This post details, unsurprisingly given the title, my memories of one night in Adelaide.
At the time I was completely out of my mind in an apparent state of mania and although I remembered bits and pieces, I didn’t become privy to the full blow-by-blow account of the evening until later that year when the woman in question, Samantha, found me on Facebook. Unknown to me at the time, this night would mark the beginning of a whirlwind friendship that became one of the most important of my life.
Although this post could hardly be called pornographic, it does contain slight sexual content, the occasional spanking and the image of me running naked down a street. So read on at your own risk :p
The sound my hand made this second time was much louder. With nothing to block it, nothing to suffocate it, nothing to hide it, the crisp SMACK of flesh on flesh echoed into the deserted Adelaidian sky. She gasped under her breath before easing her bottom up for seconds. In an instant my hand struck again, bouncing off her right buttock before striking quickly a third time. Holding it there I ran my fingers across the flimsy material, massaging her flesh.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“Fuck yes,” She gasped.
For a good thirty seconds I spanked her, my hand striking her round bottom with a mix of gentle severity. Each smack echoing around the empty park before dissolving into silence. Each strike followed shortly with a gasp, groan or moan. After a final – much harder – smack to the center of her cheeks I caressed my hand to the goose bump covered flesh of her thighs and found the warmth hidden within.
At the time I was twenty-seven, she a few years my younger at twenty-four. By the time I guided her over my lap in that cold dark park in Adelaide I’d known her a mere seven hours.
Because at that moment in time, I could do anything, be anyone and accomplish everything; I was immortal.
The din in the bar partially silenced the sound, but it was there for those who were listening hard enough; a crisp, clean, slapping of flesh as my hand impacted with her spectacular backside. She spun sharply, a few drops of vodka spilling out her glass as her rabid eyes glared me down. I anticipated a swift slap to the face, perhaps the pouring of vodka over my shirt, but I blocked both by doing something very unlike me: I started to talk.
As with the majority of this evening, besides the odd flash, I remember scant few details. I know I talked at a rapid pace, skipping from topic to topic with restless, unfocussed abandon. It had been happening for weeks, this overwhelming urge to converse, to engage, to communicate every last thought trapped inside my brain.
Whilst in Glenelg the week before I’d spoken for hours with a random man about the AFL, a subject I knew nothing about but pretended to, until he got bored and walked off.
Earlier that week I’d skipped from person to person down Hindley Street, nattering about whatever came to mind for as long as they’d listen; which was normally a scant few seconds.
This woman, this red dressed creature of exotic beauty, was different. I could sense it in the air between us, smell it in the pheromones that intoxicated me. As I spoke she smiled, furrowed her brow and looked for escape routes – and whenever I sensed she was about to bolt, I would make her laugh with a well timed joke so her attention returned. Every now and then a pause in my tsunami of words allowed her to throw in an opinion or response, but they were few and far between as I rambled onwards in an uncontrollable fashion.
She would ask me later whether I knew what I’d been doing, whether my verbal diarrhea had been some weird chat up technique. My only answer was no. Absolutely not. All I could remember about the hours before arriving at the bar were dressing, smartening myself up and heading out armed with an overwhelming desire to meet as many people as possible; or just the one, if they were disarming enough.
My monologue dried up about ninety minutes after it had begun. My first act; roaming to the bar to grab a drink without acknowledging Samantha once. She would tell me later she wasn’t all that put out by this as she’d considered seizing the opportunity to run for her life, but when I turned with two drinks, one being her absolute favourite, she’d decided to risk it.
A little nervous I would embark on another epic diatribe, the moment we sat down Sammi took the reins. Had you wandered into the bar that night you would have just seen a beautiful man sitting at a table with a gorgeous woman, sharing a few drinks, engaging in vibrant conversation, laughing their asses off and becoming progressively more ratarsed until, three hours later, they boogeyed out the door and into the cold Adelaidian night.
Which is where Sammi offered the bet.
“You wanna spank my ass again? Fine. But you gotta streak,”
“Alrighty,” Instantaneously I began untying my tie and flipped it round her neck.
She would later explain that the bet was driven purely by alcohol. It hadn’t been planned, it wasn’t a cunning way to embarrass me for payback over slapping her ass, it was just drunken shenanigans of the most random order.
“You’re kidding?” She smirked.
“I never kid when it comes to a bet,” I could tell from her reaction that she hadn’t expected me to. “Especially with what’s at stake”
“You wouldn’t have the guts even if you do win. Fuck, have you never heard of manscaping?”
