Night Lies: Confessions of a Lesbian Sex Addict

London

There is something inexplicably sexy about the way a Latina walks down the street. In London, you can spot them from a mile away; their hips sway from side to side with the natural rhythm of waves and sea breeze. Their trousers strain to contain the voluptuous roundness of their assets - these princesses walk as if they owned the street. And when they move they do own them, yes sir. Their heads are always held high, their chests pushed out. Their skin looks softer and sweeter than almond butter, how do they do it? I feel I could run my finger over a naked arm and then suckle from my finger their rich flavor. They exude sexuality with every step: maybe it's their cleavage or the deep dark manes that frame their lovely faces. For me it has always been the eyes that pinned me down to the spot and hardly let me breathe. Latin eyes command you to love them, to adore them. 

You may call me crass, and I wouldn't hold it against you, but I had to have a Latina. It was the notch in my belt that was missing, and I felt I'd miss something unforgivable if I were to die without being held all night long by one of these women. I believe that good things don't just happen: you create your chances, and when the opportunity comes by you take it with both hands. And so I did.

I worked in a department store, and while that might not sound at all impressive to you, if I told you that it was one London's most exclusive stores and that I was in charge of the lingerie department you may at least see that there were ulterior motives for my career choice. Our customers usually belonged to one of the two groups: tourists or rich, bored ladies. The latter tended to be older, and why I don't discriminate in my sexual demographics, the former were the ones as good as gold for a romp. In the high street you can find all the shades in god's beautiful palette, from exotic Korean ladies with legs that go for miles, to curvaceous Caribbean beauties that taste of piña colada. 

More than occasionally, luck would shine on me and an angel in the form of an unhappy wife or a neglected girlfriend would come my way. As a personal shopper I'd oblige to their every whim, from choosing a bra size to ushering them to the farthest changing room and locking it behind us. Sometimes, though, they would be chaperoned by intrusive friends who would be there to show them the line between slutty and seductive, and lecture them on the benefits of plain silk panties over lace thongs. I resented those chaperones - those nannies - for they took over my role, a role which I fulfilled proudly and to perfection. I was still to get a complaint from anyone. Women arrived unhappy, and they left well loved. 

It was during one of those classic rainy afternoons that are so common in this corner of the world. An afternoon of drawn up collars and soggy boots trailing in mud onto our marble floors. The sky was dark and the air was gloomy; the atmosphere was dense with impatience and boredom. Afternoons like these make me particularly randy. What's there to do outside? It's better to stay in, huddled under a duvet and making sweet - or spicy - love to a woman. Afternoons like these, when the tourists have gone to seek refuge in their hotels and the old ladies have gone home to run away from their arthritis, are the perfect time for premeditation and action. 

The rain tapped against the floor-to-ceiling windows while I was working the first floor making sure that our racks were well presented and our few customers were taken care of. It wasn't my job to tend to any customer. As a personal shopper, I had my hours devoted to looking after the exclusive clientele, the one who would pay triple digits for precious pieces of fabric.

As I made my way over to my favorite section - a black-themed series of lingerie that verged on a dominatrix style - I spotted two women standing in the corner engrossed in a conversation that could have only been of a private matter, judging by the hushed voices and furtive glances. Not wishing to interrupt, for a personal shopper should always be pertinent and suave, I stopped a couple of shelves away from them, folding and rearranging some of the intimate items that needed to be taken care of.