One Night Only Hits The Spot – Bad Girls Do It Well
One night only. It’s a phrase the girls threw out nonchalantly when I was at school and it now sounds so dated. That’s why I love it.
Going with someone for one night only is a teenage thing – at least it was when I was a teen, and reviving it makes you feel young again. I needed it.
I broke up with Ramon, my beautiful younger man. It was inevitable. All good things must pass. I shed my tears. I bought a new pair of shoes and went to a party down the coast in Sitges where the entire basement was a photographer’s studio turned into a disco with flashing green lights that made the dancers look like ghosts as they weaved and bobbed and swayed to the music, sort of flamenco rock, not that good but danceable.
The ghost imitating my movements made me wonder at first if I was seeing my own shadow. But the lights flashed across his face and I recognised the photographer who owned the house and had invited me. His wife was a model, quite well known. She was in Paris. I was alone. He was rather good looking. Perfect for one night only.
We drank cava – so much better than champagne, you must try it – and wandered up the curving staircase to the floor above which had struck me as strange for a photographer when I first arrived. There were no photographs. No paintings. Just some rust-coloured sculptures of birds that seemed to be flying out of the wall. It was stagey, sexy, vaguely surreal.
One Night Only Silence
I must say I love it when there is no need to speak. We climbed another flight of stairs to a large bedroom with a circular bed and black sheets – just as old-fashioned as a one night only fling, I thought.
It was cool outside. Warm in the bedroom with its view across a long garden with a narrow pool, the lights around the side making the water the same brilliant shade of blue as his eyes. I have always had a weakness for dark hair and blue eyes.
We kissed. It was functional, unemotional. It was what I needed. I adore the feel of a man taking the bottom of my shirt and easing it over my head, struggling with the hooks at the back of my bra, searching for the zip to remove my skirt. They work with patient impatience. It’s a sort of foreplay being stripped down to your panties, hopping from foot to foot as you take them off. I was born naked and always feel relieved to get back to that state.
His clothes slipped away and we shot into the circular bed with its black silk cover like two arrows hitting a bullseye. I had never grown tired of sex with Ramon, my young lover. He was energetic, passionate, pure as a fresh glass of water. The first time we met he was reading Homage to Catalonia in Spanish. Everything was adorable. He will stay on any mind and his smell on my skin for a long time.
And yet, and yet there is nothing like one night only with someone new, a fresh body with all its mysteries and delights.
After hurrying through the hooks and zips that bound me, he scissored up quickly between my legs and we raced to an early climax. Not perfect, but there were are. I was back in the one night only world of casual sex with casual partners. You take it as it comes.
We dressed and ambled back down the two flights of stairs to the basement. Everyone was dancing to Jamiroquai singing Bad Girls. Live fast, die young. Bad girls do it well. I had no idea what that meant exactly, but the lyrics to dance music hardly matter.
I danced until I dropped and dreamed that night in my empty bed of Ramon. We were on a long beach and he was walking away from me, slowly, slowly, vanishing into the distance. I have a new life now and I intend to enjoy it.
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“Girl Trade is a stunningly riveting book. The heroine, a bored London girl who has discarded her boyfriend, goes on holiday to La Gomera, one of the Canary Islands, where she learns to discard all inhibitions as she is initiated into a much greater self-awareness and sense of reality through a string of brilliantly-described and at times quite brutal sexual encounters. Breath taking.” Alan Hardy, Amazon.co.uk