I was what they call a stalker. What’s wrong with that? Just following as you might on Facebook. I just did it in the street, or the park, wherever she went. Yes, it was just one of her followers. I was not promiscuous. Tall, elegant in her walk. I caught pictures of her on my phone. If I sat on a seat by the small stream and she walked past on the path and over the bridge, I could fidget in an unobtrusive way as I poke away at the screen. And… oops, the camera went off just as she passed. I didn’t notice what I was doing. Did I? And she didn’t notice me, or my movements. But there she was captured. And back at home my Photoshop could put her in all sorts of positions, and dress her in all sorts of ways – or not dress her at all.
That’s how it started. I am not really as creepy as all that sounds. I have my girlfriends. None very serious. I rarely think about one or the other unless we are planning to go out somewhere. But this one is special, who I don’t go out with. I look all over the media for her and have not found her; no details apart from what I see as I follow her in the street, in the park. I know nothing, have never seen her get in a car whose registration I could jot down. But of course, I knew where she lived. Not a stone’s throw from my flat which is how I first noticed her. She was, to put it poetically, a perfect ornament on an altar. Even when she was slopping down to the laundromat in her slippers and last-year’s jeans, I’d have fallen at her feet if she had only looked at me. I’d have made her my stiff offering if only she’d noticed I was following at the obligatory twenty paces. It was sex, I knew it was sex. And she could have taken so much of it, so much out of me. If she had known, but she did not know.
She seemed infinitely distant. Unreachable, she seemed enclosed in her own bubble of temptation and excitement, She was quite stunningly beautiful in a statuesque and commanding way, The word ‘impressive’ doesn’t quite cover it as she gave off a physical, sexual urgency which infected all men (I imagine) who came within range.
I had been under her spell for some time as you can imagine, a longing looker from the distance she kept. So, imagine my astonishment when on one occasion, as I was sitting nonchalant on my park bench watching her strutting along the path, she stopped and looked directly at me. It was as if she had known all along I was adoring her. And it seemed she had. “You’ve been following me!” It was not exactly aggressive, and I was not sure if she was saying she had seen fascination. Or did she think I was waiting my chance to rape her – women do think that, don’t they. They sometimes would like to think they can drive a man crazy just by the way they look, that he’d jump on her unasked. An old girlfriend once told me that all women indulge in rape fantasies of that kind, but I don’t sprpose that it is true of every woman; perhaps only the one’s who lack any chance of looking that spectacular.
I smiled and grunted, or something.
“Look,” she said, and held out the screen of her phone showing me fiddling with my phone. It was a ten-second clip of me holding my phone as if accidentally I was sneaking a photo of her. Snap, snap - as it were.
I laughed and stood up to speak to her. “I think you are a stalker.” I admonished playfully. “And I am sincerely charmed.”
“Well, kiddo, why me?” She asked in a derogatory fashion. Her accent was slightly plummy, but the words seemed, well, everyday ordinary.
She was tall and slim and with a practiced elegance as she stood in front of me. Her face was not that of a classical celebrity beauty. But it had a kind of pressing energy and her lips were full. “Me? – kiddo?” I asked as we were both seriously grown adults. Both of us in our thirties. “Kiddo? Yep, I’ve followed you around a bit. I’d say I am a bit fascinated.” She remained looking at me, impassively. She seemed to be making a judgement. I began to wonder how well I came out in her judgement. I doubted if it was a reciprocal adoration. I was feeling small and stupid, and certainly with no claim on this vigorously beautiful spirit. Now, meeting her face-to-face, I began to wonder how divine she actually was. There was something very human about her indecision.
“Sorry, that wasn’t polite.”
“No matter, no matter; we don’t know each other. But,” I said in a hesitant way, not because I was hesitating, but to try to make myself unthreatening, “do you think we could get to know each other?”
