Master Bait

Fiona Russell Powell goes looking for love in the murky world of kinky contact ads.

It was a fantasy I had toyed with for ages and one which made excellent wank material. While I enjoy an honest to goodness apple pie fuck as much as the next hetro-ish woman, there is also a corner of my sexual psyche that leans markedly towards the kinkier end of the spectrum. I had recently separated from my boyfriend (the only man yet able to cater to and satisfy all my lusts) and thought it was over for good, so it was with a heavy heart that I prepared for my return to the singles market. And now that I had tasted stronger meat, there was no going back to the straight up and down. The thought of wading through a load of dross before finding anyone half decent and then discovering that be did not share my proclivities filled me with dread. But how to broach the subject casually without coming across as having PERVERT` tattooed on my forehead? I decided to get real, be adult and not waste any more of my libido. The time had finally arrived to bring this favourite fantasy into reality and make it flesh.

An old gay friend of mine had regaled me for years with tales of his sexual adventures, mostly brief encounters initiated through contact magazines. I had always envied that aspect of gay culture --the anonymous fuck, and it seemed that if I mustered up enough bottle to answer a personal ad, I might be able to experience some of it for myself It seemed such a straightforward way of doing things; no bullshit, say what you want upfront and then it's straight in and out. You can be anyone you like and experiment with your sexuality too; try something once and if you dont like it, well, at least you know. Why not? I have always read the Lonely Hearts simply our off prurient curiosity but it was my gay friend who recommended looking in the back. of Loot; apparently a popular hunting ground. I took his advice
and was amazed at the forest of contact ads; to judge from the number of panting men and bi-curious couples, there were rich pickings to be had. I found plenty of what I was looking for - experienced dominant men - identified by the code word assertive. I rang a few and listened to their voice mails until one tickled my fantasy more than the others. He sounded rather nice: softly spoken, well educated, working in the media, tall, dark, forties, divorced, arty but authoritative - my kinda guy.

Finally, I took the plunge and left a halting message along the lines of I've-never-done-anything-like-this-before-but... It was late at night and I did not expect a return call until the morning so I was gobsmacked when my phone rang twenty minutes later and it was him. The first thing he wanted to do was to make sure that I understood the advert, what did I think he meant by `assertive'? I told him: S&M sex. Full marks, we were definitely running along the same lines. He asked about me so I told him a pack of lies, of course. It was safer and taking on another persona was liberating and fun. We had a long conversation, mostly with him establishing what I was and was not prepared to do, and how experienced I was already. He was relaxed and amenable and we got on well. The talk was very horny, almost like telephone sex and by the time we hung up having agreed to meet in a hotel bar two nights later, my panties were rather damp. I spent the weekend on tenterhooks, caught up in a perpetual state of excitement and nerves. I could not quite believe I had actually done it and now the test would be to see if I could go the whole hog and keep our rendezvous.

The hotel was large but discreet and very quiet. I found the `lounge' easily and saw him as soon as I walked in. Unfortunately, he saw me too, as he had artfully positioned himself so he couldn't miss anyone entering the room. I realised immediately that he had misrepresented himself; he had told me on the phone that he was fit and went running every day. Yes, I could see that with my own eyes, running all the way to the nearest chip shop, no doubt. He had Jo Brand's double chin. Even more unforgivably, he looked like Simon Bates. There was no escape but, being polite, I went through. with the charade. We sat and drank and. talked, not just about bondage, domination, cock worship, whips, paddles, and crops, handcuffs, inflatable dildoes and gags, but also about Jane Austen, Dickens and Dashiell Hammett. He was charming and erudite but I couldn't fancy him in a month of Sundays. Eventually, in time-honoured hack tradition I made my excuses and left.

When I got home, there was already a breathless message from him on my answering machine. He rang again and again, and again. I realised that, ironically, I would have to be cruel to get rid of him. I dropped him a line: `Dear Sir, thanks for meeting me the other night, however, I must be honest, I feel you misled me somewhat about your appearance. You indicated that you were not fat, and sorry to be blunt about it, but you are. I'm afraid that no matter how hard I try, I cannot convince myself that I would enjoy being defiled and degraded by you and. I think you should look elsewhere. I hope you find what you are looking for. Best wishes, Enid.' And I mean that most sincerely.

As for me, I've got back with my boyfriend and Loot was relegated to the bin. I told him about my escapade and, after he'd had a good. laugh, I didn't half cop it - couldn't sit down for a week. Just how I like it!