Suzanne Portnoy

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m on Kennington Road. Want to pick me up?’

‘You want to go dancing? I want to go dancing,’ I said. It was a kids’ free Friday night and I was alone and had a desire to go dancing. Karume was the best dancer and the best looking guy I knew.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Meet you on Kennington Road. I’m outside the gallery.’

Thirty minutes later I pulled my Golf Cabrio up to the curb and Karume stepped in. He was in his usual Friday night attire. Vintage Chester Barry two-piece single breasted check suit, black shirt and Buddhahood purple ankle boots.

Six foot two, black, lean and wearing a straw trilby, he looked his usual sexy self. Damn him.

I looked over and him and smiled. He leaned over and kissed me. Deep, wet, far too friendly for friends which is what we were. I could smell champagne on his breath. ‘You’re drunk.’

I turned the car around and headed for the West End.

Stopping at the traffic lights on the Vauxhall Bridge Road he said, ‘Don’t you want to suck my cock?’ He reached to unzip his fly.

‘No,’ I said, without missing a beat. ‘Not really.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Have it your way.’

Karume hated rejection.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Not right now anyway. I’m driving.’

We drove in silence until Berkeley Square. I pulled the car into a free space and turned off the engine. Our destination was a dance club near Centrepoint but I fancied a pit stop.

Parked opposite the Millenium Hotel, I could see a porter standing in the doorway. The street lights were dim but not so dim that anyone passing us couldn’t see exactly what we were doing.

I reached across and unzipped Karume’s fly, pulling out his cock in one swift movement. My mouth followed soon after. He was hard within seconds. I felt his hand reach around the back of my head, pulling me into him.

I heard footsteps in the distance.

‘Stay down,’ he said.

My tongue worked the distinctive pink head of his cock. The shaft was black. Flicking over and under and around the ridge, he moaned.

‘Miss me?’ he said.

I moved my mouth down to the base and then back up again. Up and down. Up and down. Even now, three years later, I still think about sucking his cock when I masturbate.  Double damn him.

Then I pulled my head off him, rearranged my clothes and turned on the engine.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘C’mon. Let’s go dancing.’

There are many times when I have thought that should I ever want to give up being a publicist I could become a life coach or the type of person that other people go to when they don’t know what they should be doing. Take the other night. I was out with my girlfriend Carol at a world music club in the West End. The band came on and within a few minutes Carol was whooping and hollering and throwing her hands up in the air. There were a couple of businessmen who looked over at her as if she might be insane and a few women sniggered too but then I realised that what she was doing was revving up the crowd. By the end of the night lots of people were whooping and hollering and dancing too. This is Carol’s usual behaviour when we go out.

‘You should be an audience motivator,’ I said. ‘Promoters would hire you to get the show started and make sure that the audience had a good time.’

She laughed. ‘I could do that.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And you’d get paid depending on the size of the gig. So if it was a small gig, you could stand in the crowd and if it were a stadium gig you could have a mic and be on stage.’

‘You know,’ she said. ‘That might really work.’

‘Just think,’ I said. ‘You would be the only audience motivator in the U.K. and after a while you could start your own agency of people that like to whoop and holler at gigs. You could hire actors and people like that.’

We both laughed but actually I didn’t think the idea seemed so far fetched. Last night I went to see a flamenco based musical and the guy sitting next to me, a Spanish dancer, was whooping and hollering during the musical numbers. During the last number the audience was on its feet clapping along to the songs. He was an audience motivator too.

I create imaginery jobs for my friends all the time. Carol’s favourite saying is, ‘I want to find a man to inspire me.’ On reflection, I’ve done quite a bit of inspiring but rarely have I been inspired by anyone. That’s not bragging, it’s just a fact. Maybe I’m a bit too scarily confident to attract the kind of people who like to inspire others or maybe it’s just that when I want to do something, I just do it.

Just recently my new lover started blogging after I suggested he might enjoy it. I told him what to do and now he’s writing an entry a day. Actually, it’s rather good. The last time he came over I gave him a book about screenwriting and now he seems to be into the idea of making a film about his life after I suggested that it had all the components of an award winning movie. Frankly, it’s such a great story I wouldn’t be surprised if one day it gets optioned for a few million quid and he ends up living in Hollywood in a big house with a big pool. He’d look good with a tan.

Last night I did a bit of a mental checklist of men I have inspired and those that have inspired me. On the Inspired Them side I counted about 10 and on the Inspired Me side I counted 2, my New York ex and a friend I’ve known for a decade and whom was indirectly responsible for some recent changes I’ve made to my work. About the same score then as the number of men whom have told me I give world class blowjobs and the number of men who have given me world class cunnilingus. Are you seeing a pattern here?