She took a deep breath as if undecided what to reply, and as she did so she seemed to grow taller. It seemed so – nearly to an equal height with me. And her chest pushed forward. Her breasts were of an average swelling. I was taking in every inch of her while I had the chance. It was as if she liked the look of what she saw but couldn’t trust herself. I am told I have a quite striking appearance, and to be fair I do not have difficulty finding smart and clever girls who make a show of what they look like, to accompany me. I often find they are more interested in me than I am in them – sadly. How does mutual attraction start? Well, this woman’s accosting me could possible start to answer that. It was not that I particularly wanted her interest. I was quite happy to simply look at her, watch her walking ahead of me, her long legs in elegant, poised strides, her slim body was lithe in its movements as if almost swimming through the space in which she moved. I had no problem in simply following. Strange, you may say. Especially for someone with mature experience as I was. But it was that she seemed untouchable, unreachable even, that bound me to my watchful fascination. Eventually she said ‘no’, quite decisively. That was not unexpected – and even not entirely unwanted. But she did not immediately move away. I am quite tall, as well as having a physique that is well toned at the gym. She wore only modest heels but nevertheless she was more-or-less equal in height. And what I thought was that I could, with no trouble, lean forward quickly and kiss her on her generous-looking lips with passion. I didn’t do that as I also felt I did not want that proximity. Why? There was something for my small mind to puzzle over in my bouts of insomnia.
“No, you’re a weirdo that likes watching from behind, aren’t you? You like watching my bum move.” I could not deny that fascination, so I smiled and nodded shyly. “Well, stop it.”
“That’s not fair,” I said quickly as I knew she’d want me to stop my fascinated following. And I had often thought what I’d say. “You’ve just told me I’m a weirdo, but you can’t expect me to stop being one, just in two seconds because you’ve asked. It is me, you know. I love the beautiful view of you in the distance. I don’t want to touch you, only to adore.”
She was looking surprised.
And I knew that I am weird.
“You just want to look,” she enquired.
“Yes, That’s it. That’s all.”
“Why?” And she almost seemed disappointed. It was as if she thought my adoration was not enough unless I wanted to grope her, kiss her, desire the touch of her skin. She took a step back on the path and nearly collided with a pushchair that a foreign-looking nanny was grumpily pushing. She apologised to the nanny who took no notice.
I replied to her, “Why do I only want to look? Well. You are perfectly beautiful. Not just the shape of you, but the way you move, the atmosphere of pure air you create around you. You shouldn’t have the grubby hands of a filthy weirdo man touching you. I think that’s why.”
“You are weird,” she said uncomprehendingly, and in fact seemingly not believing me. “So, you want to just follow me around, watching my backside, the way I move?" And she added afteer a moment, " And don’t I have a choice?”
I didn’t want to challenge her by saying she was quite right, as she had no choice. I’d just go on looking and watching in my weird and distant way. So I said, “You are beautiful to watch, people should enjoy you. It’s only fair. You could have been a ballet dancer.”
She looked surprise, “I am a ballet dancer.” I was surprised. And yet not surprised of course as she had the grace, and poise and inviting yearning in all her movements. That was, after all, what fascinated me, and she cou.d see it. “So you go to the ballet, do you?”
“Not much,” I said vaguely. In fact, I did not, “Just watched bits on the TV when it is there, or YouTube.” She was certainly finding me difficult to understand.
“You should go sometimes.”
“I don’t need to,” I said; and I meant that I could just watch her in the street. I’m sure she got what I meant.
“So what do I get out of it.”
“You get an audience, I suppose. You don’t have to rehearse or anything. You are just a star without trying.”
“Hmm, and you get a show without paying.” She was kind of scoffing, but I thought there was a hint of humour behind it. She might even have been enjoying this conversation.
“Oh,” I said quite quickly responding to the slightly more joyful tone, “Is it money you want? I am a rich man – though I may not look it. I’d be delighted to give you money.” And she certainly looked confused at that point. What more could she want, a man with money, who adored her like a goddess and who wanted to enrich her. So I added, “And I’m handsome too.”
She looked uncertainly at me. In other circumstances she might have given me a passionate kiss on the lips.
“You’re not a creepy kind of weirdo, like them as hides behind tree-trunks as if you can’t see them. You’re all straight about it. That’s strange.”
“To be honest, I’m a weird kind of weirdo,” I said in my most charming way. She was shaking her head in her most puzzled way. It was not a straightforward pick-up in the park by a desirable man who desired her. She was out of her depth. I didn’t like that.
I decided to confide something to her. “It’s difficult being here talking to you, even though it’s quite fun. But I have got my hormones whizzing around in my bloodstream, driving themselves crazy. I think that’s why I want to keep a distance.” She looked as if she could not take any more and she too wanted a distance from this persistent weirdo. “Listen,” I said, “Why don’t you let me give you some money from time to time. Some money whatever amount would make a difference to you. Just sometimes.” And I added, “It might calm the hormones a bit.” She shook her head in a conflicted confusion. I then said, as I felt an urgency, “I’ve got to go. This conversation has been a fantastic moment for me. But I have to go. To get home. To relieve myself.”
