Fucked In Balenciaga

The mysterious Cristobal Balenciaga... These words lingered in my brain as I walked off the business class section of the international flight and into Arkhangelsk's Talagi Airport's peculiar, mdf-walled inner-sleeve tunnel behind the actual walls of the short-term stop-over area. It was, 15 degrees below zero Centigrade in still air, and there was that often unstated further wind-chill factor... The advice for this stop-over was always 'don't drink the free hot coffee at the end of the long long tunnel – sure it's hot when you drink it but you'll probably get hypothermia before you make it back onto your plane because caffeine takes blood flow away from the extremities.'

Frosty mist was forming in front of my face each time I breathed now and I hadn't even gotten ten feet from the aircraft doors. I could see out of the small sections of glass here and there along the sides of the tunnel, and then also further on, out of the larger windows in the concrete walls to the actual 'outside.' There was a military or security detachment policeman outside in the snow walking around on guard duty. I was hardly twenty feet down the inner tunnel and my teeth were already chattering. The guard outside was unfazed by the cold. Okay he had fur-lined sealskins and thick fur-topped boots and an Ushanka hat - but hey, what he was doing, even though he had likely been born and raised in the Arkhangelsk icy snow, was kind of admirable all the same. It was cold.

The mysterious... Cristobal Balenciaga.

Why -, was he mysterious...? What made him mysterious? Who said he was mysterious? Who thought he was mysterious?

Fashion people, art and fashion critics, photographers, journalists, apparently – all of these sorts of people, those who knew him or had encountered him during his life – called him mysterious. Throughout his life he had said little to newspaper people, well, in fact nothing, really. And he chose to use the most difficult-to-work-with models; monsters, was the way they were all described by the fashion press.

Mysterious.

I didn't think he was mysterious. He had a lot of the European aristocracy, what was left of it of course, as his clientele. Would he speak about his clients to outsiders? And thus risk losing them? Unlikely. In those days the wealthy still valued their privacy. Being a celebrity was a kind of vulgarity. Like sex, really. Sex is common too, isn't it. Very common.

There is common sex. And then there is uncommon sex. It's still dirty, but it is elegantly dirty. There is a difference.

The in-flight magazine article on Balenciaga was really more about the modern-day actress Kristen Stewart, the current 'face' of the brand; its clothes, its perfumes, its accessories. One thing I observed about the actress herself right from the very start of her movie career, was that her head was very still in big-screen movie shots – and that was always a good sign with a major actor or actress. Action, drama, suspense, panic – whatever. Her head was always still for the frame-shot. Not such an easy thing to achieve as you might think. Try yourself 'on camera' and see for yourself.

There are similar sorts of skills and maybe, tricks, with the best porn actresses. Similar tricks and skills with actual, real, sex performance experts too...

I'm not an expert, I'm just very wealthy and can indulge in sex as a wealthy person's pastime (and as professional sport for those stakes-risking participants on the other side of me). I will fuck an aristocrat playing the role of a London office-cleaner, or a South London beauty therapist wanting to dress in very expensive fashion. The ordinary middle classes in between, not so much. Of course it takes a while nowadays to get any typical modern female to wear sable or mink or even just Arctic fox, they've been propagandized to that much. But not so long of a while to get them into something like a Balenciaga evening gown. Most modern people think they want to be a flower rather than an animal. The House of Balenciaga still carries forward all of Cristobal Balenciaga's themes: like flowers, the pretty coloured linings under the slit gowns, the flowing gowns, the ruffled gowns, the stiff satin tulip or lily collars showing all of that naked shoulder and deep decolletage.

Everything about the original Balenciaga was always 'into the deep.' The implication under the skirt was about the deep, through the slit was about the deep, down into the valley of a generous breast was about the deep. Not many people know what Balenciaga places behind all that beautiful, pretty, colourful, lining. Down in there, there are light fluffy, sometimes velvet cordings and furry textured linings – but not small and thin, more like thick puffy buffering. When he designed the famous bridal gown for Fabiola de Mora y Aragon, he placed the fluffy bufferings on the outside, a rarity for him.

Cristobal Balenciaga is always enhancing the presence of cunt. He is accentuating it. Letting you know it is there. He is underscoring it. Highlighting it even...

