London Broil: Anglo Smut Raises My Temperature in The Big Smoke

Sex, please....I'm British!

Sex, please....I'm British!

Masturbation in Marseilles, self-diddling in Dakar, fingering in Florence… the alliterations ring true in other places, but I cannot find a suitable phrase for London. You’d think it would tie to the whole “No sex we’re British” convention (which is quite untrue), but maybe the act of self-abuse is so engrained in the place, the idea suffused in the carnal air of the town, that no strict qualification is needed. Words having failed, I still found that a hand in the bush is as good in the Big Smoke as anywhere else.

First, I had exhausted all other venues of pleasure.

There was no quarry or apparent intimate companionship about, from Mayfair to Brixton. I was visiting for the weekend, my friends from Glasgow had returned back to “Liverpool without Deodorant” (their phrase, not mine), and I was sitting my small hotel room on Cartwright Gardens, watching adult movies on cable. It was in the gloaming, children played tennis in the ratty, titular gardens across the street, and I was full , gleaming post-shower, supine, lost to the kind of arousal that can only arise in a fatigued, private setting.

The cable channel advertised it local pornographic product as “100% British,” the subtext being that it is unaffected, not slick, populated by eager amateurs in the proud tradition of the Sun’s page three girls, free from the slickness of American San Fernando Valley product.

It’s all subjective of course, but there is something endearing about the quest for the authentic national soul in an industry marked by profound cynicism, no matter what bliss it bestows to the world.

I was tickled to discover a Pro-Am show, where untutored starlets appear, do a brief interview and then hit the divan with a professional male costar, who in this case had the unaffected aura of East Anglia barmen. That is not an insult, and added to the cheeky, randy verisimilitude of a back room fumble.

The first was named Philippa, dark-haired secretary from Stowmarket.  She acknowledged her nervous excitement, stripped rapidly for the interviewer, and greeted her consort with the genuine coyness of a first encounter. They hit the ground running, and I was surprised to see that the scene was filmed with obscuring soft-core angles, rigorous in their stratagem, designed to hide key elements of the rumpy-pumpy. Full nudity was viewable, but not the clinic in-and-out out of American porn, and there was no real assurance, at least to the scientific eye, that full penetration was occurring at all.

Well, maybe not. The camera focused on Philippa’s face, which betrayed the exact moment of entry, the arrival of each plunge, and it even gauged, through adorable facial hemi quavers of pleasure, the specific depth and impact of each stroke.

Inspired by the onscreen commotion, I mimicked the action with my available arsenal of accomplished fingers, still lubricated with rusty Bloomsbury shower-water. I smiled back to Philippa reflexively; I think my own facial contortions offered an equally telling depth-gauge. However, I believe that I hit the jackpot first; the pleasant tsunami hit me and I reflexively leaned back on my pillow. Rising up, I could see that I had missed the conclusion of Philippa’s spirited initiation into the world of British erotica.

The cameraman indecorously threw the new starlet a towel and asked, ‘’Ow was it, luv?” She looked up with post-coita ease and murmured, “Verry Goot. ‘Ta.” I could see her withdrawing a cigarette, which remained unlit, twirled between the giddy fingers of the initiate.

I then pulled out a Dunhill and relished a Big Smoke of my own in sisterly solidarity.

XO

Syl

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© 2009 Sylvia Lowry, All Rights Reserved

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