I love visiting London,
though I sometimes have trouble communicating with the locals as I only speak
English. It's a very cosmopolitan city, like New York. New Yorkers, however,
have long insisted newcomers learn to speak in some semblance of the local
dialect. London considered itself too noble to insist people adapt, so lots of
them didn't bother . The result is a wild mixture of nationalities that have
only slightly acclimated to being on British soil.
And since most of them wind
up in service jobs I encounter them fairly frequently. It's annoying having to
constantly repeat myself in pidgin English to some dullard sales clerk or hotel
waiter who gapes at me like I'm speaking Latin when all I want is to know how
much something costs.
Fucking foreigners!
Okay, spare me the irony. I
realize that I'm technically a foreigner when I visit the UK. I'm very smart. I
can fucking speak English, for one!
Can I speak Arabic or Urdu?
No. Why the fuck would I want to? Am I in Lebanon or Pakistan? No. So fuck off.
People call me judgmental.
People call me intolerant and snobbish. I prefer to think of myself as someone
with high standards. I don't ask others to go above the standards of behavior I
hold myself to, so I'm not really unfair as far as I'm concerned.
I woke up in a large,
comfortable bed that morning. It had a low-backed sofa at its foot facing the
TV, which sat on a low stand. To my left was a multi-paned window looking out
on the courtyard. There were sixteen panes. I'd counted last night just after
snapping off the light.
I'd gotten in on the
morning flight. And since I've never been able to sleep on planes it was a long
flight. First-class, of course. No way I'm going to sit crowded in among the
herd, with fat, smelly middle-aged women and their yowling children.
Then, the staff at the
hotel had made me wait for hours before I could check in. I'd been sleeping
since then. Most people would think it a bad idea to sleep the day away and
then wake up in the evening. I'm not most people. I sleep whenever the fuck I
feel like sleeping. That's a byproduct of not having a job, of not needing a
job.
Which is a byproduct of
being born into the right kind of family.
I rolled out of bed and
went to the window, put my hands on the wide sill, and looked out. There wasn't
a lot to see. It was an old hotel, heavily renovated. My window looked out on
the hotel's inner courtyard, which was surrounded on four sides. I could see a
pond and waterfall below, then a bunch of windows just like mine to the left,
the right and directly across the courtyard square.
And then I raised my eyes
and saw a man at the window across the square. He appeared to be looking at me.
The courtyard was about a hundred feet wide so he could doubtless see I was
female given I wasn't wearing anything. But unless he had the eyes of an eagle
the details would be lacking.
My instinct was to jerk
back out of sight, but I halted it and stared back boldly. It wasn't like I had
anything to be embarrassed about, after all. I have a damn good body and I'm
proud of it. God knows I work hard enough to maintain it.
It felt nicely wicked to be
standing there naked in the window looking back boldly. He stood in his window
looking back just as boldly. I couldn't tell much from this distance. He looked
older, though, and angry. Ha. Let him be.
I turned away and turned on
the TV for the sound, then padded across the floor to the bathroom. I'd thrown
myself into bed when I'd gotten in. Now I stepped into the shower and washed
away the feeling of being stuck in an airplane for twelve hours
I stepped out feeling
refreshed, dried off, and went back out front to call down for coffee and a
bagel before getting my toiletries and unloading them onto the bathroom
counter. I don't, as a rule, use much makeup most of the time because I don't
need to and can't be bothered. I get more than sufficient male attention – and
female – as is. I don't need more.
I mostly brushed out my
hair. It's long and thick and soft and golden blonde, and pours smoothly over
my shoulders and halfway down my back.
There was a loud knock at
the door and I turned off the dryer. I'd probably not heard the earlier ones. I
was still naked, so I grabbed a fluffy white hotel dressing gown off the hook
and slipped it around my shoulders, then tied it in front.
I went to the door and
opened it to find some third world type staring at me, holding a tray with my
coffee. “Ko-phi?” he asked.
I sighed as he set the tray
down on the dresser, then he thrust some sort of receipt at me, along with a
pen. I turned away and went for my purse to get my own gold pen. I'd just
showered, after all. I had no interest in getting a mass of grubby germs on me
from his. God knows how many people touched it every day.
I scrawled my name on the
paper and he said something I didn't understand.
“What?”
He pointed at the receipt
and said it again. Don't ask me what the fuck it was.
I shook my head and made
the universal “I don't understand” motion with hands and shoulders, and he
repeated himself, then pointing at the receipt. This time I understood I was
supposed to initial it in a particular location. Fuck.
I initialed it, and he
looked at it and then said something else so I pushed him back towards the door
by stepping closer and kind of shooing him back, then closed the door in his
face.
Learn to fucking speak
English, you bloody wog.
See, I've been here before.
I understand the lingo.
I took the bagel and coffee
into the bathroom, not touching the tray. God knows where it had been.
