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The Bus Route: Part IV

The Bus Route: Part IV of a brand new KDG story

I hope all of you are staying safe during lockdown. For me and many others, it feels like an opportunity to press the restart button in a world gone mad. For me this has been a time of intense writing and reading. Anyone who follows my blog loves to read or they wouldn’t be here. So I’m choosing this time to share a brand new KDG story that has never been made public before.

Be warned, this is a different kind of KDG story, a hybrid of erotica, crime and paranormal with a pinch of horror thrown in for good measure. I am sending you an instalment of The Bus Route once a week for seven weeks, so be sure to check in every Friday for a new instalment.

 

Sex in derelict buses. Who knew it was a thing?

A money-making thing for Seth Allen, who blackmails enthusiasts stepping out on their other half by catching the deed on cameras he’s rigged at a public transport scrap yard known by frequenters as the Bus Route. Sadly the paydays aren’t as regular as Seth would like until con artist, Jon Knight, suggests they team up. With Seth’s tech and Jon’s charm, the money rolls in and the future looks bright until their marks start disappearing mysteriously.

 

 

 

The Bus Route: Part IV

My hangover turned out to be a recurrence of whatever bug I had, and Jon insisted I stay in his suite until I was better. Three days later, we took a cab to the Bus Stop. Within minutes we were squeezing through the gap in the fence. I pointed out to Jon all the buses I’d equipped with cameras so we could choose together.

Inside the scrap yard Jon marched over to the double decker he’d done Eleanor in, pulled out his keys and scratched a deep, spine-shivering scrape in the paint next to the collection of slashes left by others who had done the deed in this bus. “Didn’t get a chance to leave my mark the other night,” he said with a smug smile.

“Christ, you’re like a dog pissing in the corners of his patch.”

Jon only chuckled. “Too bad we didn’t make it upstairs the other night. I could use it again, I suppose. I’ll be with someone different, so it’d still count for a new mark, maybe we’ll do it on the stairs. Something about a blow job on the spiral steps of a double decker sort of gets you right in the sac, doesn’t it?”

“I have a better one in mind,” I said.

Why this bus was so popular, I had no idea. There wasn’t much of it left, but it had made me more money than any other. The back of the bus was a raised row of seats up over the engine; all the other seats had been removed. The rear window was missing and the metal paneling on the driver’s side looked like it had been peeled back with a tin opener. There was nothing inviting about it, but it was well kitted with cameras, and Jon said he quite fancied a fuck across the back seats.

This time I waited in the bus. The night was clear and cool and the moon was a thin crescent. I was freezing my balls off by the time I heard drunken laughter, but I forgot all about the cold as Jon appeared with a well preserved middle aged blond, hair done up in a chic chignon. She wore a dark pencil skirt and jacket and had no-nonsense glasses balanced on her nose. The high-powered female exec look suited her, but then she was one, according to Jon. They stumbled right past me and practically fell up the steps leading to the remaining row of seats. I pulled out my phone and began recording as I tiptoed closer to the huffs and grunts that accompanied the slip and slide of clothing. Utility bulbs bathed pale skin stippled with goose bumps in rusty light.

I had just maneuvered into an unobtrusive position, when Claire Richardson looked up and beckoned me over. “There’s no need to hide. I think it’s hot watching you film us. Don’t be shy. Get in tight. I want lots of close-ups, and lots of Jon. Lots of Jon.” She gave him a solicitous grope.