She remained tense. And as I turned to leave her, she said, give me your phone number. I’ll ring you some time.”
I was tempted but knew I couldn’t bear that intimacy. The waiting. “No, if you want to tell me something, I’ll be walking behind you sometimes. Keep a look out.” I left her, poor thing. I really had not meant to overwhelm her with my weirdness.
As I walked briskly back to my bare and utilitarian flat, I thought her total and absolute ordinariness (though extraordinary in her exciting beauty) and me with my weirdest form of being weird, we would make the most perfect complementary couple; she with the way she lived so perfectly in her body, and with my hatred of my body with its hormones whilst sprouting my weird intelligence, we could form wonderful antidotes to each other. On the other hand, it could be nothing but complete conflicted warfare. Why was I thinking like that? When I got back to the flat. I rang the most willing of my girlfriends to come around immediately. Which she did. She did it twice. And when she was gone. I did it a third time. By then I was beginning to get over what had happened with the ballet dancer. And, amazing wasn’t it, I had not even asked her, her name!
Things continued. I followed her, and she pretended not to notice. Sometimes I saw her twice a day, and sometimes it was a couple of days in between my glimpses. It was a good three weeks, when she suddenly stopped in the park and with a determined step came back with her gaze firmly fixed on me. As she came up to me she handed me a piece of paper, looked me sternly in the eye as if she’d just given me my orders, and turned marching off in her original direction. I did not look at the message on the paper as I followed for a while. And then decided to return to my flat to read it. I sat down carefully with a can of beer. The note told me to meet her later at a specific pub, at a specific time. She had picked the pub specially she said – ‘it’s by the cash machine (haha)’, she wrote. I looked at my watch. I had a couple of hours. I told my hormones to relax. I needed to control the sudden panic.
I was there half-an-hour early. Why had I gone. It seemed she wanted to meet. She did not have to meet close to, for me to grant the money – it was money I felt I owed to her, the only thing of value I thought I could give her. When she came in the door, she was dressed well. Not sexy and cheap. Well-dressed and sleek, showing her figure modestly. Two men by the door looked at her with interest. She had provoked their hormones as well. She went to the bar and got herself a drink, and then walked over to the other side of the room. There were not many people there at this time in the early evening. There was a low and comfortable looking settee facing my side of the room. She sat down and faced me, looking in my direction. She was waiting for me to cross the distance to come to her. I had a decision – to go home and keep the distance, or to cross the room and raise the panic in my head which my hormones were setting fire to. She nodded slightly towards the empty space beside her on the settee, asking me to come over to her. I looked and looked and after a couple of minutes I stood and wandered casually (not really casual) over to the settee. She looked at me. We looked at each other. To break the silence, I told her again she was beautiful. She looked steadily at me and told me that in a minute when she’d finished her drink she wanted me to come outside with her. I asked her how much she wanted. I meant the money. I would happily have given her anything, anything. I had lost my presence of mind. She looked a bit distracted by my question, “Oh, anything. I don’t mind. Anything you feel like. Let’s go.” And she stood up to lead me out of the pub.
When outside she held my arm with her hand. I was wearing a tee-shirt on this sunny warm evening, so she held my skin. The touch started up an electric tingling all over my me. In her elegant high-heels she brought me to the side of the pub where there was an alley where I supposed the cash machine was. But it wasn’t. Halfway down the empty alley she suddenly stopped and pushed me against the wall. I felt kind of imprisoned by her body pressing me back – even though I knew I had the simple strength to push her away. I did want to push her away. But I didn’t do it. She pressed her body against mine. In my head the panic rose higher and higher, rising and rising. And at the other end of me something different was happening, something different was rising, literally. I decided I must really forget about what was happening in my head. She put her hand between my thighs in a vigorous, even rough, kind of way. So I put my hand between her things. I was familiar with female genitals, and she was obviously familiar with male ones. We negotiated clothing and satisfied each other. Then she kissed me on the lips, firmly passionately, desperately. And I kissed her back.
How could I remember all the details, every one that she did. I was so familiar with all the actions, but it was who was acting those actions that counted so differently on this occasion. When our mouths separated a fraction. I said, “A Goddess with her shit kiddo.”