I examined the bagel
suspiciously, then took a bite before setting it down on a tissue. I picked up
the coffee and took a sip, then set it down and returned to my hair. Drying
hair as long as mine takes time and care or it looks like crap.
I do not like looking like
crap.
I finished with my hair,
used a dash of lipstick and a tiny bit of moisturizer, thanked God for good
genetics, and went to get dressed.
I opened my suitcases,
dumped stuff into the dresser, then pulled on a thong and bra, a very
lightweight turtleneck which hugged my body, and a pair of low-riding jeans. My
purse is small, lightweight, with a thick shoulder strap, and only has a
minimal amount of junk inside. I honestly don't understand women who carry
their lives around in a giant, heavy purse. Morons.
I slipped the strap over my
shoulders, checked to make sure everything I needed was in it, then headed
downstairs. It was just past eight so I was basically just going to window shop
since the stores closed at Nine or Ten hereabouts.
I like shopping along the
streets in London. Well, among the better streets. It was a ten-minute walk to
Oxford Street and I enjoyed the crowds and the beautiful architecture. Someone
long ago had forbidden any new buildings on the street which didn't conform to
the beautiful old ones. Smart guy. It was like being in the nineteenth century,
except the ground floor shops were all modern.
I got hassled less than I
did in New York. Maybe it's a cultural thing; the British being more polite. Or
maybe it was the area, where the lower classes might work but never shop.
Things were expensive here. Well, for ordinary people. I'm not ordinary.
I pushed open a door into a
clothing shop and looked at a collection of blouses on a table. I was always
looking for the right shades of green and blue that went with my hair.
Sometimes black and red looked good too. It depended on the shade and the
fabric.
I moved around the shop,
fingers testing the material of some of the tops and dresses while I considered
what might or might not look good on me. Occasionally I'd check a price tag,
but mostly they didn't matter unless they were really ridiculous.
I got frowned at by some
Muzzie women in headscarves and I gave them my coldest look. If they wanted to
hide their hair and bodies because GOD told them they might arouse men that was
up to them. I would dress however the fuck I felt like it.
I tossed my head to make my
hair swing and turned my back on them. Let them get a look at how nice and
tight the jeans were across my ass. They were probably just jealous anyway.
I thought about casually
tugging up one of the thin black strings to my thong so it was visible on my
hip, but discarded the idea. I'd done that when I was younger, but now I
thought that was kind of gauche.
Anyway, I wasn't looking
for male attention tonight.
I went back out on the
sidewalk and walked on, window-shopping, and pushing into various shops,
examining hats, handbags, dresses and lounge-wear. I was basically getting an
idea of what was available, and to some extent what the asking prices were.
The stores started shutting
down around Ten so I headed back to the hotel. I went up to my room and changed
into something to do some exercise in. That's basically sweatpants and a tank
top. Then I headed for the hotel's exercise room.
It wasn't large, but then
it wasn't a large hotel. There was only one person there, at the far end, using
the free weights. I ignored him and jumped on one of the treadmills, then
started walking, then jogging. As I picked up the pace, I noticed in the mirror
that the guy seemed to be looking at me.
Or maybe not. He wasn't
looking directly at me, but in the mirror at himself. But when he looked past
himself it was towards me, in the mirror. I was jogging at right angles to him,
over there on my left, but I could see him by turning my head a bit to the
right, in another mirror.
Nothing strange about a guy
looking at me, mind you. I'm very nice eye candy, or so I've been told. And it
wasn't like there was a lot else to look at in the exercise room unless he was
fascinated with himself. And he was a bit old for that.
He looked to be around
thirty. He had a military short haircut, dark eyes and a kind of brooding look
on his face. He was wearing a black t-shirt across broad shoulders, and his
arms, as he lifted a pair of large dumbbells up and down, were thickly muscled.
I did not meet his eyes. I
wasn't here to be picked up. I picked up the pace on the treadmill, and my
hair, which I'd pulled back in a ponytail, bounced against my back as I ran. He
finished with the weights and walked over, getting onto the treadmill next to
mine.
I braced myself for turning
down whatever come-on he was going to attempt, but he ignored me, other than to
dial up the treadmill and start jogging. I studiously did not look at him in
the mirror, so I didn't know what he was looking at. I listened to my iPod and
pretended he wasn't there.
Which got harder as he
started to run. I was running casually. This guy did that for about a minute or
two, like a warmup, then began to run faster and faster. I couldn't help
flicking my eyes towards him in the mirror. This time he wasn't looking at me,
though, or at least, didn't seem to be.
He was looking at himself,
running very determinedly, like he was chasing someone that he wanted to catch.
So he could tear their
throat out.
Yikes!
Just my silly imagination,
of course. I chided myself on being an idiot and focused on myself and my
running. I was certainly not going to try to compete with this guy. I'm not
into setting records or whatever. I'm just trying to keep in shape.