“You heard the lady,” Jon said as he shoved Mrs. Richardson’s skirt up and positioned himself behind her for a bit of action doggie style. All the while she groped and grabbed for him from her awkward position on her hands and knees in the seat. But Jon dominated the scene, and just when I was about to signal him to move so I could video Mrs. Richardson’s face, Jon mantled her and turned her head with a brutal twist of her neck until her every ecstatic expression was camera front and center. Then he made a huge production of freeing the equipment and plunging deep. Mrs. Richardson cried out. I was sure it was pain, but when she reached around and grabbed Jon’s ass to draw him still deeper, I figured she was one of those who liked pain just fine. As tension rose, Jon’s fingers stroking her throat curled in against her trachea and tightened. When her struggle for breath was beginning to scare me, Mrs. Richardson came in a strangled desperate gasp. But it was the look on Jon’s face that made me lose it like a boy who’d just discovered his cock. Jon looked like he’d heard the angel chorus singing hallelujah. Wherever he was, it sure as hell wasn’t the back of a gutted bus fucking a stranger.

Jon had told Mrs. Richardson I directed artsy porn films and videoed at the Bus Route just for inspiration. He told her I’d hit on hard times and had to pawn my expensive equipment to pay the rent, but if she could come up with the cash, I would be happy to go to her flat and record the two of them in their own little porn film.

Afterwards, she was all over Jon in the limo, breathlessly mumbling that we could start the porno right there in the back seat, but before I could record anything on my phone, she passed out, head in Jon’s lap.

“You sure she’s all right?” I said to Jon, who sat stroking her hair. “She looks a little pale.”

“She’s fine. She did a few lines before we hooked up, for nerves, she said. Don’t worry.”

By the time the limo dropped us in front of a Mrs. Richardson’s building in Soho, she was awake and all but bouncing off the seat. With Jon at her elbow, she all but fell into an entryway of polished parquet and marble.

“I was thinking maybe in front of the fireplace on that white rug,” she said, battling not to tangle her words. “Wait right here.” She disappeared into the bedroom room and came out with a bulging C4 manila envelope, which she handed to me. “I hope it’s enough for you to buy back your equipment. That’s all the cash I have in the safe, but I can get you more tomorrow when the banks are open. Now,” she said, pausing long enough to give Jon a tonsillectomy of a kiss that had me hard again. “Stay right here, help yourself to drinks,” she waved to the full bar in the corner, “and I’ll go change into something a little more porny. She shuffled to the bedroom giggling as she went. I found the washroom and cleaned up as best I could. When I came back Jon was standing by the bar pouring whisky from a crystal decanter.

 

The Bus Route: Part III

The Bus Route: Part III of a brand new KDG story

I hope all of you are staying safe during lockdown. For me and many others, it feels like an opportunity to press the restart button in a world gone mad. For me this has been a time of intense writing and reading. Anyone who follows my blog loves to read or they wouldn’t be here. So I’m choosing this time to share a brand new KDG story that has never been made public before.

Be warned, this is a different kind of KDG story, a hybrid of erotica, crime and paranormal with a pinch of horror thrown in for good measure. I am sending you an instalment of The Bus Route once a week for seven weeks, so be sure to check in every Friday for a new instalment.

 

Sex in derelict buses. Who knew it was a thing?

A money-making thing for Seth Allen, who blackmails enthusiasts stepping out on their other half by catching the deed on cameras he’s rigged at a public transport scrap yard known by frequenters as the Bus Route. Sadly the paydays aren’t as regular as Seth would like until con artist, Jon Knight, suggests they team up. With Seth’s tech and Jon’s charm, the money rolls in and the future looks bright until their marks start disappearing mysteriously.

 

 

 

 

The Bus Route: Part 3

 

I met Jon for brunch at a posh suite in the Ritz chuckling at the cliché of it all. “Wow! You must have given Eleanor one helluva ride if she coughed up for this.”

“Oh this is all my own money,” he said with a dismissive sweep of his palm, and before I could ask, he added, “what you and I do, I do for the chase, for the challenge of it.” He led me to a table set with what was surely breakfast for six complete with a bottle of Moet & Chandon on ice. “The payoff it was good?”

“Are you kidding,” I said as he motioned me to sit. “The earrings alone were worth a mint, and all that dosh to help our poor dear mum.”

