Stealth Associates Pt. 03

27 - Push It

The block of student student flats I call home has all the mod cons. I'm talking a cinema room, a lounge room, an on site shop, a laundry and a gym. It's a long way from the sort of student accommodation I had as an undergraduate, but I'm paying through the nose for the privilege.

Trog and I are in the gym. Push It by Salt n Pepa blasts out of Nell's Bluetooth speaker. The music's loud. She stands, feet shoulder width apart, swaying, shifting her weight in time to the beat, feeling the music.

Nell's dressed in skin tight black and grey Lycra leggings and a pink and grey sports top. Her long blonde hair's tied back in a ponytail that sways in time with the beat of the old school hip hop song.

She brings her hands together as if she's praying, exhales, swings her hands out parallel to her shoulders with her hands bent down at the wrist in a graceful, birdlike movement. She stands on one leg, the other drawn up with her knee bent toes pointed down. The White Crane Kung Fu fighting style.

She leads with a foot strike, dropping her standing knee while her raised foot lashes out. As she rises up her left hand sweeps straight out in front to defend against any potential threat. Nell's right hand is drawn back ready to strike.

The punch bag is a bubble gum pink representation of a human male's head and torso. Her right hand's flat, the fingers slashing into the dummy's throat, causing it to rock violently back on its sprung base.

As her right hand recoils from the strike Nell turns on her toes until she's side on and drives her elbow into the bridge of the dummy's nose. It's done smoothly and quickly with the air of confidence that says this is something she's practised enough times to have complete mastery over.

"Bugger me!" Trog gasps, "where did she learn to do that?"

"Well as I understand it, this is her own form of mixed martial arts," I tell him, "a blend of Kung Fu and ballet."

"Ballet?" Trog asks.

"Yeah, ballet," I say, "at least that's what she told me,"

"She's like a..." he pauses as he tries to find the right words, "...she's like a... a stunningly beautiful Amazonian warrior goddess. How the hell did a mere mortal like you end up with her mate? No offence."

"Oh thanks for that, and loads of offence taken," I mutter acidly, "I've no idea how I got to be so lucky, but I give thanks every day that I did."

"Yeah," Trog nods, "you really should sunshine."

She skips back out of range of any potential retaliation and spins round on her tiptoes like a ballerina. All the time Nell is moving to the beat of the music. This is martial arts as a dance routine. Nell's arms rise until they are vertical, her palms meeting above her head. Without warning Nell's arms drop horizontally to shoulder height, her left left foot slashes out again, this time catching the dummy in the side of the head in a perfectly executed roundhouse.

"Does she do stuff like that to you?" Trog asks.

"Yeah," I nod enthusiastically in response, "only we call it foreplay."

+++

28 - Alone Again Or...

I'm winding my friend up like a clockwork toy. His love life is a long saga of romantic misadventures. I'm being a wee bit cruel and shouldn't be rubbing his nose in my relationship.

The truth is Nell and I have yet to, as Shakespeare puts it in Othello, make the beast with two backs. There has been a lot of kissing, cuddling and even caressing each other's naughty bits over clothing. It's going to happen, we're going to do the deed and do it soon. And while I really want to go to bed with her, the thought that Nell might expect me to go down on her and give her a blow job, or even expect to shag me is, frankly, giving me the heebie-jeebies.

Yes, I do want to make love to her. The thought of what'd be like to caress Nell's satin smooth skin keeps me awake at night, but in a good way. I can't imagine anything more sublime than spending the night locked with her in an embrace. But for a working class Yorkshire lad who's always assumed until now that he's a straight alpha male, that's a big deal.

"Well I quit," Trog announces melodramatically.

"What's the matter this time then sunshine?" I ask, "You've not done something silly like handing your notice in at work?"

Trog works as an IT technician and occasional teaching assistant at an FE college. It's not unknown for him to moan about his job. His job isn't too exacting, not by comparison with doing the same thing in the public sector.

"Nah, I wouldn't do that, it's good money and it's not exactly difficult, is it? I mean, the worst part of my job is tolerating seventeen year-olds who think they know more about computers than I do and dealing with snotty lecturers who don't understand that most glitches can be fixed with a simple forced reboot."

"Yay, as it is written in the holly text, PCs For Dummies, thou shall switch it on and off again," I intone in the style of a religious incantation, "amen."

