Fishing boats bobbed with the movement of the waves against the walls of the barbican as I quickly walked across it’s cobbled stones. A strong wind forced me to pull my scarf tighter around my neck. I had no coat and was freezing waiting for him to answer the door. The walk from Mutley Plain had been painfully fresh. I’ve always found it impossible to keep warm in British winters. Pushing the ancient, wooden door open I followed Robert through the hall and into the study.
He sat in his usual place, at the head of a busy, tall table, his large frame filling the gap which worked as a doorway to the library. He collected ancient manuscripts and occult books. Taking his responsibility, to the English artefacts seriously, he’d built a temperature controlled environment for them. We discussed the Mona Lisa and Rembrandt before he suggested we start.
Nervously I climbed the well worn, wooden stairs to the upper floor. His studio was a jumble. Worked canvasses propped up walls, paints were set up on palates with painted pictures in various stages everywhere you looked, covered with large dusty, stained sheets which draped across the floorboards. He led me to where he’d already started and I tell him I’m impressed.
Robert was a master conversationalist as well as a brilliant artist (painter). Each of our meetings is remembered with fondness. He influenced me. No subject was off limits. He appeared to enjoy discussing the more intimate things in life, especially sex. I’ve met men like Robert all my life. He was gentle, loving and giving. No other men were so at ease with their sexuality. He asked me outright,
“Do you enjoy sex?”
Please remember that at this stage in my life sex is something which ‘happens to me’ and this overweight, greying man is at least twice my age (at least). I laugh at him. He continues,
“I’d love to make you orgasm. Nothing more. I’d just love to taste you Samantha.”
I don’t believe him and scoff at his suggestion. This is not good enough for Robert. He is affronted. He now wants to know why wouldn’t I let him lick me. With no reason to lie, I tell him, I don’t believe he wants to lick me just to make me cum. His expression is stunned and then he asks,
Now, that was an interesting question.
My answer was long and badly expressed. I’d never had an orgasm and didn’t understand why men licked me other than to get my legs open. Oral sex seemed to be a momentarily affair before being presented with a penis to suck or envelop. I didn’t think I could cum, I suggested female orgasm wasn’t real and he assured me it was.
Robert asked me if I trusted him and held out his hand for me to hold. He led me through to a bed at the back of the studio and told me of it’s history before leading me through to a private bathroom of sorts featuring a sink and large gilt edged mirror fixed on the wall.
He stood me naked in front of the mirror, making me look myself. Robert persuaded the younger me to look at each of my reflected features. He told me that I was beautiful and worthy of worship..something I still have problems with today. He realised my self esteem was too low and as such I didn’t ask for pleasure, I didn’t know I could or should. We moved back to the four poster.
Passing me a large ceramic chamber pot he asked if I would mind emptying my bladder. It was cold and I’d been holding for hours so it took seconds for me to fill it with hot steamy urine. Robert took it from me as if it were a holy chalice; his hands either side and without hesitation, drank the lot, wiping his mouth across with his sleeve when he’d finished.
I was out of excuses.
I lay on the bed amongst the lace silk throws. Giving me the first and second orgasms of my life, Robert took away layers of fear that inadequate sex education, peer pressure and society had placed upon me.
As his tongue explored and licked I felt more worthy and empowered than I thought possible. I didn’t worry about how I smelt, tasted, looked or sounded. Pushing deep into my vulva, his tongue played, licked and teased my clitoris into spasms of joy that came over me in waves.
My first orgasm was like climbing a road hill on a bicycle, straining to reach the top then feeling my body flipping inside, as I fly over the peak doing wheelies and nothing is coming the other way to spoil the ride as I roll down the other side.
We continued to do this for weeks during breaks of him painting me. At the time I believed him to have several intimate relationships with women he had children with, around seventeen of them. Robert and I were never ‘true loves’ but we enjoy meals out together and probably some of the best conversations I’ve had. He was a profoundly interesting person with a depth of personality not often found.
My informative years (the 80s) had been full of advice for sex safe and how to not get pregnant or get HIV. It was heavily aimed at gay people and avoiding sexually transmitted disease. There was very little information for straight women other than how to put on a condom, how not to do it in the arse unless you’ve stretched (still hurts) and how to give head, (it’s suck not blow).
At twenty years old, it was liberating to talk to someone like Robert. Someone who knew something about sex, the bones of how it really worked. An older man. I’d been having consensual intercourse for five years before meeting him. No lover had brought me to orgasm. Like many women I had pretended out of boredom, embarrassment, pity and wanting it to finish.
Without meeting Robert I may have gone on to become one of life’s unfortunates, those who’ve never had the pleasure of an orgasm. His honesty, courage, patience and intelligence saved me many miserable decades and I’m proud to have known him before his premature death.
I’ve gone on to have many wonderful lovers and learnt much about carnal knowledge but it would still be over twenty years before I purchased a chamber pot.
Thanks for reading.