“Why yes, darling brother, a rare tropical disease that can only be treated in America.” He opened the fizz and gave a dismissive shrug. “Transparent as hell, I know, but in all fairness, dear Eleanor was rather distracted.”

It was a week after we’d scored. We were supposed to meet for brunch the next day, but I came down with some strange bug. I felt like shit for nearly a week, fever, shakes, bad dreams. Then, strangely enough, I woke up feeling just fine. We demolished breakfast along with a second bottle of fizz. I was slouched at the table thumbing through Jon’s copy of the Times when I came face to face with an image of our Eleanor, dripping diamonds and pearls. An over-sized headline read, Mining Heiress Missing. “Bloody hell, did you see this?” I shoved the paper over to him.

“Oh my God,” he said, staring at the image. “This is terrible.”

“You did see her home okay, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did, and everything was,” he swallowed a chuckle, “more than fine when I left her.”

When he simply handed the paper back and refilled his coffee cup, I sat in silence for a moment, then I said. “Do you remember anything, anything out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing. She was just fine.” He thought about it for a moment. “Pretty drunk, but you knew that.”

“Creepy coincidence though, don’t you think?” I said nodding down to the paper. “Don’t they say the police won’t even pursue a missing persons report until they’ve been gone twenty-four hours? It must have happened not long after she was with us. And the woman is an heiress. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Look,” Jon brushed his hand across my wrist, and his voice took on the tone you’d use with an ignorant kid, “the fact that she is an heiress is why dear mum will get her medical treatment and you can afford a new wardrobe,” he gave my aging hoodie a disapproving look. “Besides, she could very well be hiding out at some friend’s house, a little comeuppance for daddy and boring hubby. What happened to her after she left us is not our business, Seth. Don’t let it ruin our celebration of a brilliant team.” And that was the end of it. He flashed me a bright smile and said, “if you think our last job was lucrative, wait till you hear what I have lined up next. There’s an art to what we do, Seth. You’ve just never had the liquidity to enjoy the creative aspects of your work, until now.”

Before I knew it, most of the day had passed, and after lots of scheming and plotting and a lovely dinner delivered to the suite we hadn’t yet left, I was raising a glass of expensive French red, toasting us and toasting Jon’s brilliant plan for our next mark. I suppose when I was drunk enough, the question was bound to come up. “Does it bother you, another bloke filming you fucking a stranger?” Those slurred words must have sounded naïve to someone as sophisticated as Jon. A love life was at the top of the long list of things my impoverished condition did not allow for.

“Of course not. It’s business. I’m playing a role, just like in the movies. And now you’re the director.” His face took on the look of an adolescent boy with a great porn stash. “What about you, does it bother you that I’m doing the dirty with someone else?” When I didn’t answer immediately, he brought his ankle up against mine under the table. “Or do you rather enjoy it?”

“We should sort the money situation,” I said changing the subject, which felt pretty irrelevant considering Jon’s finances.

“Not now,” he said refilling my glass. I wondered when we’d started another bottle. “I trust you. I know you won’t cheat me. Besides,” he said, lifting his glass and holding me in a vice grip gaze. “I know where you live.” And then he laughed when I startled at his words and spilled wine on the white tablecloth.

I woke with the sun streaming through the curtains of the guest room in Jon’s suite. I was tucked into a mound of fluffy bedding on a cushy mattress with a seriously pounding head. “Couldn’t let you go home in your condition,” Jon said. He was sitting in the chair at the foot of the bed reading the paper. “You drank a lot.”

“Tell me you were not watching me sleep?” I mumbled, to the protest of my hangover.

“You were having bad dreams. I didn’t like leaving you alone.” He came to my bedside and poured me a big glass of water, standing over me until I forced it all down. Then he glanced at his watch. “I have a lunch meeting, but the suite is yours. Stay as long as you want. I left a spare card key on the dressing table if you need to go out and come back. Oh, and there are some clothes for you in the closet in much better condition than your old ones.”

