radically different to any other she had experienced before or since.

He had always been an early riser, she remembered that clearly. In the time she had known him, he had never stayed the night with her. They lived in the same campus block and he would come to her flat in the morning, sometimes in the week but always on a Sunday, sometimes bringing warm croissants and theSunday Times, and they would talk and flirt and always end up in bed. At night or around the college buildings, they were just like any other friends, but those mornings were always different. And very quickly they had discovered something in common, something they felt that they alone shared.

They both liked to experiment. No, theyloved to experiment. In that respect they were perfectly matched. She was James Watson to his Francis Crick, he was Robert Oppenheimer to her Edward Teller, and they thirsted for knowledge without fear of consequences or any notion of propriety. When they heard of something that was new, they tried it out to see whether it worked, to see whether their experiments deserved to be repeated. What she had loved more than anything was that even though he was older than her, he never pretended to be more knowledgeable or adept than she was. They had both been explorers, hesitantly probing together the limits of what aroused them.

Tying each other up. Different positions in different parts of her flat. Investigating the cold thrill of ice cubes on the most sensitive areas of each other's bodies. Role-play. They had tried it all. One morning, she had masturbated him with her feet and he had erupted over her painted toenails, only to reciprocate by bringing her to an intense orgasm with his big toe. Even now, after all these years, he was still regrettably the only man she had ever trusted enough to allow to fist her.

But now, how long ago that brief period seemed! She realised she had lost something in the decade that had passed. What had happened in the intervening years? After he had left university, they had lost contact, and once she had graduated and immersed herself in her job and her career, she had changed. God, she had become normal, embracing the values of her colleagues, dating men who failed to excite her just because any girl without a steady boyfriend or a regular date had nothing to talk about over coffee on a Monday morning. But it had never quite worked out in same way it had for the other women in the office, who had started to marry and breed and seemed so joyful in their coupledom. Why was she so different? She felt a loneliness she had never felt before, a failure to fit in that sometimes frightened and despaired her.

And now suddenly he had appeared, looking fit, comfortable, happy and full of surprise and pleasure to see her. And he was sitting down beside her. And she had drunk two glasses of wine and could feel the deadening of the alcohol lowering her self-consciousness

They talked briefly, politely, about the intervening years since they had last spoken. She felt she had little to say but breezily recounted her life.

"Men?" he said.

"Some" she replied.

"Now?"

"Not at the moment."

"Anyone special along the way?"

There hadn't been. She wasn't sure how to respond.

"You know, it's been up and down."

"Isn't it always..."

He smiled, wanting to share a joke. If only he knew.

"What about you?" she said.

"Oh, I've branched out, diversified," he said.

"In what way?"

"Both ways."

She shook her head.

"I'm bisexual," he said.

She looked at him without knowing what to say. Was she surprised? It fitted with what she knew about him. She knew he never flinched from trying something new.

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Often."

"No, not often. I'm basically a straight guy. Who happens to like cock every now and then."

Suddenly she felt relaxed. She stifled a laugh.

""And the most recent?"

"Yesterday," he said, smiling.

"And did you do, you know, penetrative sex?"

"Oh no," he replied. "That's not really my thing."

She giggled. She couldn't help herself. Emboldened, she said,

"So when was the first time?"

"About five years ago."

"And what happened?"

"You want details?"

"Of course!" she replied.

"Well, this guy starts hitting on me after a campaign meeting in Bethnal Green, and I couldn't help but notice how fit he was. And I loved it, the attention and everything."

"OK, so what happened?"

"So a couple of weeks later, he rings me and invites me over to his place, and one thing leads to another and before I know it I'm kneeling down in the shower in front of him and he's coming over my face."

She shook her head, She tried to picture the scene but at that moment all she can think about is a mental image of something else, from long ago, when it is her kneeling before him in the shower in her flat, her hands massaging his cock, and the sensation of closing her eyes and feeling his cum hitting her mouth and nose and her cheeks, before the hot jet of water washed it down her chin and onto her breasts.

That was great, she thought. I loved it when he came all over me.

Jesus, where did that thought come from?

His cock. She remembered what she loved about it. It wasn't that it was really massive but that it was so thick, as thick as her wrist when it was hard. It felt so totally amazing inside her.

She felt the warmth in the pit of her stomach sink like treacle trickling downward, pooling slowly into a dull ache in her pussy. After all these years, he still managed to make her wet, even when he was talking about sucking off another man. She slowly crossed her legs, the tops of her hold-ups rasping as she did so. It had been ages since she had felt this horny.

"In the process I've discovered a whole new vocabulary," he said. He grinned, as if unsure whether to continue. "Tea bagging, for instance. I love tea bagging."

"What the fuck is tea bagging?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. Whatever it was, she was sure it would be horny as hell.

"Licking a guy's balls. Sucking them."

