Ups and Downs

'Yes you can... Lomography in Spitalfields is your place. Just give them a call and see'.

Jonathan knew where to get anything; paint to match the wall I sprayed ink over; the little widget that dropped out of the tap the day I tried to change the washer without turning off the water; my Mum's Lladro shepherdess that went to guard frolicking lambs in heaven during a particularly exciting teenage party; weed at the most inopportune times and, in this case, a genuine, honest to God Polaroid camera... one of those instant film jobbies that once promised to bring revolution to photography and first put pornography into the hands of the amateur snapper without a darkroom. And in that moment, my last defense fell, kindling the first spark of excitement between my thighs and forcing me to squeeze my legs together. In that moment I knew we would really do it.

'Urban Exploration' we used to call it. A pretentious way of saying 'going places we're not supposed to go to' and it was the favourite pass-time of our anarchic branch of the university Climbing Club. A ghostly, abandoned mental hospital with rusty beds and curtains flapping in the breeze from windows as shattered as the minds of the patients who used to live in it; a former tram tunnel once used as a storage warehouse for old files; an abandoned listening station with huge concrete ear-trumpets to magnify the sound of aircraft engines beyond the horizon; and our piece de resistance... an abandoned tube station complete with war-time posters and blitz-vintage graffiti. If we needed to abseil or climb to reach our target, so much the better. Each success marked by having a picnic at the object of our goal and leaving our own piece of commemorative graffiti. But now we were going to go up... up to the top of a roller coaster and our calling card was to be a Polaroid photograph of me having nookie with one of the guys. No, of course that bit wasn't my idea... but I have to confess to a certain dampness every time I objected. And up to that point, no one had actually defined what 'nookie' was, especially 'nookie' at the top of a roller coaster.

Reese Witherspoon did it of course... at least, it looked like she did it on the film; fingers between her thighs and lights flashing orgasmically as the train careered over the last hump on the track sending the riders into screaming paroxysms of thrill. But Reese was riding the train; Reese was strapped safely in her seat; Reese had her fingers under her skirt... just her fingers under her skirt. Did she have knickers on? Did she feel the motion of the car jiggle her fingertips against her most intimate places or did she squeeze tightly and hold on, letting the violence of the ride push her over the edge? Or was it really just the magic of cinema, the trick of the camera, clever direction sowing the seeds of belief and erotic excitement in my mind? The images coursed through my head and as I swung my leg at last over the highest parapet; lights twinkling below and stars twinkling above but utter, utter darkness all around me, I decided Reese had the better idea.

Mountains don't move; this wasn't a mountain. All the life below was coursing through the metal like music from vinyl; the wind truculently threading its way between steel tubes and girders; the rhythmic rumble of traffic in the distance a barely-there bass to the treble singing of track-side safety wires. And on top of this mountain of steel the time had finally come.

There were no words. No preparation and we would die; we knew our roles, had rehearsed our scripts, we could do this in the dark and we knew each other; we knew each other intimately. Clipped to the safety wire, harness tight around the tops of my legs, I leaned on the guard rail and breathed in the sea air as hands found my zip and cool air thrilled me. A shift of position and I savoured the freedom below my waist and then the anticipated yet unexpected pressure of hot, smooth, hard flesh pressing from behind. Gasping, I reached back, grasping a rigid shaft and guiding it between my lips, savouring the parting of my opening and the friction that followed.

Eyes closed, the mountain of steel was swallowed inside me, moving rhythmically, carefully, expertly; drawing me into the rhythm, banishing the height, focusing the world on that small place between my legs that was throbbing and twitching and sending the first waves of ecstasy towards my tummy. I reached for my breasts and squeezed them through my fleece, feeling my nipples tighten sending waves downwards this time to mix and mingle with the candy-floss swimming below my tummy button. The red haze of a camera flash reminded me I didn't know who had the camera... and the thought tipped me inside as my lover thrust deeper and harder and I knew he was nearly there. Another flash; another thought; another thrust and Reese crashed through my mind as my muscles spasmed with a rhythm of their own, devouring the hardness inside me now braced and still, and hard, and tense, and... and... I gasped as my lover turned bilingual and cool, cool relief coursed inside me bringing my own satisfaction with it, flowing over my body and through my mind, reducing me to jelly.

And then it was back; the wind, the traffic, the singing of the safety wires. Still no words were spoken. Jonathan was fixing a photo to the metalwork; neck down, no faces, no identifying marks... impossible to tell who these two people were. just the location was clear. Then, with just enigmatic smiles showing through our balaclavas, we swung our legs over the edge and rappelled into the night.