 

The Bus Route: Part 2

Welcome to the 2nd Instalment of The Bus Route. I hope all of you are staying safe during lockdown. For me and many others, it feels like an opportunity to press the restart button in a world gone mad. For me this has been a time of intense writing and reading. Anyone who follows my blog loves to read or they wouldn’t be here. So I’m choosing this time to share a brand new KDG story that has never been made public before.

Be warned, this is a different kind of KDG story, a hybrid of erotica, crime and paranormal with a pinch of horror thrown in for good measure. After today, I will be sending you an instalment of The Bus Route once a week for seven weeks, so be sure to check in every Friday for a new instalment.

 

Sex in derelict buses. Who knew it was a thing?

A money-making thing for Seth Allen, who blackmails enthusiasts stepping out on their other half by catching the deed on cameras he’s rigged at a public transport scrap yard known by frequenters as the Bus Route. Sadly the paydays aren’t as regular as Seth would like until con artist, Jon Knight, suggests they team up. With Seth’s tech and Jon’s charm, the money rolls in and the future looks bright until their marks start disappearing mysteriously.

 

 

 

 

The Bus Route: Part II

 

The woman Jon brought to the Bust Stop our first night as a team had the airbrushed good looks that rubberstamped the filthy rich. She was dressed to the nines except for the clunky oversized shoulder bag, but I cared way more about the filthy rich part than her fashion statement. I planted myself at a table near enough to hear the occasional tinkle of nervous laughter over the canned music and see the flutter of long lashes when Jon pushed her color-me perfect hair aside to give lip service to her throat and earlobe. But when his hands headed south she made a half-assed attempt to push him away. He quickly regrouped and went for mouth to mouth instead. She gave over to the full-on lip-lock deluxe package with plenty of tongue and teeth, as her tastefully manicured fists clenched the back of his shirt. Then I realized while the face eating finesse never faltered, Jon’s gaze was on me. It was show time.

He was taking her on the Bus Route, and I would be waiting. I didn’t need to be there. I could have done my part from my laptop in the back of the bar, but Jon insisted.

The Bus Stop itself was a slapped together bar on a dodgy industrial site, an eyesore in daylight and not much better tarted up by darkness and a few oversized Christmas lights strung precariously above the door. No one knew what might be buried under a few inches of scraped together rubble, but then no one was there to paint landscapes. No glammed up urban renewal here, just an old warehouse overdue for condemning. If the cops ever decided to shut the place down, they’d have a shitload of violations to choose from. But the always crowded Bus Stop went conveniently, and lucratively unnoticed.

The real attraction of the place was the enormous scrap yard behind the property with its graveyard of old public transport buses. The place was posted and tucked away behind by a high fence topped with razor wire. The bar was the only public, if illegal, entrance to the Bus Route. Fucking in derelict buses. Who knew it was a thing? For me a lucrative thing once I set up a few remote cameras in the more popular buses. It wasn’t hard to tell which ones were well used. Those busses sported rows of marks scratched into the paint near the front door, like notches on a bedpost. Some of the regulars had made it a game, a challenge, to see who could hook up and shag in the most buses. It was a double decker Jon and I chose. I slipped out ahead of him taking a short cut through a gap between the fence and the wall of a derelict body shop. Whatever went on inside, I didn’t want to know, but the place was always a bit whiffy.

Though they were redundant, at Jon’s request, I donned my spy specs as I slunk into the bus. I had just gotten tucked out of sight when he helped his lady up the steps, their breathless giggles and wet kisses sounded like something straight from an adolescent grope fest. The motion sensors triggered the cameras, and we were open for business.

“I always wanted to drive a bus,” she said, curling her fingers around the girth of the steering wheel suggestively.

“Seat’s a little low for you, darling, but I have just the solution.” Jon settled in behind the wheel and with a little bit of tugging and shifting for position, he was open for business too. There was no foreplay, no coaxing, no teasing. She just hoiked her skirt and climbed aboard, the noises of pain and pleasure too muddled to tell apart. Hands tangled in hair and yanked at clothing all to a wet soundtrack of heavy breathing and animal grunts.