The table was there like always at the end of the sleeve-tunnel where the tunnel itself stopped, opening out to the main hall. The silvery urn was there as usual and the take-away coffee cups ready to one side. I allowed the attendant to hand me a takeaway cup full of hot coffee. With both my hands enfolding the source of warmth I walked towards the middle of the small hall, away from the chill knifing clean through the walls and into your body straight past any clothing, layered or thermal or whatever. It was just plain real cold.

It was so cold – and if you ever go there you will experience it too – it's so cold, your head will hurt from it.

What was I doing here? I knew this rich girl who was meeting me here from wherever she was last.

And there she was. Entering through the only door, an old-fashioned, cold brass door-knob kind. A shock of extra-dyed red hair. Black onyx German-designed, puffy, eiderdown-filled, jump-suit. A slim black brief-case in her gloved hand.

You know, you have to understand something... In this world now there are those people who have gone far beyond the simple politics of sex as passing social fashion has had it be for many many centuries now. Perhaps it is due to the decadence today of the ultra high net worth third generational Id. Pope Francis is somewhat symbolic of this. Far down the road now from the visionary Juscelino Kubitschek, South America still produces the conflicted if true futuristic socialist – Professor Jolival Soares, who writes in Pravda against the propaganda of the BBC. In the BBC they push op-ed pieces from post-Huxleyan academics who subtly kink Gallileo's 'measureable versus immeasurable greatnesses in nature;' and in Pravda they quickly rush Soares into print to counter for the global ultra-Left intelligencia. Sex is free, sex for all, sex the right of the proletariate. The beauty of sex, deep and immeasurable. Chapter Four, Das Kapital; Karl Marx.

But really, for the rich it's all boring.

They – the decadent bored rich – want Charlize Theron to explicitly advertise the Nazi Dior stuff as being recommended by her especially for cocksucking. Those totalitarian red lipstick-painted cocksucking lips... They don't want the clever Oxford propaganda. They want the Surrey street-talk.

On the moneyed surface their boilerplate gloss is informed by the literature of the now highly-covert Rougemont final years. And underneath, their cunts are informed by knowing what Balenciaga does for women's bodies; and what it does for their bodies makes them do things in their minds with those bodies. Those elegantly dirty minds.

How you find women of this kind, whether you are rich or not so rich, is not so easy to disclose of course. Firstly, not everyone possesses the wit to understand the way. The method may be said, but far from readily understood by all. In fact I've already disclosed it in earlier paragraphs here, not that you'd have noticed...

And so she stood before me, elegant, moderately tall, and when she did that female actor's trick of half-turning at the torso and making a slight inward arch of her back, her rather athletic figure turned into an hourglass.

In brutally red-dyed hair and clever makeup she looked very different to what even her closest family thought she looked like. In old Russia, finishing schools were known as Institutes for Noblewomen. Inside these, doubtless they learned about Catherine the Great. And outside of these, doubtless they learned all about Catherine the Great.

"Zdravstvuj."

"Don't be stupid. You don't speak Russian. And neither do I."

"Yeah well I watch Ice Station Zebra a lot."

"There aren't any girls in that movie."

"God it never even crossed my mind before! Damn, you're right. How 'bout that." Actually I was a bit surprised.

She motioned forward with her briefcase. "Well are we getting on board or are we going to die of the cold here?"

The coffee cup was still in my hands, and risking all consequences I took a long sip as I started back for the ramp and tunnel back up to the plane. I tried to let her walk beside me rather than ahead or clearly behind. I guess it was rather a question of feeling, or trying to feel, like a colleague. Like a freezing, shivering, colleague.

I chucked the half empty cup into the metal bin near the airplane side-door, having had a couple more swigs of the contents along the way up the long ramp. The flight attendants and cabin crew rapidly shut the doors behind us.

"Why did you drink the coffee?" She asked astutely as we settled into the Marc Newsome-designed long leg-room seats.

"Being stupid again, I think. That, and I'm also a coffee addict."

The electric starter system went into high drive and the plane began moving, turning around to the right first, and then rolling a short way up the taxi-ing lane before stopping briefly, until the turbines were spinning into gas compression velocity, quickly screaming the aircraft forward with urgency and intensity, and then faster and faster until the big wings lifted the plane's wheels off the ground, and we went up, up into the sleeting darkness, undercarriage methodically whining back into fold-in position, and the in-cabin sound-baffled take-off roar now changing to a soft hum.