"Amen," Trog says solemnly.

"So if you're not going to quit your job and do something less boring instead, what are you talking about?"

"I talking about love, l' amour, romance," he announces.

"I've decided to stop looking for someone to give my heart to, I mean, all that happens is some stroppy tart stamps it into the mud. You've got to admit, that's pretty rough on the old ticker."

"I thought you were doing well with that MILF you met on Tinder. So what went wrong there?" I ask, and inside steel myself for another of his romantic disaster stories.

"She wasn't so much a MILF as she was a GILF."

"Eh? What's one of them then?" I ask.

"A Granny I'd Like to..."

"Yeah I get it," I cut him off before he can complete the acronym. "how old was she then, in her forties?"

"She was fifty-six mate, just had her birthday the week before I swiped on her."

"Ah mate, that's terrible!" I give a low whistle. "But judging by the photos you showed me she looked younger than she was."

"They were old uns," he sighs sadly, "some went back to when she was in her thirties."

"Lying cow!" I swore, "sorry she did that to you."

"That's life," he shrugs, "well, my life at least. But I've made my mind up, I'm quitting the dating scene. It'll time for more gaming, I've just got Call of Duty: Vanguard."

+++

29 - Theoretical

The three of us go up to my flat. Nell brings her gym bag up with her instead of leaving it in her car. Now that makes me curious, it's not something she'd normally do.

This evening's almost, but not quite, the same as introducing Nell to my family. Nah, it's not quite the same as that. I mean, it doesn't matter if Trog doesn't like her because, to be frank, I'm in love with her - and he's just my best mate.

Did I just break the mates before dates rule? I believe I did. Now that's significant.

Nell reckons that Chicken Jalfrezi isn't as hot as Texas chilli and has offered to make me some so I can find out. Trog tries to shoehorn himself in on the invitation. Nell's response is polite but non-committal. That might not bode well for the future.

We've washed the curry down with chilled Tiger Beer, I'd been to Sainsbury's and got a six pack, more as an alternative to cider than for any other reason. I'm a fan of West Country rocket fuel thinly disguised as fermented apple juice. My girlfriend and best mate aren't quite so keen.

As a result of the curry and Singaporean beer we're all in a fairly mellow mood. However, knowing Trog as well as I do, I'm aware that it's only a matter of time before he gets onto his daft pet theory.

"Do you know there's no such thing as random chance?" he informs Nell.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Mate, is it the right time for this?" I ask. He ignores me.

"Randomness is an abstract concept, like infinity, that exists only in concept and has no physical basis," he tells her. "This is the foundation for chaos theory. The predictability of random events. The idea that reality as we know it, particularly future events, are actually mathematically predictable."

"You think?" she asks sceptically. "If y'all are right it kinda screws up gambling. I mean lotteries from the git go, what's the point of drawing balls - supposedly at random - if it's possible to accurately predict what numbers are gonna be drawn every time?"

"Oh I know I'm right," he replies. "I wanted to do a masters researching the existence of an algorithm that could take data and make an accurate prediction of future events."

"How did that work out?" Nell asks.

"He got turned down by every university he applied to," I blurt out and then feel guilty that I've burst his bubble, "to be fair, they didn't actually say in as many words that his theory was..."

"...Bunkum," he says grumpily, "I believe that's the word you used last time we discussed this."

"What the consensus of academic opinion on the subject was..." I keep my voice calm otherwise he's likely to go off on a rant, "...was that you had something but you were dealing with big data. Really, really big data. And as things stand, there isn't a computer powerful enough to do that sort of number crunching fast enough to make it viable."

"Yeah, that's what they want you to believe, but I know the truth," he whines. "It's a conspiracy. The big online bookies have got together to suppress this, because if and when I do work out my algorithm, they're all out of business."

"And on that note of paranoid delusion, and seeing as it's..." I check my watch, "almost twenty past midnight on a school day, I reckon it's time for you to go home."

+++

30 - Sleep Over

I get Trog an Uber and wave him off. When I get back to my flat I find that Nell, rather than getting her stuff together to drive home, has converted my futon from a sofa to a bed. She's also turned all the lights out except for the reading light on my desk creating an intimate twilight.

