The Locked Door

Locked Door

We were watching pornography together and having sex in the living room. Then migrated outside. All my idea, because I have this thing about doing it on the balcony, on the deck chair. Something about the notion that a pedestrian might be walking along, look up and see my tight toosh bumping and grinding, well that really does if for me.

My accountant has this photograph in his office, of all places. Of an inner city terrace house and there on the balcony was a couple, going for it. Unbeknown to a lovely old lady, handbag, and gloves, the whole bit, waiting on the kerb for the 601 bus. What the hell, my accountant, no less?

But on that night, couldn’t have taken me long, because I had finished but I don’t think Michelle had. My policy was – first sexual encounter orgasm comes free, after that be on your toes because I won’t be hanging about. Her orgasm quota had been met earlier in the evening, (at least the amount of noise she made indicated a ride on that express bus) it was now three in the morning so I strolled off into the flat all nude, to quiet my belligerent mind some. Have to admit I needed a little space from girlie wetness.

In response to my withdrawal, Michelle began loudly putting her things together – in that way women do when they want you say, “Oh, don’t. I aren’t ready to see you go, yet.”

I wasn’t going to fall for that one; they teach you that on your first terms of womanizing school. Sub clause 31(b) on Tinder … Take no notice of subtle, unspoken girlie messages.

Michelle was angered by my well-tutored ignorance. She came out into the corridor – fully clothed, even with her shoes on. Wasn’t even going to credit me with a shoes-in-hand walk of shame, or as I prefer to call it – walk of triumph. Nope, Michelle sidled up to me with rage twinkling in her perfect green eyes, and slapped me really hard in the face.

This is the point that my brain spins off to consider lots of the prism colors to do with violence against women. Is this type of attack why some men hit back? Right at that moment I could see why those so-called tough girls, who get agro driving, then fold and cringe when some hairy chest neolith begins to shout and dribble into their windscreens.

I’m very much of the view that it’s wrong to hit a woman or anyone really, especially if they are bigger than me; which isn’t an exclusive club. So I often had to be innovative when meting out retribution. Thankfully Michelle’s smack had awoken my creativity, I grabbed her shoulders and marched her towards the door, much the same way a bouncer would evict a drunk. That way she couldn’t punch or slap me again, and I was only using necessary strength to tell her she’d overstepped a line in the sand.

As I escorted Michelle through the front door, I felt a need for revenge, thinking – she can’t slap me just because I didn’t make her come just now. Was it my fault that the pornography, and outdoor sex didn’t work for her? So I spat in her face. After all she had slapped me and for that, there should be consequences.

Then the front door clicked shut.

So I pushed it, just to check. Yes. Michelle hadn’t noticed yet because she was too stunned by my spitting atrocity. Hmm, I thought, this doesn’t look good. It’s three o’clock in the morning, I am completely naked, I have no money and the only person who can help me, just left a hand print across my jaw and now has spit running down her face. She still hasn’t noticed the door.

‘Fuck you, I’m going,’ she shouted and started to walk off.

‘Before you go, Michelle, let me apologize.’

She stops and looks back, still wiping her face, not yet succumbed to my charm, so I kept going, ‘It was a shitty thing to do, even if you did slap me in the face. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.’

She hasn’t walked away. Do it, I think, ask, after all there isn’t another choice; ‘Umm, Michelle, darling, can I borrow your phone please? I seem to have locked myself out.’

Selfishly and with no thought for my feelings she starts laughing, but I managed to win her round to the extent that she’ll let me use her phone to get a locksmith. About then I found out that many of these escape professionals don’t actually work 24 hours a day. When I finally do get through to one and am giving him the address her phone credit runs out. At this point Michelle decided she’s not hanging around for my benefit anymore and clears off – never to be seen again.

I usually don’t manage to see their on-line profiles again after having my wicked, and I mean that in a nice way, pleasure. There’s fun in them-there hills for the ladies too, bouncing up and down on this cow-poke’s ride. Maybe the Michelle, Marys and Betty-Sues take down their images, or maybe they just get invisible, to me at least; don’t know how, but even if I wanted to I can’t seem to find them again.

