RAUNCHY READ: A WINTER’S TALE.

In the latest raunchy read by Jack Ladd, our hero discovers that your kink is where you find it – and even better when shared.

Jack Ladd recalls a wildly erotic encounter with an unassuming piece of underwear.

It always intrigues me when men expect a succinct account of my kinks at the drop of a hat. Find me on a cosy rooftop terrace or reclined on a sofa, joint in hand, opposite a pair of stunning thighs and captivating eyes then, alright, I’ll divulge my deliciously twisted fantasies. But in the context of a dull grey Grindr chat, the single-syllabic “kinks?” is as vague as “depends”.

I get it. We live in a fast world. Sometimes we don’t want detail. Sometimes all we need is assurance of mutual enjoyment and – voila! – a nameless, no-strings blow-and-go. Pragmatism replacing patience. Wham-bam-thank-you-sir.

But even if he asks, while cooling down in the smoking area after hours of eye fucking and laser-lit body grinding, I’d most likely still be vague. I’d still say something on the lines of, “Where do I begin?”

And then he’d say, “It’s an easy question,” looking at me like it’s my first rodeo, thinking I’m shy or new or, too many times, some prude wasting his time.

But really, I don’t know where to start. Kinks aren’t black-and-white.

Some things are – top, bottom, vers, host, travel, poz, neg, prep, undetectable – but fetishes are different. Some are simple, others are complex and crazy. If you want me to define mine in a single sentence, you’re the wrong man for me.

Call me picky, but my man needs to understand that kinks can come and go like the wind. Some stay constant and others unexpected. Some roll in, wild and powerful, but once sated, disappear for months at a time. And some I’ll take morning, noon and night.

Most importantly, they should be discovered and explored, suggested, embraced and celebrated in a place of openness and understanding. Discussed personally and with passion, not bundled into easily manageable bites in impersonal conversations.

It seems strange that he watches impatiently, I imagine, thumbs primed over his smart phone before searching for a faster-responding replacement. I wish I had the patience to say to these guys, who try to pry the lid off my scrumptious tin of worms called “kinks”, chill out. Hold tight and take the effort to open me up.

The issue is, in this age, where it’s so easy to switch off if we don’t get the answer we immediately want, we don’t learn anything new. Thank the sweet Lord for Silviu.

I was 25 and still figuring out what I wanted. He was 32 and eager. Eager to teach me the joys of wrapping up before stripping down.

It started with a conversation thumbed on glass one winter evening, two kilometres apart: “Hey there. You looking?” he typed.

Nice.

Below the name Silviu and a picture of a handsome black man with short but thick black hair were his stats: six-foot-one, muscular, vers and happy to host with a short description of emojis: sleeping face, winky face, devil face. Interesting choice.

“Certainly am. What you thinking?” I typed. “I’m thinking I take you home with me.” Then he sent pics. The first two were face: both showing off his white smile, strong jaw, deep brown eyes, thick lips and flawless skin. Two were semi-nude: his defined torso naked and his muscled legs bulging in a pair of grey long johns, and then the same again but in sheer white. Followed by four nudes: front, back and cock times two. Each angle proving that, at least for this guy, the old saying rang true.

A semi in full swing, I sent mine. Matched the types almost exactly, bar the long johns. “Nice,” he said.

“You too.”

“Any kinks?”

My eyes rolled. My thumbs typed, “Depends on my mood.”

“Good answer,” he wrote.

I double-took, my cock now hard as stone. “Is it?” I wrote.

“Fuck yeah. I like open-minded boys.” “Most blokes think I’m just after chat when I say that.”

“Then they’re not worth your time.”

I smiled. I liked his logic.

Running a hand down my T-shirt, I undid my jean buttons, splayed open the fabric and pushed my fingers under the waistband of my undies. Pushed them down my thighs, took hold of myself and squeezed. Scrolled back to his pics and squeezed again. Watched a thick bead of precum grow before slowly smearing it with my free hand.

My phone vibrated in the other as I slowly pulled myself.

“Join me for a drink?” he typed. “Where?”

He sent a location: a pub in Surry Hills called The Norfolk Hotel. Ten minutes in an Uber. Followed by:

“My friends are leaving soon. Keep me company?”

Twenty minutes later I pulled up to the bar. It was a Tuesday evening. The place was swarming with hipsters smashing tacos. Silviu was easy to spot, perched on a high stool in the busy, outside, tiki-themed courtyard, propped up against a bar with his foot resting on the bottom rung of an empty stool next to him; beady-eyed standers watching it like vultures. He’s gorgeous.

Even sitting, my date was obviously broad and tall, wearing dark blue jeans and a tight, white sweater, and among the sea of tanned white skin around him, he was practically radiant. As I approached he smiled wide before pulling me in for a hug and kissing me on the cheek. Damn.

“Hi, how are you?” he said, the hug over but his big hands still holding me; his voice sexier than I’d hoped: Australian with the tiniest twang of British.

“Hey, good thanks,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” And it was. For over an hour Silviu and I chatted. Laughed about our British accents: mine still crisp, his indiscernible after gaining citizenship seven years ago. I asked about his name.