This year Lanvin was doing body-hugging but fluid electric, metal-coloured taffeta and lamé cocktail dresses this year. Really, really beautiful stuff. Daphne Guinness was doing tight, short black skirts and flesh-coloured fishnets and collaborated Louboutins. You could press your thighs together hard and make a surreally erotic display of how tightly closed up your fanny – if you were rich British – was.

The gloss-paper photos of recent runway shows by the main high fashion branded houses, that had come from the super rich Russian girl's brief-case, covered a range of styles.

The latest Balenciaga collection contained a contemporary re-iteration of an original 1951 Balenciaga evening gown. The pastel peach satin lining under wavy ruffled black skirt edge was highly formal, severely contrasting, austere and stark on the outside, announcing the fleshy, the subdued, and the yielding within.

The flight back to London was long and smooth. The cabin lights went down, the air was somehow both cool and warm at the same time because of those strategically-positioned temperature control blowers, and the engines hummed on outside. Little droplets of moisture appeared and flew away on the external surface of the glass windows that looked out into the black night. Strange juxtaposed spicy flavours drifted in my mouth across the First Class menu airline food lubricated by Nebiolo red wine. I noticed that my armpits were beginning to feel that slight moist hint of clean watery unstressed adrenalin sweat - even in the cool dry air atmosphere of the aircraft cabin at high altitude - that predicates expectation of new sex. It wasn't the same as the adrenalin sweat from high-pressure stock-trading.

I didn't really know the girl at all well. She came recommended by my bi-sexual wife, who dj'ed at private functions of the ultra-high net worth Russian oligarch set. Again you must understand my social background. Politically, the convoluted networks of the super wealthy elite can be explained less by an oft-presumed genetic tendency to support the Left Wing of global politics – as happens with the Oxford crowd often, or did, at least - and more by the stable family relationships and economic structures of the old European aristocracies who have by now long since manuoevred utterly and completely out of absolutist state power and into global fashion, luxury brand manufacturing, glamour, jewellery, and of course the Urals' oil and energy trading. Certainly away from anything Saudi or ARAMCO. For a very long time now this tribe had been 'into' just beauty... The young – as they were then – Rothschild brother and sister for example spent half of each year when they were in their teens in my parents' home in Malaya – as it was then – and collected tropical butterflies.

Interest rates had been too low for too long now for any shadowy, distaff side family-interest statecraft provocateuring, really.Today, the extreme activist, often intellectual, Left, lay dead in the shadow of the Borg.

Dead and gone are the days when Germaine Greer fucked Jimi Hendrix. Come is the day when Bob Dylan overdubs a car sales pitch on a 'big industry' t.v. commercial.

And so we ourselves too are jaded in the decadence that is, and we just play around with specialist sex, nostalgic for true 'old school' social ideologies but never ever really meaning to actually put any of it to use with malicious intent, as it were. As in the days of Marcus Wolf.

Yet Tsar Putin exists, and soon, General Motors will perhaps not, if the Chinese keep pushing stubbornly forward against the idiocracy in control in the West. Neither is right or good of course, but certainly anyway Tsars still exist. Therefore history has taught us one must have an 'exist strategy' afterall. There is no entry, no exit, only an 'exist.' No entry strategy. No exit strategy. Only an exist strategy.

In the private apartment in Chelsea, at Number 42, there is no need to 'make an entry' beneath her skirt, never a need to create a story for an 'honourable exit' afterwards. Her legs are always open underneath the Balenciaga. And I am not a public politician with any kind of 'public profile!' I can do what I want. And so can she.

Decadence, what is it? Maybe when there is too much, and things are used for all kinds of tangential purposes, some frivolous, some even mindless. If I closed my eyes I could smell and taste my wife Sara's lipstick on Venyna's pussy, I was sure of it. Days away from her mouth, hairy cunt still held that biotin-heavy scent of lipstick-painted lips touching all that peach skin and mango squelch and abalone-chewy clit hood.

