Chapter 10
Emmy
“I’ve had an idea for your list,” Sloane announces, jerking open the door to her flat and beckoning me inside.
“Hello to you too,” I laugh, giving her a squeeze. This is my first visit to her place, which I probably should have conducted before agreeing to move into it. But after a day of visiting cesspits and meeting repellent roommates, Sloane’s offer seemed too good to turn down.
“I’ll give the grand tour,” she announces, spinning on her heels. “And then I’ll tell you my idea.”
I follow her as she gestures around the big open plan space.
“This is the kitchen-living-diner,” she says, waving a hand around.
“I tend to live on takeout but I’m told the oven is top of the range.
” She shrugs. “Over here, the sofa and TV. I’ve got the usual streamers.
I’m more of a dinner on the sofa kind of a gal so the dining table is mainly where I work and study.
” She points to a huge table which is absolutely covered in potted plants.
There’s a small empty space at one end which I assume is her de facto desk.
“This one is my room,” she says, grabbing my hand as she opens the door to a bedroom. The walls are a rich red and her bed is a huge four poster, draped in a gauzy fabric. My eyes widen and she catches the look, giving me a grin. “I know, I know. It’s a bit much. But I love it.”
Much like the rest of it, Sloane’s bedroom is very her. There are trinkets over every surface: photographs, little sculptures, jewellery, bits of origami. It’s busy but it works.
“You’re always welcome in my room, just be warned, what’s inside my bedside table may scare you.” She gives me a diabolical smirk and I laugh.
“Noted. No rummaging!”
“And this one,” she says, as we go back into the hallway, “is the spare room. Your room, if you still want it.”
She opens the door to a beautiful, light-filled space. It’s simply decorated - a large king-size bed in the centre, a white painted chest of drawers, and a built-in wardrobe. There’s a painting above the bed – a woman standing with her back to the artist, gazing out over the sea.
“I’ve always liked that painting,” Sloane says, coming to stand beside me. “I wonder what she’s thinking about. Where she’s been.”
“Maybe she’s looking for herself,” I reply, feeling a pang in my chest. “Sloane, this room is perfect. Your flat is stunning. Are you sure you want a roommate? You just met me. I could be a crazy person.”
She laughs. “Oh, I’m counting on it, honey. Crazy is where all the fun happens. But yes, I’m serious. I’ve lived alone for ages and I could do with a bit of company. And I cannot in good conscience let you live with the taxidermy guy.”
“Ha, thank you. So, when can I move in?”
“Is next weekend too soon?” She beams. “Come on girl, let’s celebrate with a coffee and a chat about where your next orgasm is coming from.”
I croak out a startled laugh and follow her back to the main room, where she flicks on a drip coffee machine.
“Couldn’t leave the US without my baby,” she says, giving the machine a loving pat. “The instant coffee you lot drink here is disgusting. Anyway. Here’s my addition to your list: an erotic massage.”
“A what?!”
“An erotic massage! From a professional! Guaranteed orgasm, no reciprocation, no messy emotions, just an hour to fully relax and be selfish. They’re incredible.” She closes her eyes as if reliving a blissful memory.
“That’s a thing?!” I don’t consider myself particularly na?ve about sex but I don’t know anyone that’s ever had an erotic massage. Suddenly I feel like Alice – and I’m following this gorgeous kinky American into Wonderland.
“Of course it’s a thing. You’ve never heard of a happy ending?” She pours the coffee into two huge cups. “Cream?” she adds with an exaggerated wink.
“You know, Brits usually just have milk. But sure; why not. Let’s be decadent. And of course I’ve heard of a happy ending. I just assumed it was a thing that only men did.”
“Oh honey, no. Why should men have all the fun? I know this woman, Lotus, who does them. She specialises in women. She actually does a four-handed massage with her male partner if you really want your socks rocked off.” Another wistful smile.
“But I reckon you could start with just Lotus and go from there.”
“So let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that I go to a random lady I’ve never met and ask her to make me come?”
“Basically, yes. It’s a full-body massage. Emphasis on full. You’re naked, she’s naked. Proper spa treatment – except she doesn’t skirt around your bum. And she massages your pussy until you come right there on the table. Ideal.”
She takes a swig of coffee and sighs in delight as I scramble to get my brain back online. I can’t deny the thrill that flashes straight to my core.
“And you’ve had this done? By Lotus? Wasn’t it super awkward?”
“God, no. She sees like 20 pussies a week. She LOVES her work. Her great passion in life is to bring people to orgasm.”
“And it doesn’t matter that I’m basically straight?”
“Well as long as you aren’t repelled by the idea of a woman touching you, no it doesn’t.
Look, have you ever been with someone and realised you’re trying really hard to come and you just can’t?
Or you’re trying to hurry up and make the orgasm happen faster because you’re worried they’re bored or that their jaw is starting to hurt?
Have you ever compromised the quality of your orgasm because you’re focusing more on your partner’s comfort than your own pleasure? ”
She pauses and levels me with a hard look. I swallow and nod.
“Well, Lotus doesn’t need you to perform for her. She’s very skilled, she’s very professional, she’ll have you shuddering your way through a phenomenal orgasm in no time. She’s got an opening on Tuesday evening and I’ve asked her to hold it for you. You in?”
I think about everything Sloane’s just laid out for me.
Every scenario she’s just reeled off rings true.
I’m not sure I have ever had a truly selfish orgasm with another person.
It’s always been reciprocal and I’ve always felt that pressure to come within a certain time frame.
Colin used to complain about getting hand cramps for fuck’s sake.
I can’t find any reason to say no. Maybe because I don’t want to sit still long enough to feel the ache underneath it all.