"Sounds... fun," she finally replied, trying not to betray how turned on she had become. She couldn't help glancing down at his crotch and seeing that he was hard. A pleasant bulge. It was all she could do to resist reaching forward and running a fingernail over it. After a moment when neither of them spoke, when all she could hear was the clatter of glasses and the music from the fruit machine babbling in the background, she said,

"So, you've not given up on women entirely though, have you?"

"Oh no," he replied with a wry smile. "I could never do that. Women are so much more... interesting."

"So," she said quickly, "what's the story there? Have there been many?"

She wondered how many and then tried to push the thought from her mind. What he had done with them. She felt a sudden knot of regret in her abdomen. If only they had stayed in touch.

"Well, not so many," he said slowly. "You know me, honey, I've always been picky. But I have to say, this old dog has learned some new tricks over the last ten years."

He leaned in towards her. As he did, she tried to hide how aroused she already was by brushing back her hair so her hand covered her face, but she knew her cheeks were flushed. Did he know? Did she hope he did?

"Really?" she said casually. "Like what?"

"Well, there was this woman I was seeing for a while, and she introduced me to the Alphabet Game."

She thought, so do I want to know what this is? Damn right I do!

"Which is?"

"One of the best lessons I have ever learnt about women," he said.

He waited, looking at her as though debating whether she was ready for the story.

"OK. Basically it goes like this," he said finally. "Most men, if they deign to go down on their partners at all, lap away like a thirsty puppy without thinking what they are doing, because all they are really thinking about is doing what is required of them before they get to the main event, right?

"I guess so," she replied.

"So why shouldn't it be fun?" he said. "That's what sex is supposed to be, right? Fun as in a good laugh, as in shits and giggles."

"OK, I agree," she said, rather too quickly. "So what's the Alphabet Game then?"

"Well it's basically this. When you go down on your lover, instead of charging in like you want to get it over with as quickly as possible, you use your tongue like a writing instrument, and you spell out what you are thinking, word by word, on her cunt."

She thought, I wonder who else he has told this story to before? Fuck it. She wanted to know more.

"Maybe I'd start by writing 'you are so fucking hot', stopping between each word to say what I have written," he said. "And then I'd ask for requests."

"Like what?"

"Like anything. It depends on the moment. Maybe 'I want you to eat me until I cum', or perhaps 'lick me until I beg for your cock'. I'm always open to suggestions."

He smiled mischievously again. She thought, he knows where he is going with this.

"But that's not the end of the game, definitely not. Then comes the really fun part. The icing on the cake. Everyone who's played the Alphabet Game has a different version, but it's always something long that they know off by heart."

He leaned in towards her so he could whisper in her ear. In a low voice he said,

"For me it's my favourite piece of Shakespeare. The Prologue to Romeo and Juliet."

Her eyes met his.

"I know it off by heart. One hundred and eight words of the most wonderful prose in the English language."

He paused again, taking a deep breath,

"'Two households, both alike, in dignity, fair Verona, where we lay our scene'. Spelled out, letter by agonising letter."

He stopped, leaning closer.

"Without a pause or break," he said, his voice husky and low.

"On a lover's clitoris."

She realised that she hadn't taken a breath for a minute and inhaled sharply.

"By the time I get to 'now, be the two hours passage of our stage', he said, "Things have usually got very,very special."

She tried to imagine it. Her thighs spread wide, his mouth on her cunt, his tongue lapping away, spelling out whatever she asked him to write. She imagined the liberation of forgetting the safety of her life since she had last seen him, of surrendering to the horniness she felt at that moment. That year with him had been the best she could remember. If she wanted it again, it was obvious from his voice that she could have it again. It was like that first year at college. He clearly wanted her and that had excited her more than anything else.

"So?" he said. "Doesn't that sound like fun?"

She looked at him. She had to make a choice.

"I think you are just trying to get into my knickers," she said nervously.

He stared at her, smiling.

"Listen," he said. "There's something I remember from college. There's something that the Roman philosopher Cicero said about friendship. We choose our friends because we see a reflection of ourselves in them.

He leaned back, smiling.

"And Iknow you, don't forget that. Iknow we are the same. So do you really think I amjust trying to get into your knickers?"

He paused.

"Just getting into your knickers would be such a failure of imagination."

Another pause. He had that look in his eye, one she remembered from so many Sunday mornings.

"Do you really think," he said, "that I'd try to manipulate my way into your knickers? Anymore than if I would want to be manipulated by someone else myself? If I were to get into your knickers, it would be for one reason. One reason alone."

She looked at him. It was almost like a script, lines in a film She knew what she had to say.

"And what would that reason be?"

"Because I had been invited to," he said, leaning back and grinning.

And finally the choice had been laid before her. She could say no, be respectable, do what he work colleagues would do.

Or find out what the Alphabet Game was like.

She smiled. It wasn't exactly a difficult choice, not now. The only problem was, after all these years, she wondered what the answer would be to the first question that popped into her head.

Which one of them got to be tied up first?

"So," she said, leaning close to him. "What are you doing later tonight?"