“I’d really like to pork you.”
The belch that followed this erotic request only served to emphasise the charm of the speaker, an obvious City boy with a face that had the puffiness of a heavy drinker who lived on junk food, and a body that, though slim, hinted at imminent rebellion around the stomach. I guessed that he was in his twenties, money-obsessed and used to getting his own way. But, glancing at the object of his ‘affections’, I had to concede one point. He had good taste.

The woman he was leering at was slim, with full, naturally red lips and dark hair that softly fell over her face emphasising her high cheekbones. Although her eyes were currently the coldest of blues, I suspected that they could equally tempt you into their depths were she faced with a classier approach. I shot her a sympathetic look, trying to apologise for crassness some members of my gender seem to think is appealing. I thought I detected a brief smile in her eyes as she met my gaze, but it vanished as rapidly as it had appeared when she fixed her eyes on the City boy.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, with calculated politeness. “I’m a vegetarian. Pork is of no interest to me.”
She spun slowly but deliberately on her heel so that her back was to him and there was a bar stool between them. The oaf’s friends laughed as he stumbled back to them. “Bloody dyke,” I heard him say, as he joined the squalid throng, shooting her a poisonous look. But the woman looked perfectly comfortable in herself as she moved to perch on the stool, and sipped her drink.

I pondered what to do. I’d come out for nothing more than a quick drink at my favourite private member’s club to help me work out the direction my next chapter would take. People think that being an author is easy, and I certainly feel I’m lucky to have the opportunity to share my views on life with the world, but there are times when the words don’t come easily. My latest book is on manners: how they’ve evolved – or rather, devolved – over the last fifty years. I decided that a conversation with an elegant woman could provide just the distraction I needed to get my brain working again. After all, I’d just seen a prime example of foul manners. Perhaps she’d have a perspective I hadn’t considered before.

I went to the bar, and sat on the stool next to the object of my desire. The bartender came over within seconds. I have a reputation as a generous tipper, which always ensures me good service.
“A Manhattan, please,” I said, hoping the time it took to make the cocktail would be enough for me to initiate conversation. Fate was clearly on my side, however, because the woman turned to me and smiled.
“I always see Manhattans as the king of cocktails.”
“Clearly a woman of taste,” I said. “Though my perception of kings is that they’re stuffy. Perhaps more of an errant prince?”
She smiled again. “You could be right there.” She made eye contact with the barman.
“Could I order a Manhattan too? I need to take part in a Royalist debate.”

Showing true class, the barman didn’t even register her strange comment, but simply started pouring the measures for her drink. When he placed our cocktails in front of us, she reached for her purse.
“No, please, allow me,” I said. “To apologise for the male race. I couldn’t help but overhear the ‘gentleman’ offer you a porking. Sometimes, I despise being a man.”
She nodded her thanks. “I know. I mean, it’s such a repellent word. At least if he’d asked me for a fuck, I’d have admired his directness. But porking conjures such a horrible image. I don’t want to think about pigs when I’m having sex.”
I felt a blush rise at her bluntness, but it was matched by a rising lower down my body. She was obviously a woman who appreciated words – a woman after my own heart.

“How do you feel about tupping?”
“Oh no, too antiquated – it reminds me of my Chaucer lecturer at university. Perhaps shagging?”
“1970s carpets. Screwing?”
“1970s porn.”
I’d been right about her eyes. Now they were twinkling with invitation and I leaned slightly closer to her as I said “Humping?” We both grimaced even as I uttered the words. “Yes, OK, too animal. You’re right,” I said.
“I always thought pumping was more animal,” she said. “It takes the act back to nothing more than its motion, and that’s hardly what sex is about now, is it.” She put her hand on my thigh to emphasise her point.
“You’re entirely right. That’s why the words for the act itself are almost moot. It’s the words before it that mean so much more.”
“Like flirting?” she said.
Her fingers were moving now, nails delicately tracing my inner thigh, casually enough to be written off as distraction but sensual enough to heighten the arousal coursing through my member. I leaned over to speak quietly into her ear.
“Well, yes, but I was thinking more of lingering over a coffee, gazing into each other’s eyes, trailing a fingertip over the outline or a woman’s lips, maybe even cupping an exquisite buttock. All the slow, sensual words that are anything but graphic.”

Her hand moved up my thigh the heel of her hand rubbing against my bulge.
”But graphic has its place,” she said. “Once you’re actually engaged in the act then surely there’s nothing better than slamming a cock into a wet pussy and fucking until you’re both breathless and desperate for release.”
Her fingernails were now playing over the head of my cock, which responded by growing ever bigger. Her other hand was working its way up my left thigh and I knew that, if I didn’t possess her soon, I was going to face a certain embarrassment at the bar.

“So what you’re saying is that there’s a time and a place for bending someone over, parting their arse cheeks to see the wet folds of their eager slit, lapping their juices up until they cum into your face then gripping their thighs as you pound your cock deep into them and, once they’ve lost all control of their body and are begging for nothing more than a hard, fast fuck, giving them exactly what they desire before spunking deep inside them?”

As I let my breath play over her ear, my hand moved to the small of the woman’s back and my fingers traced slow but controlled circles, moving ever nearer her buttocks and eliciting small erotic releases of breath from her lips.
“Yes, I think there’s definitely a time and a place for it. The only question is whether it’s your place or mine?”

I decided that writing could wait for another day.