“You’re not one of those are you?”
“One of who?” She laughed as my shirt was thrown over her head, pulling it off in time to see me whip my belt from its loops and snap it together. The explosion of leather on leather echoed around the mall and her eyes glazed over with excitement.
“Body hair is not, as some have decreed, evil,”
“Have you ever had to sleep with your head resting on a bear’s stomach?”
“I have. Got stuck in the wilderness once and the only way to stop myself from being eaten was to do some munching of my own,”
“That’s just wrong,” She snatched my belt into the pile of clothes she was holding. In a flash my trousers joined them and her cheeks blushed a deep red. “Fuck. Where’s your humility?”
Sammi’s eyes closed automatically as I whipped off my underwear before creeping back open and looking down. “Cold, huh?”
So, in the dead of night, I ran naked down Rundle Mall. Past the empty space where the balls had been removed for cleaning, past the foraging metal pigs and random, startled, strangers. Afterwards, riding a crazy public nudity alcohol fuelled high, we ended up in a desolate park giggling like schoolgirls.
Given all that had happened, given all the alcohol flowing through our system, given all those pheromones and chemicals, it wasn’t long before we were lying beside a bush with lips locked firmly together.
Courtesy of her orange flavored lip gloss, the ice cold air and the vodka she’d been consuming all night; kissing her was like taking a long, slow drink of a perfectly brewed alcoholic beverage. As she pulled back, her eyes lingering in the empty space between us, she whispered “Cheese,” and returned for more.
It was me who came up for air next, cradling her head with my left hand. “Cheese?”
“You taste like cheese,”
“I haven’t eaten cheese for days,”
I went to kiss her again, only to have her pull away with a sudden, drunken laugh. “Fuck, why do you taste like cheese?”
Given I still can’t explain why I tasted like cheese – though I suspect alcohol played a part – it’s a good thing Samantha didn’t have a lactose intolerance. We remained in that state of perpetual kissing for a good half an hour until neither of us was feeling the cold around us.
At some point, after our bodies had been sufficiently revved up a few notches, she submitted to making the payment for our bet. Much to my chagrin the swiss-cheese nature of that period has stolen from me the HD images of that moment. All I have are flashes; the tightness of her dress as it stretched over her mountainous buttocks, her head pointed downward, the gradual movement of her hips as I caressed over and under her the material and the sharp smack as I spanked her the first time.
I can clearly recall asking her if she was okay – and the breathy, desperate fuck yeah that preceded the rainstorm of smacks over the next thirty seconds. I can remember how my hand sunk into her flesh the harder I struck and the happy little moans that came each time it did.
For the life of me I wish I could remember that moment completely. Sammi, certainly, teased me with merciless abandon months later for not remembering what she described as ‘the greatest night of my life’ (as in my life, not hers!) Instead, all I get are these glimpses of a moment I’d dreamed of for years, ending the following morning when I woke up in the middle of a park, four shirt buttons missing, with a stunningly gorgeous woman curled on top of me.
Even more clearly than asking if she was okay is my memory of declaring in that moment, “What the fuck?” before shrugging off my confusion and lighting a smoke.
My fingers teased into the flesh of her upper buttocks as our lips lingered together. Slowly relishing every last second of contact before our body’s parted. She tried to pull away but my fingers hooked into the back pocket of her jeans and I bumped her close against me, forcing another kiss that she fell into with eager abandon.
That exchange in the terminal of Adelaide airport was the last time I expected to hear from Sammi. To me, however much I hate writing it, she was a conquest; a woman I targeted, seduced, spanked and forgot. To her, she would go on to admit, I was much the same.
Much later that year, after assaults and rapes and depression and suicide attempts, I began writing this blog. Shortly after, I joined Facebook in an attempt to reconnect with family and friends, as well as make a few new ones. Out of the blue one day I received a message from Samantha asking if I was the guy she’d known in Adelaide.
She knew I was – there were photos of me all over the blog – and the person in those photos matched the person in her photos perfectly. After my initial email of not remembering, she sent me a few to prove it; she and I in a pub looking incredibly wasted, one of a half-naked me struggling to put my trousers on after the streak and another of me standing at the airport looking a mite traumatized.
It was only after lengthy email exchanges would she send me a badly composed self-portrait I’d taken with my beaming face hovering above her slightly pink ass as if to say ‘I did that!’
Only after I’d accepted I was the man she thought I was did we began a sporadic cyber-relationship that became one of the most important – though short lived – friendships of my life.
And all because of that one insane night in Adelaide.