Sex and the Stranger 2: A Mischief Erotica Collection

As always, the stranger looked different from any way I could have imagined him.

Simon – I was sure it was him – was neither dark nor particularly tall. He was slim and slight, with a stylishly trimmed beard and somewhat thinning hair up top.

Good thing I was sitting down with my four-inch heels.

He looked around, quickly, almost as if he was an animal of prey rather than the big bad predator his online name had suggested, and when he didn’t immediately see anyone who matched my description and (somewhat partial) picture, he seemed to shrink a little. I saw a familiar expression on his face. ‘Life has stood me up again.’

Hello, Ruby in the Dust

Then I moved, uncrossed my legs, flicked my hand languorously through my long hair, showing him just the shadow of my outline against the darkening sky.

It worked. His peripheral vision turned him into a hunter again.

He crossed to the glass doors and stood on the threshold. His eyes found mine.

But then he looked around again, not sure. Could this woman really be the one from the site?

I liked that.

Softly, I called his name. ‘Simon …’

He looked back at me. Surprise, recognition, adjustment of expectations and then a secret delight that muscled itself all across his face in a big wide smile. Yes, this woman was real, yes, this woman wasn’t a freak and you know what, on even a first look, he felt he’d hit the jackpot.

I’d seen that kind of smile before, on the face of a stranger, here in California. To me, surprising. Men didn’t smile at me like that in London. Was the woman he saw really me? Every time I saw that smile, I smiled back.

I crossed my legs to bring my beautiful heels into view. Just as the outside lights went on.

Soft lights, of course, no pollution. If you scrunched up your eyes, you could just see the outlines of the hills. It must be getting cold out there.

Simon liked the view. He smiled again.

‘Please, sit down,’ I said. I enjoyed the slight formality. Maybe we should have a cup of tea. Or at least he should. He was going to have to drive.

We made a little light conversation. About the weather, about the beauty of Big Sur.

‘We used to play Monterey a few times,’ he said. ‘And Carmel, for more exclusive gigs …’ Oh yes, right. He said he used to be involved with the music industry.

The food came. It was excellent.

‘I’m a kitchen hand,’ I said. It wasn’t entirely true, but true enough for the moment.

He nodded. I invited him to share the gourmet avocado squares on my plate.

Extra points for not exclaiming that he couldn’t believe there was no meat in them. On the contrary, he made some knowledgeable comments about the flavour combinations. He could cook, he said. I believed it.

All Along the Watchtower

Of course we had met before, only just not in person. We met on the famous website that had become my home from home. I found most of my best lovers there, all over the world.

‘I feel lucky,’ he said. ‘It used to be so hard to meet a great woman who was into kink.’

‘Or anyone at all,’ I said. ‘I wish there had been a site like this ten years ago.’

Simon raised his shapely eyebrows. ‘Make that twenty, for me.’

We shared the ensuing silence. And the sadness about years lost to shame and exclusion. Simon was fragile, like me. We were not just suitors and hunters, we were members of a secret tribe.

And I liked the fact that he refrained from forcing his personal history on me. We listened to how the wind rattled the big trees and flew over the roof of Nepenthe.

For a while, that site had a very elegant lady in a green and white outfit on the landing page. She looked like everything I wanted to be. I dived with gusto into long, exciting conversations and noted with relief, again and again, how sexy it is to speak without fear. Some of these conversations had been going on for months. I didn’t plan to be in California for ever.

Simon and I, however, had only been writing to each other for a few days. One fine night, moon shining high over the Esalen Internet Hut, he just popped up. He was bold and light-hearted. He peppered his messages with unabashed philosophy. He quoted poetry. Real, complicated poetry. And he was free tonight.

He used to be a roadie for some band that was famous in America, he said. And now he was a surveyor of land. The dream didn’t pay. But he wasn’t giving up on other dreams. Like me?

Me? At that time, I was all dream. California dreaming all right.

People Are Strange When You’re a Stranger

‘So,’ he said. He hesitated for a moment, coughed, then forged ahead, ‘so we’ve already chatted, of course, but – can we talk a little more about what you – like?’

I didn’t answer immediately. I was wondering about his tone. It sounded a little slick. How often did he pick up women and did he care about who he picked up?

Without noticing, I had moved a few inches away on the bench.

Simon moved away, too.

‘I – is this too much?’ he said. ‘Too soon?’

‘No, no,’ I said. There was some awkwardness.

I felt foolish, then I felt lost. Was I really the proud, self-assured woman confidently selecting lovers that I had thought I was?

Simon looked away into the darkness.

‘I don’t do this sort of thing very often,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know what to expect. I thought maybe you wouldn’t be there. I thought, OK, in that case I’ll just have a glass of wine and enjoy the view. It’s a long time since I last came to Nepenthe.’

‘I am here,’ I said. I laid my hand on the table but he didn’t touch it.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You are here. I must say you are – so much more than I expected.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Although – can I ask? What did you expect?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not exactly doing very well at this, am I?’

‘You’re honest,’ I said. ‘That’s good.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I thought – you’re a stranger.’