On this particular night I discovered time moved slowly when you’re standing outside naked. No cars, no one taking the pooch around the block for a quick piss. I can see a few lights up in some of the towers but to get anyone’s attention? Way too far to throw a rock, and if I buzzed any door bells, who can say if I was summoning an axe murderer who dislikes having their slumber disturbed, or was sending annoying zaps into an empty, renovation in progress abode. These thoughts are disturbed by music from a bar – should pay more attention to what is open in my neighborhood, but I usually have a concentrated focus on the one wearing stiletto heels while we are, heady with anticipation, skipping down these streets, toward my pad of pleasure.  

The doof-doof must be coming from a place with a late license, but I can’t go in completely naked. Luckily there’s some smelly running shoes left outside a doorway, so I grab one about the right dimensions and hope I aren’t putting my dick into some man-meat consuming bed of tinea. I can open up the laces and use this footwear between my legs to shield my boy-bits. Looking down, I’m struck with the humor about having a shoe-full, a foot of dick, thing. Did I mention that the shoe was hot-pink?

Just then a girl emerges from the bar with rubbish bags. She turns her pretty face towards me, looks me up and down, with a pink shoe like dildo shielding what’s left of my dignity. Even though she isn’t my usual type, right about then I picture her cupid-bow of a mouth doing lovely things down below my navel. Could be a good thing, such a boyish haircut would mean not getting mouthfuls of shampoo and hair gel laden locks in my mouth when she was on top.

‘Can I help you?’ she says.

What a question. It’s three forty-five, I’m naked except for one stupidly comic pink shoe and I think it is starting to drizzle.

‘Pretty much anything you could do would be a help.’

Throw me your loose change, a match, a dry crust, hit me over the head with an empty bottle, call the men in white coats so they can take me away; about now I really don’t care. I’ve got nothing, and while I’m into outdoor sex, right about now I’d like to be inside again.

Lock out laws probably means she can’t let me inside the bar, without risking double figure thousands of bucks in fines, even though it’s unlikely I am a representative of liquor and gambling, deep under cover. (Or should I say, without cover.)

Eventually she agrees to call a locksmith. After I have waited for what seems like an age, but is probably only a half hour, she emerges again. I ask her how long he’s going to take, and she says, ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

Finally moved to action by my increasingly desperate pleas, she finds a pair of those chef’s trousers. Giant, musty, stinky things, way too big for me. I have to hold them up to keep the things anywhere near my waist. The pink shoe tucked under my arm to accessorize.

The “helpful” lady then grudgingly agrees to let me use the phone, because, ‘Things are quietening down a bit now.’

So I am walking through a bar obviously set up for a gay night romp. All decorated with rainbow flags and glitter balls. The whole place is full of pretty lads. I must look like some erotic form of the scarecrow from Wizard of Oz. While I am trying to use the phone, my trousers are falling down and all these guys are touching me up. They’re all full of such fun comments like… “Where is the carriage Cinderella?”

“Where is the other shoe babe?”

“Out of a little jog, love?”

“Dorothy’s shoes are red - not pink!”

One guy flits past more than once just going …. “Ah ah ah Shoe!”

But I finally manage to get through to the locksmith spoke to before. He agrees to come, so I go back outside and wait for ages. Which is easier said than done. I really don’t think I am that attractive in man-on-man way, but due to the degree of difficulty in extricating myself from that bar I was beginning to have doubts about my man-appeal.

Eventually the savior locksmith turns up, takes out a bit of plastic that looks like a section cut off the bottom of a Coke bottle, and runs it down the narrow gap between the door and frame, roughly the same way you’d swipe a credit card through a machine. The door just opens straight away – the whole process takes about ten seconds, and he charges me $500. I could have slapped him!

For all my effort to do it outside – here I was, feeling a whole new range of sensations to do with getting inside. Sure as I sit here today, the whole thing has almost made serious dents in my needs to see outdoor furniture as a preferred rumble-tumble location.