“Ok. Let’s do it.” Let’s go meet a stranger called Lotus and let her finger me. Sure. Why not.
“Perfect,” says Sloane. She clinks her coffee cup against mine in a toast. “To selfish orgasms and new roommates!”
Indeed.
As I leave work on Tuesday, I’m positively twitchy with anxiety. I’ve had an email confirmation from Lotus, and I’ve paid a whacking ￡180 in advance for my massage. I’ve been given an address in East London, which I’ve dutifully programmed into CityMapper.
Despite it being a crisp day in March, I’m sweating as I get off the train in Hackney and make my way towards Lotus’s studio.
The address is in an ex-council block and I have to climb around some kids playing in the concrete stairwell to get to her front door.
I take a deep breath as I lift my hand to knock.
The door opens before my knuckles even make contact and I’m met with a beautiful, petite woman wearing scarlet lipstick and a kimono in a matching shade.
“You must be Emmy,” she says, clasping her hands to my shoulders.
She’s got a warm Australian accent and blonde hair down to her waist. “Sloane has told me so much about you.” She gives me a long, earnest look and I give her back a slightly stiff smile, wondering what exactly my friend of less than two weeks has told her.
“Hello,” I reply, sounding painfully stilted. “So nice to meet you. And thank you for, er, doing this.”
“Come in,” she says, ushering me into the space and taking my coat. “This is your first sensual massage, yes?”
“Er, yes. I didn’t know it was even a thing until a few days ago,” I admit.
Lotus grimaces like she hears this all the time.
“It’s been a thing since the dawn of time, my darling. It’s only our society’s prudishness that keeps it in the shadows. I genuinely believe we would all be happier if we had access to sensual touch when we needed it.”
I nod in agreement.
“Right, let’s chat through consent and boundaries to make sure you’re comfortable with everything and know what to expect. And then we will begin.”
15 minutes later, I’m stark naked on a massage table, waiting for Lotus to return.
Twinkly spa music is playing in the background and there are little electric tea lights flickering around the edges of my vision.
I’ve got my face wedged firmly in the hole of her massage table and I close my eyes as she comes in.
“Ready?” she asks, smoothing a hand lightly down my back.
“Ready!” I say brightly, with a breeziness I do not feel.
I have let an American I’ve known for a matter of days talk me into getting naked in a stranger’s flat in Hackney.
A woman I’ve never met before is about to put her fingers inside me.
I am about to come for the first time with a person that isn’t Colin.
I wonder if the breakup has sent me temporarily insane.
Or maybe it’s just easier to chase something new than to sit with the wreckage.
I repeat three mantras:
I am exploring my sexuality.
I deserve nice things.
This is self-care.
I take a deep breath and relax.
“Good,” says Lotus, sensing the shift. She squeezes my feet in a grounding gesture and starts massaging my leg.
So far, so normal. It’s just like being at Nirvana Spa, I think, as she works my calf muscles.
My body starts to sink into the flow of her hands making smooth strokes, slick with slightly scented olive oil.
Her touch is rhythmic, soothing me into the lulled state of true relaxation.
I’ve almost dozed off by the time she’s nearing the top of my thighs and my stomach flips when she carries on over my buttocks, her confident touch never faltering. I feel my breath start to shift as she massages the tops of my thighs, her fingertips sweeping dangerously close to my pussy.
I only realise I’ve started holding my breath when she does a firm and very deliberate stroke up my core and I gasp, shifting in surprise.
“You’re doing so well, Emmy. Remember this is all about you. There’s no pressure, just follow your body’s instincts.”
I force myself to breathe again as her fingers once again sweep through my core.
I twitch, widening my legs slightly, as my body begs for more.
She starts massaging either side of my clit – only touching the skin a couple of centimetres either side – in deft strokes and I start panting. Oh god. Oh god.
This woman is going to make me come.
“Would you like to move onto your front for the next bit?” Lotus asks, and I whimper an affirmative, rolling over and keeping my eyes shut tight.
She keeps one hand cupped around my pussy and uses the other to massage my breasts, rolling my nipples lightly between her fingers before moving both hands back south.
I bite my lip as a moan threatens to force its way out of my mouth.
Sparks are firing all over my body and I’m fully panting now, my body fighting to chase the sensations.
It’s then that she puts two fingers inside me and my body bows off the massage table, as a tidal wave starts to build deep in my abdomen.
This is no amateur move. She’s working my g-spot with such precision that I’m absolutely breathless, squirming as the sensation grows.
It only takes a few firm strokes either side of my clit again before I positively detonate.
I cry out, harshly, as my body thrashes under the power of the orgasm Lotus has wrung out of me.
She works me through it, and I swear I’m convulsing for twenty full seconds before the wave crests and I’m suddenly boneless on the table.
I’m pretty sure I’ve just seen God. She gently withdraws her fingers and resumes her massage, going back to my arms, and ignoring the aftershocks as my body twitches on its way back down.
A few moments later, I open my eyes and find her smiling down at me.
“How are you feeling, Emmy?” she asks, massaging my hands with her magical, magical fingers.
“Like I want to come back every week,” I reply, and she laughs softly.
“See what I mean? Wouldn’t there be much more harmony if we were all getting enough sensual touch?”
I murmur an agreement and close my eyes again. I’m woken about 10 minutes later by Lotus handing me a cup of tea. Thirty minutes later, I’m back on the train to Fulham.
I close my eyes and press a palm against my chest, as if to hold this feeling in place. I’ve never felt so settled within my own body before. It’s a sense of peace and contentment I didn’t know I could manifest. I definitely owe Sloane a drink for that little hookup.
I smile to myself and open my notes app. “Have a truly selfish orgasm” just got a very smug little tick.