Now I’ve recorded enough rough rides and clumsy efforts to give it or take it up the chuff to know that in a hook up on the Bus Route, there’s seldom more than an awkward fumble followed by a quick stuff and shoot. But there was cool elegance in what Jon did to that woman, and yet something distantly savage and desperate. I could have analyzed the videos frame by frame and still not figured out what he’d done to make her so completely his for that few minutes. It embarrassed me to realize that I was just as enthralled.

When the deed was done he motioned me over, the woman all but falling off his lap as she pulled up knickers and tugged at her skirt. “I want it,” she said with the wide-eyed excitement of a happy drunk. “Jon told me everything, Seth, and of course I want to buy it.”

Before I could question, Jon said, “I told Eleanor about mum. I’m sorry, Seth. It just came out.” He gave her a goo goo-eyed lover’s look. “She’s just so easy to talk to. And Seth, she wants to help us so we won’t have to do this anymore.” And bugger me if this Eleanor person didn’t pull boulder-sized diamond studs from her earlobes and hand them over “Take them, they’re genuine,” she slurred. With a wave of her hand she added, “they were just an impulse buy to thumb my nose at my husband. And this.” She shoved the clunky shoulder bag into my arms. “It’s all I could lay my hands on with such short notice, but hopefully it’ll help your mum.” She nodded for me to open it. The thing was completely stuffed with cash. Lots of cash! That fashion statement worked just fine for me.

“This will help mum so much,” Jon said. “Eleanor, how can we ever repay your kindness?” Were there actually tears in his eyes?

“Well, Seth can get me a flash drive of that delicious video, and you,” she said, stroking Jon’s exposed chest, can take me home.”

I’d done the big reveal often enough to be prepared when the guilty parties called me every filthy name in their often limited vocabulary, even threatened me with bodily injury before they twigged that they could either pay up or suffer the consequences. But this was a first.

 

The Bus Route: Part 1 of a Brand New 7 Part KGD Story

I hope all of you are staying safe during lockdown. For me and many others, it feels like an opportunity to press the restart button in a world gone mad. For me this has been a time of intense writing and reading. Anyone who follows my blog loves to read or they wouldn’t be here. So I’m choosing this time to share a brand new KDG story that has never been made public before.

Be warned, this is a different kind of KDG story, a hybrid of erotica, crime and paranormal with a pinch of horror thrown in for good measure. After today, I will be sending you an instalment of The Bus Route once a week for the next seven weeks, so be sure to check in every Friday for a new instalment.

 

Sex in derelict buses. Who knew it was a thing?

A money-making thing for Seth Allen, who blackmails enthusiasts stepping out on their other half by catching the deed on cameras he’s rigged at a public transport scrap yard known by frequenters as the Bus Route. Sadly the paydays aren’t as regular as Seth would like until con artist, Jon Knight, suggests they team up. With Seth’s tech and Jon’s charm, the money rolls in and the future looks bright until their marks start disappearing mysteriously.

 

 

 

The Bus Route Part I

 

“I’ve been watching you, Seth.” The stranger inserted himself into the tight space next to me at the bar. “I know what you’re doing here.” That the man knew my name should have scared me more than it did, but you get jaded in my line of work. As to him knowing what I did, well, I doubted it. In hindsight, I was less cautious than I should have been.

“I’m here to get lucky, like everyone else,” I said without looking away from the couple I’d been watching. They were taking longer than the average punters to get on with it – evidence that romance wasn’t dead, only anesthetized and dysfunctional. They were finally about to give me the money shot, and I’d just activated the camera on my spy specs. I couldn’t afford to have another unsuccessful night. “Sorry, mate,” I added, hoping he’d take the hint, “you’re not my type.”

