Poking the Pole, Part One

Standing stark naked in the Polish girl's kitchen whilst she explained to the Pakistani shopkeeper who paid her bills that of course he was the onl;y man in her wolrd was not one of my finer moments. It feels ridiculous just remembering that incident, but not as ridiculous as I felt that bitterly cold January morning in 1994 as my thumping great hard-on  surrendered to the cold and I shivered in the damned kitchen whilst Sylvia, the Pole in question, smooched Ram, her meal ticket. I decided as I listened to her airy voice come through the wall that as soon as friend Ram took his hook that I was going to have a serious chat with young Sylvia.

It had all begun the year before when I mentioned in a letter to Tony, an old friend of mine who lived in London, that a trip to the UK was on the cards. I asked if he knew of any available females that I could amuse myself with, and he told me about Sylvia, a thirty-something insurance saleswoman.

"She's not the cheapest girl in town," Tony explained some weeks later as we quaffed a pint together in  a London pub. "She goes like a steam engine, though, which should ease the ache in your wallet," he concluded.

"On the knock is she? You said she sold insurance, or something," was my question.

"Naah, she's not on the game, but she goes with fellas who can help her out. She has expensive tastes and a lousy job."

"What brought her here?"

"Came over to study and then got political asylum when martial law came in back in 1981."

"And has blessed us with her presence ever since?"

"You get the picture," said Tony with a mirthless grin.

"I can't wait to meet her," I replied, drily.

"She can't wait to meet you - I told her that you were a professor at the biggest university in Mexico City. She probably thinks that you are loaded."

"Let's hope that I get a chance to give her one before she finds out that the peso isn't worth very much on the open market," I said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

"Give her two, one for me as well," Tony answered over the ribald laughter from us both.

My chance came the very next night following a telephone call to Sylvia from the pub. Of course she replied in her thickly accented English - she would be delighted, no, honoured, to meet a distinguished expatriate academic who was paying a fleeting visit to the land of his fathers. I must be honest and say that my jaw dropped as I listened to this babble and I remember hoping that she would at least have the decency to be quiet when she was being fucked. Fat chance as it turned out, but it was an agreeable thought as I listened to her clumsy attempts to butter me up.

We met at a wine bar since Sylvia said that she hated pubs. She arrived more or less on time, all 5' 4" of her size 12 frame, an angular face and peaked nose, set below hair that had been dyed a dull red and which hung straight down to her collar. Not the prettiest girl in town, but you don't look on the mantelpiece when you are poking the fire, do you fellows?

We sat down and after the introductions were over Sylvia ordered an expensive cocktail. I contented myself with tonic water and did not begrudge her the drink. I reasoned that she would pay for it later on her back, which of course is exactly what she did. 

Sitting back with one black sheathed thigh crossed over the other, Sylvia cocked her head to one side and asked me the really important question which just about everyone from the Great Slav Wasteland that sits east of the Oder-Neisse Line asks: "Are you Joeish?"

I was used to this nonsense from the Russian whores who were already arriving in large numbers in Mexico, so I just shook my head.

"No, but I am circumcised, as you will see later," I told her.

"Your family is Joeish? I do not go with Joeish men," Sylvia explained, as if I had not already figured that out for myself.

"I am English," I said, simply, not wishing to get involved in a debate with a woman that I only wanted to take to bed.

"Good," said Sylvia. "Now where are you taking me to dinner?"

I took her to a rather nice bistro and let her chatter on, contenting myself with just a nod or a grunt from time to time so that she would know that I was paying attention.

"Of course, my family were very wealthy before the Communists arrived," explained Sylvia. "None of the Polish people ever supported them, of course," she continued, pausing only to lift her fork to her mouth.

What about the Jews?" I tried to ask the question as innocently as I could, even though my stomach was already shaking at the answer that I knew was coming.

"I said Polish people, not Joes."

"Of course you did, and I do apologise," I said, in my best decent English manner.

"Of course you were not to know such things, being English," replied Madam, in her best, patronising tone.

Do not worry, as I had not taken leave of my senses. I had figured Sylvia out as an intellectual and social snob, so giving her a chance to put me down made sense. As did encouraging her to patronise the waiters and leaving a healthy tip for them at the end of the meal. I saw Sylvia's eyes widen slightly at the sight of all those notes on the table, and was pleased that she took my arm and nuzzled her head into my shoulder as we left the bistro.

Climbing into her car I reached over and pulled her towards me for a long, lingering kiss. Breaking away, I left my tongue gently flicker on her neck and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

"Wait until we get to my flat," she said, her voice slow and heavy.

I sat back in my seat as my cock began to strain against my trousers. The rest of the night was going to be a delight, I reasoned. I mean, what on earth could go wrong?

To be continued