"I couldn't find where you hide your bedding babe," she smiles flirtatiously, "why don't you make your bed up while I slip into something a little more comfortable?"

I get the duvet and pillows out of the cupboard and make the bed up. As I do one thought runs through my head: this is happening, really happening.

Nell steps out of the en-suite wearing a purple silk kimono. She sets up her phone and Bluetooth speaker. Soon my room is filled with the soft sound of the Fugees Killing Me Softly.

She begins to dance, swaying sensuously to the music. She undoes the kimono and gives me a brief flash of a lacy bustier and beckons to me with a slender forefinger.

"Any first night nerves?" she asks.

"Of course," I reply and kiss her neck before whispering in her ear, "but nothing that's going to stop me making love to you."

"Why don't y'all slip into..." she smiles and bats her eyelashes, "well just less than you're wearing now."

I step into my cramped wet room and do as I'm told. Back in the main room I'm wearing my budgie smugglers and white socks. When she first sees me she presses her fingertips to her lips and smiles.

"My, what sexy underwear," she giggles.

Nell takes my hand and dances with me. Her hands slide down my flanks and her fingers find the waistband of my underpants. She edges my underwear over my hips and lets them fall to pool round my ankles.

I have to stop dancing and step out

She leads me to the bed and sinks down taking me with her and rolls close.

"Get that cute ass of yours closer babe, I won't bite,' she grins, 'well, not much."

"That's reassuring," I whisper into her ear and give her neck a brief kiss.

"OK so what do you know about sex roles vis-a-vis people who have the same, ah, bits 'n' bobs."

I love it when Nell picks up on what she calls 'Brit speak' and slips it into her conversation. It's her enthusiasm for it that I find so enchanting.

She kisses me and her iPod plays Joni Mitchell's Free Man In Paris.

"OK, so, how can I put this? Yeah, when you're getting it on with a trans-woman there are three sex roles: bottoms, who prefer to receive than to give; tops who prefer to give than receive; and versatiles who like to get it any damn way they can."

"Which are you?"

"I'm versatile babe, some times I'll want you to take me. But other nights, like tonight, I'll wanna drive, she whispers. "Are y'all cool with that?"

"Are you serious? The very thought of, you know, being penetrated, makes me quake in my boots," I tell her. "But I want to be with you. Just you, and nobody else, so I'm going to do whatever it takes to make you happy."

Nell holds my face with both hands and kisses me deeply. When we break our embrace she guides my right hand from her breast down her belly to the front of her lace panties. I'm shocked and surprised by the size of her erect penis.

She rolls away from me and gets something from her bag.

"Get on your hands and knees sweetheart."

I do as I'm told and hear the metallic tearing sound of a condom being opened. This is followed by the cool squirt of lube on my ass crack.

"I'll be gentle with you sweetheart," she breathes, "but now is the time to get it on."

+++

31 - Intimate

The futon's supposed to be a double, but I'm beginning to have my doubts. With Nell and I spooning each other it all seems, well, just a little too cramped for two fully-grown adults.

Don't get me wrong, I like this. A lot. The feel of Nell warm body moulding herself to me, her arm wrapped around my chest and her breath on my neck is indescribably pleasant.

The TV's on, the glow from the screen's the only light in the room. Turner Classic Movies is quietly playing Breaking Glass, the movie about the music biz and the punk scene in the late seventies and Hazel O'Connor's singing Will You. Every word she sings, every note of the music sinks into my heart.

And I'm torn. Part of me wants this night to go on forever. Part of me wants to drift off into a blissful sleep in her arms. But I'm afraid. I'm afraid that when I wake up in the morning this blissed out feeling will have evaporated like a snowflake in a blast furnace.

And then I realise something; I'm happy. I'll be at university or work and I now that thoughts of Nell will float up to the surface of my conscious mind. Next I'll find myself smiling as a result of the stray thought. I've discovered that the little things, the way she brushes a flake of dirt off my shoulder, the sidelong glances she gives me when we sit together, all of these things warm my soul and make me happy.

It's not all roses and loved up smugness though. I don't know if I'm bisexual or not. I'm assuming that I'm not, because the thought of having sex with a sweaty, hairy great bloke makes me shudder. But I'll do things with Nell that I've never imagined doing before, like giving her a blow job or being penetrated by her. And I know why I do them, because I want to give her pleasure, it's important to me that I make her happy.

