Hull!
The city that used to inspire dread in the less savoury denizens of northern England. And those who’d never had the opportunity to be pleasured by its eccentric delights.
“From Halifax, Hull and Hell, spare us oh Lord!”, they used to say.
“Kingston-upon-Hull”!
The given name for that city, straddling the luscious brown lips of the Hull, where it gushes rhythmically into the watering mouth of the Humber estuary, adding it’s distinct flavour to the life juice of the Humberside. Like a room full of rugger players, the Humberside thrives on it’s notoriety. Rough… ready… and exciting!
But Hull… perhaps its strong continental links make it a damp oasis, in the parched yellow sands of Englands’ belly.
It may catch you off guard, the first time. So very unlike a yeller, when you brace yourself with a couple of bottles of VK, and hope for that surprise… which comes but rarely.
Hull… Hull slips in thick, slick and uncut. Like moist dark meat, after starvation rations of dry white. You find yourself gratefully grasping onto the unexpected sweetness with both arms. And legs. Drawing it in… greedily lapping up the burst of milk and honey. Taking a deep fill of that pancakey bittery goodness.
Hull… University city, sea-gate to Europe, birth place of William Wilberforce and home of The Deep. Like a quirky kiss, it leaves you thinking of her long after… searching for meaning. Antalya travesti Dreaming of more.
Well, at least that’s what the students who keep returning, say… that is, the ones who haven’t only because they flunked their exams.
A flamboyantly gyrating union of youth and maturity… modern Hull is a fusion of the old and new towns.. the result of an unpredicted synergy… a flowing Electric Boogaloo of Ceroc and R&B and D&B.
Like a chicken to the vagiterians and meat eaters, they all want a taste of her rich broth. From her museums, jazz cafes, outdoor concerts, ancient pubs, marinas, docks, clubs, restaurants and shops. She draws them all in. The students, beatniks, philosophers, politicos, dockers, sailors, fishers, yachters. And the tourists and those other weirdos as well.
And with that heightened sense of relaxation and oneness that tells a tale on a liberal haven, Hull lingers with you long after. Like a gushers scent on your face, the morning after a shower. Bringing back delectable memories each time it wafts past the nostrils of your consciousness… trying as you must, to return to your mundane existence.
All this makes Hull a heaven for a hunter. They live in plain sight; seen, without being seen. Her hidden fangs, waiting to sink in to the hilt, and let the juices run free, until the scabbard’s full, the blade dripping with satiation.
Princes Quay, Hull İstanbul travesti
She let the smooth creaminess roll around her tongue and wash her palate… the thick, warm, bitter-sweetness, as it flooded her consciousness and trickled into every sense. She tried to hold on and let the rich flavours suffuse every pore of her mouth. But the urge kept growing… inexorable… until it could be resisted no longer. The burning thirst deep within demanded satisfaction. With a rush, the creamy liquid was released on it’s journey. The glow spread, slowly at first, into her core. It was not uncommon for Leonardos’ virgins to believe that that was as good as it got. The good people of Leonardos’ swore they’d be rolling in it, if they could have got a penny for everytime someone said “I can’t taste anything”… until about fifteen to twenty seconds later.
“Oh my God…” was not an uncommon ejaculation for first timers.
Radiating like a fiery orgasmic explosion, it enveloped her. Blood vessels engorged, and glands began to copiously exude moisture. Perhaps the effect had something to do with the warmth of the sun shining through the huge East window, and the soft strains of ‘Samba Pati’ in the background.
But as Puna gave up her whole body, her parted lips couldn’t help but let loose a soft moan of contentment. Those thin, unpainted and tactile lips – gently exhaling… external evidence of that internal İzmir travesti confidence that comes with years of experience – an advertisement, that they belonged to a woman of substance. In this case though, there could be no mistake. The rest of her amply backed up that unspoken statement from her lips.
The crows feet around her bright grey eyes. Her lack of make-up and adornment on her weathered face. The odd hairs and wrinkles on her upper lip. Her unapologetically thick body and square shoulders. The coarse, thinning, yet strong, salt and pepper hair, tied in a loose pony tail half way down her back. By her freely suspended breasts, resting against her lower ribs. Their large nipples, only subtly visible, even to the trained eye, through her mauve vest and half buttoned white linen blouse. By the blue denim skirt, riding up almost to the top of her right knee-length boot, where it’s mid-tan suede lightly crossed her left knee.
They all spoke their own volumes. About She! Strong, confident, proud, intelligent, and unashamedly Natures’ daughter. She! Who called herself ‘Puna Concolor’.
For a brief moment Puna dwelled on whether there might be others like her, who found it so dampening. The wonderous magic of the coffee and cocoa beans and the chilli pepper. This was the life! The hour drive from Skeffling was worth it, just for this.
Dismissing the thought, she dived back into the moment and threw back her hair to luxuriate in another long draw of the creamy liquid. Her pink tongue unhurriedly gliding out to capture the foamy moustache off her upper lip, in a slow lazy caress.
A “hot” mocha from Leonardos’ Cafe always made a day in Hull. What more could one ask for!?