I played 'One too many' on a repeat loop on the Bose system and fucked the girl called Venyna. Fucked her through her pushed aside, black Belgian lace panties. Fucked her through her vanilla bean pod-lined, lingerie draw freshly extracted, newly-worn, and now pushed aside panties. Fucked her with my iron-stiff cock taken straight from her wet-gloss American Beauty 'Luxury For Lips' red lipstick-painted lips and salivating mouth where moments before there had been salty-sour pickled cucumbers being eaten and Luvienz flavoured with that hint of mavrosol Beluga being drunk. Her breath tasted warm and ever so slightly phenolic like hospital cleaning fluid or Islay malt whisky.

Outside, through the large upper story windows, I could see swirling snow-flurries blowing about wildly in the late afternoon orange glowing winter sunlight. It was going to be a cold year all across Europe this year. Stay inside. Stay in the bedroom. That was my plan. Because, outside were the cold streets, and the cold world, and the cold people.

"You like 'Exist Strategy.'" She mused, lolling about on the warm white linen sheets.

"Yes."

"D'you have Above & Beyond - 'Small Moments?'"

"Yes."

"Play it for me."

Yes there was sadness in all of our lives. She, for her part was a touch more intelligent than me, I would have had to admit if pushed to say. She had to have been. For one thing I do not have to deal with, for a woman to be that free of anxiety, jealousy, resentments – even a very rich and beautiful woman – surely is not by any means an easy thing for anyone to accomplish in one's soul. If you have a cunt and not a dick things begin to conspire against your innocence and nobility from early on and grind away until although you still pull on the high heels, it's less of a thrill at some point, less of an exercise of theoretical womanly power, and more of a fear thing. Fear of losing someone's apparent friendship when they inevitably turn to another cunt out of boredom or familiarity. Fear of losing some sex stakes competition. Fear of age. Fear of some inadequacy or someone's doubt about your credibility. Fear of not being taken seriously at all, ever. Fear of a slip of absolutely any kind at all. Fear of the occasionally detectable smell of your own pussy in the nostrils of an uninvited imbiber. Fear too of the overwhelming power of illicit pleasure and of succumbing to it. Fear of the marks, fear of addiction, fear of thresholds extending to who knew where, fear of giving emotionally and yet perhaps still being discarded anyway. Fear of the real risks of maturity. Fear of loss.

"Will they still be serving tea somewhere out there in this snowed-socked London Town in the middle of this cold damned winter?" Venyna asked flatly and out of the blue, not smiling at all, almost sarcastically. If you didn't know her very well you might have thought she was argumentative, aggressive, adversarial.

"Don't worry, Prince Jefri will have shipped in glowing lava from some active volcano to the Dorchester by now I'm sure."

"Yeah I want to be fucked so hard before I walk in there. I want to cum hard before I go there. And I want to be made to cum so hard I'll want to piss myself."

Suddenly Venyna stood up from the bed and started to look around agitatedly, for her shoes, it seemed. Yes. It was for those. She bent over picking first one up and next the other, and then lifted one leg backwards, bending it gracefully at the knee to slip the shoe on. Like so with the first one, and then with the other neatly-pointed foot too. And she bent over fully again from the waist with her head all the way down to tighten the ankle straps. She had a body like someone who worked out seriously with those Tracy Anderson tapes everyday.

And then she walked up and down deliberately wiggling her bottom. But you could see she was not actually doing it for me or for my enjoyment but for getting herself into some kind of mood. And then so subtly she became what a sexually turned on feminine woman was like – all bottom, all hips, soft flesh, full breasts wobble-shaking all over the place, stubbly armpits, body heat and acrid sweat, substantial thighs, elegant calves, hairy pussy.

She was very, very, submissive. Even though she was tall it still seemed as if her eyes were looking up at me, and with a serious, single-minded, exclusive intent. And then she cast her eyes downwards, with a kind of a modesty, even humbleness. And then she looked up again with that same intensity. And then downwards again. She was completely inside the moment. I could see her nostrils flaring and her breathing slow down and deepen. She wasn't agitated. She was clearly becoming more and more relaxed. I'm not sure if I first made to turn her body around, or if she began the move, but in the end it was as if she was like something of a rag doll, albeit with her legs slightly apart and her arse lifting itself expectantly and solicitously. Soft, yielding, compliant, very open, just waiting for me and yet when my penis entered her I could feel the tightness and the strength of her pussy muscles. It was almost like her pussy had another hand in there that squeezed around my shaft and when I pumped, it replied by squeezing in rhythm to my pumping.