And after a moment she replied, “A man with his Goddess.” And she kissed me again; less desperate, more joyous. Then she pulled away. And said, “I’ve dumped my boyfriend.” And she looked enquiringly in my face.
I was desperate. I wanted to change the subject, “Where’s the cash machine?” She pulled away from me and laughed deeply. I smiled in response, but only pretended.
“I’ve got to take you in hand, haven’t I? Let’s go back inside and have a drink. Together.” She emphasised the last word.
We walked slowly back down the alleyway. I said, “I wish I could stay in command of myself.” I said as much to myself as to her. More to myself actually.
“You did OK. As far as I am concerned. I’m pleased with you, so I’ll get the drinks.” We entered the pub and I was sent to sit on her settee and in a moment she brought over a bottle of champagne with two glasses. “I can’t really afford this. But it is a momentous occasion, isn’t it. I have become a Goddess.” She laughed. I was beginning to relax with her calm ordinary control of everything.
“You can afford anything you want, now.” And I went through the expert motions of uncorking the champagne.
She clinked glasses with me. “To a moment of perfection,” she announced.”
“To the Goddess of perfection,” I responded.
She laughed, “A giddy Goddess. I have put all my eggs in one basket in these last couple of weeks. You owe me.”
“I hope you’ll come to think it worthwhile.”
“I already think it is.” And she sipped her Champagne, looking over the edge of her glass at me with shining eyes. Then she looked serious, “You’ve got problems, haven’t you. You think you’re not worth more than a turd that sticks out of your own arsehole.”
I smiled at her, “You put it beutifully.”
“What is it you want, “You’ve got money, you have an idle life, and now you have a beautiful Goddess. What more do you want? We could have sex in more comfort perhaps. But I couldn’t wait.” She sipped again. “What is it you want?”
“That’s a thoughtful comment. It is a good question. I will need you to help me answer it.” And I thought -- ‘Oh god, what am I saying, I’m going the way she wants’. But at that moment I really wanted. I did not want to jump up screaming and race back to my empty flat. I lay back against the soft settee. How does one change one’s being. But in truth, just being here suggested I had. I looked towards her and to test – to test myself, really – I said, “Will you come back to my place and we spend the night together?”
She smiled, more joy in her eyes, “About time you asked.”
I smiled too, her joy was infectious. I felt warm and warmed by her, “So the Goddess accepted the turd.” She laughed and gave me a mock slap on the cheek, in the most relaxed gesture any woman had made towards me, ever. It looked like she might be good for me.
She then looked seriously at me, “What made you pick me out. You think I’m different from all those fuck-dollies you’ve got.”
“You are different.”
“No, I’m ordinary, like the rest.”
“You are untouchable, that’s what makes you different.” And I put out my hand to touch hers that was holding her glass. A very gentle touch that turned into a stroke. It was electric. “I touch the untouchable.”
She didn’t pursue it. She seemed to glow. It was a perfect moment. We were still, and silent. Nothing needed to be said. We were going to be together all night.
In the morning, she woke me. “Touch me again.” So I put my hand between her thighs. Afterwards she said, “See, I am not so untouchable.”
As I thought about my day ahead, I said, “I think I might go out to see if I can find you to follow.”
“You still want to?”
“It is what I’ve wanted to do every day for the last couple of years. It is what I’ve lived for.”
She shook her head slightly as if incomprehensible. “It’ll cost you.”
“It’ll be worth it. It’s what made you a Goddess. Someone I could worship from a distance. It made all the difference.”
“But you’ve worshipped me close up, now.”
“I have, I have,” and I turned, and we hugged in our nakedness. “There’s no greater closeness than skin to skin. And I have touched you.” I was puzzled. “And you haven’t become just another fuck-dolly as you called them.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” and she looked wickedly mischievous, “Touch me again”
When she finished, I took my hand gently away. “When I touch you it is for both of us. When I touch them, it is for me.”
“And you’re not worth it?”
“I suppose. They just become a collection of turds I play with.”
“I do understand a little bit.” And after a pause, she suggested, “Let me touch you.” So she put her hand between my thighs to find me, then her mouth too, and then I penetrated her. As she rode me, she gently said, This is for both of us.” And she stopped momentarily, bending down towards me, “And for why? Why both of us.”
I knew the answer she expected, “Because we’re both worth it.” Then she continued and as her energy mounted, so did mine.
Maybe one day, I might believe it too.
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