I slowed down and stepped
off, then got on one of the rowing machines instead. Since they were behind the
treadmills that mostly gave me a view of him from behind – well, except for the
mirror in front of him on the wall. I did my best to not be seen looking. But I
have to admit he had a great ass.
A great body, in fact. It
struck me as very... masculine. That might seem pretty fucking obvious, but I
don't mean male, I mean masculine. There's a difference. The impression I got
of him was someone strong, tough, aggressive, and able to take care of himself;
someone who didn't take shit from anyone.
I admired all those
qualities. They were all very high on my list of traits I looked for in a guy.
Except this wasn't a guy, it was a man. I'm only nineteen. I don't, as a rule,
date guys half again my age. I date guys who are maybe twenty or twenty-two or
three or around there.
I mean, when he was my age
I was, like, nine.
On the other hand, there
was something fascinating about him on an instinctive level. Like some kind of
dangerous animal: a leopard or tiger, maybe. The idea of sex with an... animal
like him suddenly made my chest tighten up. Yikes! That would be... well, I
wondered!
On the other hand, maybe I
was completely wrong. Maybe he sold insurance or was an accountant and he was
mild-mannered, soft-spoken and desperately anxious to please. If I smiled at
him would he be all confused and blush like a virgin boy at the prom? I wasn't
sure but I didn't dare try to find out. He was too... intimidating!
He stopped running and went
over to the corner, then began to do chin-ups. Effortlessly. Didn't this guy
need to take a break to catch his breath or something? Apparently not.
I felt myself become more
and more curious about him. What was he? Who was he? An international contract
killer here for a job? I played with that idea in my mind, and liked it, though
it was silly. What kind of job would a man like him have? This wasn't a
cut-rate hotel, by a long shot, so it had to pay well.
He dropped down, then
peeled his t-shirt up and off and jumped up, grabbing the bar and pulling
himself up and down.
Was he showing off for me!?
Or was he just hot, as in
sweaty...? Whichever it was the play of muscles along his back as he pulled
himself up and down was... impressive. I mean, I tried to look down at him as a
showoff or something, but my instincts were growling like a hungry cat.
I wondered how to meet him,
just to maybe satisfy my growing curiosity about what he was. Did he have one
of those 'posh' accents the upper crust did around here or one of the 'lower
class' accents of someone who had come up from the bottom?
I finished rowing and stood
up, more than a little breathless, and wondering how I could find an excuse to
talk to him. I could go over and use the free weights, which were right next to
him, and oh, maybe drop one! Oh yes! I could play the confused girl and he'd
show me how to do it right! Guys love that!
I wandered over to that
area, ignoring him, of course, and picked up and bent over, with my butt to
him, to test the various dumbbells on the racks to see which were manageable. I
found a couple which were lightweight enough but felt like they'd at least be
some kind of challenge, then began to do curls while I racked my brain to
figure out how to accidentally drop one, or do something else to get his
attention.
I decided to shift myself
over to the side. There was another rack there, a curving rack that held
barbells. I could pretend to trip on the lower part of the stand. I did that,
and dropped one of the barbells with a yelp just as he dropped down from the
bar.
He turned those dark eyes
on me, and I gulped because they didn't look all that friendly! Still, I'm a brave
girl! My friends all say so anyway! I gave a helpless little girly laugh and
shrugged.
“I guess you have to watch
your feet around these racks,” I said.
He picked up the dumbbell
for me and put it in my hand and I started to thank him, pleased my ruse had
worked. Then his big hand came up around my neck and he pushed me back against
the mirrored wall! The heel of his hand was actually on my upper chest, not on
my throat, but his long, thick fingers curled up around the sides of my neck as
he leaned in and kissed me!
Hard!
I was... stunned!
Open-mouthed even! He kissed me long and hard and passionately, his chest
pressing against my breasts as his mouth practically fed at mine! I felt
shocked, then indignation, then confusion and uncertainty because, like, that
kiss was smoking hot and awesome!
And then he pulled back and
turned around and walked out of the gym, leaving me gaping at him and gulping
in air. Like, holy fuck!
He hadn't even said a
fucking word!
“Hey!” I finally called,
but by then he'd already left the room.
“Fuck!” I exclaimed. “What
the fuck!”
I licked my lips. I put the
dumbbells down and shook my head in amazement. Also embarrassment. Not because
he had kissed me but because he had clearly seen completely through my act. I
felt indignation, though. I mean, I'm pretty hot! If he thought I was
interested in him why the fuck didn't he stick around!?
Who the fuck did he think
he was!? Did he think he was too good for me!?
Or even worse, did he think
I was some silly little girl?
Looking at myself in the
mirrors, I couldn't help noticing my nipples had gotten hard.