I scented quality whisky on his breath, and he wore cologne too expensive for me to be allowed in the same room with. “Oh, I’m everybody’s type,” he all but purred. “Though that’s not the point.”

I’ll admit, it intrigued me, even excited me a little that he had been observing me, but then I was in a sleazy bar full of people who got off on the risk of being seen doing the dirty with a stranger. Though having their illicit acts recorded for purchase or as surprise prezzies for the viewing pleasure of their absent other halves should they decline was not what they had in mind.

“You won’t get much from them,” the man observed over my shoulder.  “Bloke’s drowning in debt. Probably be a divorce when his wife finds out. You’re looking at what, a hundred quid, maybe two if you’re lucky.”

Two fifty and change, I thought to myself. Delia, the bar maid, had light fingers and had borrowed the man’s ostentatious money clip from his pocket when she delivered the last drink. She took a few bills for herself and passed the word on to me. Money clips were rare in this hole, but a little flash of the cash would always get you laid if you had little else going for you.

The man behind me all but sighed in my ear. “I suppose that’s not bad for one night’s work. If it’s the best you can do.”

That tore it! I was tired, I was hungry, and I owed three or my snitches money for their tips on the fiascos of the last two nights. I turned on him. “I suppose you can do better.”

“You know I can. Way better.” Before I could do more than stand there with my gob hanging open, he grabbed my hand and shook it. “I’m Jon.”

“I know,” was all I could manage. Now I’m not gay, but I’m definitely open-minded, and I’d seen enough of Jon’s moves at the Bus Stop to give myself the occasional drunken stiffie imagining what it would be like with him. He was a player, though I couldn’t figure out his game. He was always with a different person, occasionally someone he’d picked up at the Bus Stop, more often someone he just showed up with. They were never anyone I recognized, and he never used any of my buses for the deed. The cameras would have recorded it if he had. None of his marks ever came back to the Bus Stop. I figured once he got them to cough up the dosh, they were smart enough to stay away. Though watching his moves, I reckon some of them thought it was good value for money.

“If you’re hitting on me, you’re wasting your time. I’m skint.”

He waved my words away like he would a gnat from his beer. “Now, why would I hit on my prospective business partner?”

That reminded me why I was at the Bus Stop, but I turned to find the couple I’d been watching gone.

Ignoring my colorful language, Jon laid a firm hand on my shoulder and guided me away from the bar. “Never mind them, they’re beneath you. Together we can do so much better.”  He sat me down at a rickety table already equipped with two glasses a bottle of very fine whisky.

His plan was simple. He’d do what he did best and seduce the money. With my network of cameras, I would make sure the act was recorded for posterity. He said he’d already been grooming our first mark. He said he had it all planned out, a payday way bigger than anything I’d ever managed. Honestly, I don’t remember much beyond the basic plan. Apparently I had more than my share of the whisky, as we toasted our partnership.

If my ability was to remain unnoticed, Jon’s was to be irresistible in a very lucrative way. At first glance, he could have been a cliché for a romance novel – tall, dark, broad-shouldered, but his looks were irrelevant. It was his actions that were unforgettable. I make my living being observant, and good looks don’t count for much. It’s polish, confidence, attitude, like you own the whole goddamned planet. Jon had that in spades. But I brought into the partnership the cameras and tech along with a set up that had taken patience, stealth and the better part of a year to put together. That Jon knew about that set up should have concerned me. It didn’t.

 

Sex Invisible

(From the Archives)

In the age of pixels and videos, airbrushed ads and billboards, sex sells, but only glamourous sex, only the sex of youth and beauty. Let’s be honest, we live in a world where no one wants to see ‘mature sex.’ In fact, in our visually oriented lives, sex and age are not words that compliment each other. Sex between people over forty is something best kept out of sight, out of mind. When viewing scantily clothed people, we want them to be attractive. When reading a sexy novel, the characters we see in our imaginations are fit, lean and beautiful when they sweat and writhe and frolic with one another. Bottom line – visible sex is for the thirty and under crowd. For anyone much older than that, invisible sex is the standard.