“It’s Romanian. After my grandfather.” Then we talked about what brought us to Sydney in the first place. Discovered, over a couple of pints, that we both craved adventure. Longed for newness whenever possible. “Want to get out of here?” he said. “Definitely.”

His place was around the corner in a row of terrace houses on Elizabeth Street.

“So,” he said, as he held the door open for me to squeeze past. “You were saying… what turns you on?”

“I was?” I said, leaning against the cool cream wall of his long hallway and watching him close the door before walking over to me, placing his hands on my waist and kissing my neck.

“Yeah,” he said, his deep voice muffled by my body. “Your kinks.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Depends who I’m with.” “What about me?”

“Anything.”

Smirking he led me into the first of three doors that ran the length of the hall. A bedroom:

normal size with a queen bed in the middle and decorated with thin-legged furniture in red pine and lush green potted plants. A framed poster of David Bowie the biggest among four pieces hanging on the walls.

“Not what I was expecting,” I said as he kicked off his trainers.

“How so?” he said, perching at the end of his bed.

“Where’s the swing?”

He chuckled, deep and sexy. Then he locked his eyes on mine and smiled.

“Not all fetishes are whips and chains, you know?”

I smirked and shrugged my shoulders, took two steps forward and straddled his lap: my knees on the bed and my arms around his neck. His warm, manly scent flooding my nostrils.

“I guess,” I said.

“I’m serious,” he said, his hands running up and down my flanks. “Sometimes the simplest things can be mind-blowing.”

“Like?”

Squeezing me tight he nodded his head to the side. Understanding what he meant, I got off and sat next to him. Then he stood up and turned to face me.

Reaching down to his waistband, he undid the top button. Pulled down the zip – metal teeth slowly buzzing – and then his jeans. Below were the same sheer white long johns he’d been wearing in the semi-nude pic he’d sent. No undies.

“Thermals?” I said, confusion creeping across my face.

He chuckled again, now out of his jeans and T-shirt, revealing a tight singlet in the same material on his sculpted torso. “Sort of.”

I had to admit: I could see the attraction. Big time.

Standing less than a metre away, every bulge and mound of his dark flesh was beautifully coated in translucent white. Just opaque enough to leave something to the imagination, but not much.

He was hard, running across the base of his groin and right thigh, coated in millimetres of flimsy fabric.

“You don’t like getting naked?” I asked, my eyes glued to his crotch.

Reaching out and pulling me to standing he said, “Not at all. These come off. Eventually.”

“Then why?” I asked as he lifted my T-shirt off and flung it onto the bed.

“Build-up. Foreplay,” he said, undoing the top button of my jeans before pulling them down. “And then, the best bit. Peeling them off. Slowly. Sensually. It’s one hell of a sensory experience. With the right person.”

A moan fired out of my mouth by itself. “Tell me more,” I said.

“Wouldn’t you rather see for yourself?” Five minutes later I was redressed. Redressed in body-hugging long johns in thin but good quality grey cotton and a matching singlet Silviu had outgrown. They fitted me perfectly. Better than perfect: a second skin.

Then he told me to lie across his lap. He explored my body, reached down and cupped my arse. Ran a hand up and down and everywhere, his fingertips running along the seams of my new outfit; his lips kissing at my neck and shoulders; my hands and lips doing the same to him.

Then, however many long minutes later, came the best bit.

Making me stand, he stood behind me and peeled down my johns. Just enough to show off my arse, white and round and framed by grey. Then peeled them a fraction further: no rush, no running in guns blazing, just pure, unadulterated anticipation.

Dropping to his knees he ate me. Bent me over the bed; his hot, wide tongue pushing and licking; his hands holding my cheeks open; my johns holding my legs together.

Sweet submissiveness rolled through me. But not the same I’d felt tied up or held down or bound in leather. This was sweet and naughty at the same time. A juxtaposition of freedom and obedience: knowing my bindings could be ripped apart at any moment.

When he’d had his fill, he made me undress him. Told me to pull down his johns as slow as I could. Made me watch as I revealed every inch of his lower body.

Then we fucked. But it was different. Different than most of my one-night stands. It’s hard to describe, but I felt connected to him. I wasn’t falling for him or anything like that, but he made me feel safe, like I’d known him for months.

As I took him on my back, my bare legs wrapped around his singlet-covered torso, we kissed and held each other tight. Relished every moment and enjoyed every feeling. Every texture and taste and smell until he filled the condom inside of me, kissing me deep and real the whole time.

Finished, he redressed me in his sleepwear and I fell asleep in his arms on top of the covers. Warm and safe and spent.

The next morning, we parted ways. Told each other we would stay in touch, but life happened, and I didn’t see Silviu again. I will, however, always remember the night we spent together. The patience he showed me and the pleasure he had taking me by the hand and opening my mind to something new.

Something I wouldn’t have tried in a million years.

And while I wouldn’t say I’m a sleepwear convert, when the cold bite of winter comes, you might just find me sporting an extra layer or two.

He stood behind me and peeled down my johns. Just enough to show off my arse, white and round. Then peeled them a fraction further: no rush, no running in guns blazing, just pure, unadulterated anticipation.