And it goes further than that. She likes to be given roses, not bloody great bunches, but a single yellow rose because she's a Texan girl. So I regularly buy a rose and that's why my local florist is now on first name terms with me.

It's at this point that I realise I just might be in love. I don't mean lust and infatuation. Nah, I mean proper, real grown up love.

It's also at this point that another thought bubble surfaces. Nell does things for me that take her out of her comfort zone. Such as? Riding on the back of my motorbike. Before she met me it's something she's never had any inclination to do before. After our first outing on the one-point-two litre thrill machine, I thought that I was going to have bruises in my waist in the shape of her hands. Since then she seems to have got used to being on the back of the the BMW dual sports bike. Mind you, I'm still not convinced that she likes it all that much.

Nell hugs me. I'm not sure if she's half awake or fast asleep. But I know that on a subconscious level she finds my presence in her arms reassuring. And then I sigh, smile, close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

+++

32 - Morning After

I glide into work in a blissed out state. It's one of those days when for the first time it's possible to believe that spring's arrived. The sun's out, it's warm and there are fluffy white clouds in a pale blue sky. I notice things like blossoming daffodils, kids smiling and someone beating time to a song on their steering wheel as they wait for the lights to change.

As I ride my elderly BMW R1100GS into the office my phone's doubling up as an MP3 player pumping out a soundtrack for my journey to my earbuds. Oh and it's probably a good thing that I'm wearing a full-face helmet, it prevents other people from having to witness my nauseatingly smug grin.

Diana Krall's cover version of The Look of Love gets thrown into the mix. That got downloaded from iTunes shortly after my second date with Nell. Now whenever I hear it I get a warm fuzzy feeling. As a result of hearing it this morning my mind flips back to last night.

Just for the record, I make myself accept that I did stuff with Nell that I've never done before. Never considered doing before. For instance? OK, I gave her a blow job.

I'm not a homophobe, but the idea of doing that would've made my stomach go queasy. Last night I did it because... hell, because I was doing it with Nell.

And yeah, she did penetrate me, obviously. And I penetrated her too. But no, there was no element of wham bam thank you ma'am for either of us. If I had to sum up last night in one word, that word would be: 'special'.

The red-and-white striped barrier pole's down. I bring the bike to a halt. Next to it is a grey plastic sentry box. A security guard steps out, he looks like a surly bad tempered bugger. That's because he is.

"You work here?" he speaks with a dense West Midlands accent that could be cut with a chainsaw.

"You know I do," I tell him.

"Can I see your ID?"

I fumble to pull my gloves off, unzip my jacket and show him the ID card on the lanyard round my neck.

"Take your helmet off."

I raise the flip front instead.

"No, I said take it off," the guard growls.

"Oh c'mon Neil, you know who I am," I sigh. "We go through this every day mate."

"I aint your mate!" he snaps, "and you should know by now to take your helmet off."

I comply. Like I have a choice.

He compares the image on the ID card with my face, grunts, smirks and returns to the guard box. As I replace my helmet the barrier raises. I cruise slowly over the threshold muttering darkly.

And that's me brought back down to earth. Naturally. The no smiling light has been lit, please ensure that you check any form of personal emotions at the door. I'm here to work, not to be happy.

+++

33 - Kaminski

"Ah Dave, can you spare a minute, I think I've got something you should see," VJ's nervously hovering by the hot desk I've staked out for the day.

"OK, what've you got?" I look up from my monitor.

"Well, you know how you found out about that Russian ChVK thingy, the Kaminski Group?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I thought I'd heard of them before,' he says, 'so I dug round in the archives and came up with this."

He passes his tablet over to me, on it is a report from the BBC News website. A tablet left behind by a Kaminski operator had been found by a BBC journalist is Syria. It contains an inventory of high tech kit that can only come from Russian military stores.

"Have they really got access to Ilyushin Il-76 transport planes?" I ask, "I mean, those are big buggers; four engine strategic military transport."

"It seems as if they do,' he answers and shrugs, "mind you, y' can buy them online easily though. Two million dollars a time from Global Plane Search.com."

"Global Plane Search.com, the eBay of the aviation world," I grunt in response, "and for a couple of million bucks that's cheap at half the price."