 

Sexual invisibility definitely applies for anyone over forty, especially women. And that’s not necessarily bad. While sexually invisible, we might be, if anything, we have more sexual freedom and fewer inhibitions than those who are younger. A great deal of the more relaxed attitude we have toward sex is because of that invisibility. Sex and youth and the biology that drives us are meant to preen and flaunt, attract and arouse. The survival of the species depends on it. Even though these days it’s less about procreation and more about recreation than it was for our cave dwelling ancestors, the biology is still there. And the truth is that after a certain age, our sexuality becomes irrelevant. If we’re planning to do our part in guaranteeing the next generation, we’ve already done the deed. Tick that box and move on. At that point, our sexuality becomes whatever we’re willing to make of it.

 

In a share group about female sexuality I sat in on once, several things became very evident. For younger women there was far more stress around having sex, far more pressure to be having it often and far more pressure to be seen as sexual and attractive. Among those of us over forty, there was a quiet confidence. There was a sense of adventure that had less to do with the need to be thought of as ‘doing it right’ than just the need to enjoy the hard-earned freedom that comes from our experiences. While for the younger crowd, attraction is a key ingredient, whether it’s the upkeep of the ‘lady garden’ or the best way to display the package, for the older, been-there-done-that-crowd, it was more about creative sex and the sexual self at the centre of our own journeys.  There was less to stress about, there was a subdued sense of anticipation.

 

I can only speak from my own experiences and observations. If I’m honest, it’s possible that some of my comments may come from a tiny bit of sour grapes at wondering why the age of young and beautiful sex passed me by so quickly. But speaking for myself, whether visible and beautiful or invisible and raunchy, sex is a far deeper component of who I am that I ever could have imagined when I was twenty and the world was new to me. The many layers of sexuality have become more obvious and more important now that I’m well past forty. The stunning connection between sex and creativity, between sex and the timeless wild woman who lives at the core of me is a brave new world to be explored without the stress of finding a partner and being sexual eye candy. The discovery of just how far beneath the skin my sexuality actually goes is an endless adventure, explored as much through the avenue of my writing as through the physical act. In fact one deepens the other. Even the sexual explorations with a partner become less about looks and more about something that goes core deep, something a lot freer, something we feel far less of a need to control. In many ways, it’s our naughty little secret that people who are past the age of beautiful sex can be horny and filthy and fuck like rabbits. Who knew? And in truth, no one really wants to know unless they’re over forty. And then that naughty little secret becomes a much-needed lifeline to something powerful enough to move us past the loss of youth and beauty into the exciting new world beyond.

 

Perhaps the very best thing about sex invisible is that the pressure is off. What we do or don’t do in bed is all right by us. Fewer things embarrass us, fewer things frighten us, fewer things worry us. That alone can’t help but improve ones sex life.

 

In some ways I think my writing reflects my own sexual journey. Most of my characters are at the sexually beautiful age because that’s the kind of story that sells. But the stories I write have moved from the skin to skin of the physical act to the whole body, three dimensional experience of the sensual act, the mental and emotional act the personal act that all add up to the total package of our sexuality. I suppose a big part of that has to do with my endless fascination with what actually makes sex so damn magical? Why is it the thing that intrigues us most about being human, while at the same time the thing that frightens us most?

 

How deep our sexuality goes into our human nature becomes more visible with experience, and experience comes with age. While it’s the air brushed, waxed well coiffed and fit sex, the visible sex of youth and beauty we want to see and read about and imagine, it’s a far bigger picture of the Self we reach when our sexuality is allowed to guide us through middle age and beyond. While we may pine for youth and beauty, we’d never want to give up the depth of sexual experience, of life experience that leads us to sex invisible and the secret smiles that maybe don’t drive story and don’t sell perfume, but sure as hell make life sizzle long past middle age.

 
© 2018 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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