WHY: A lover with a language barrier doesn't waste time with chit chat.
I accompanied my friend Isabel to her homeland, the Dominican Republic, for a break from the New York winter. She had convinced me I needed to try one of the men from her country. As we passed through the casino at our hotel she stopped to talk to a man standing at the craps table who had said something to us. She translated his statement as “who is Miss Universe’s sister?” referring to me. I asked Isabel if she thought he was doable, she said yes, I agreed, and the flirt was on. We beamed at each other as he talked with Isabel. He spoke as much English as I did Spanish, painfully little.
He was tall for a Dominican, 5’11, and well-built. He had a sexy mole and smiling eyes. His caramel-colored skin glowed with the heat and energy of his country.
He offered to take us out. Cute though he may be I did not think this was a good idea. Isabel seemed to trust him. I warned her that if we died she’d be in big trouble.
He drove us around town. I insisted on sitting in the back seat so Isabel could talk to him and hopefully keep track of where we were headed. We ended up at an outdoor bar. They talked while he and I made doe eyes at each other. I got the impression he was no rocket scientist and was much happier to be able to gaze into his eyes rather than maintain a conversation with him. Our attraction was immediate and elemental and required no dialogue.
When we got back to the hotel Isabel got out and we went to park. He kissed me. He kissed me all over all the while saying “I like you, mommy” then “I love you, mommy,” a Spanish term of affection. I stumbled out of the car and found an irritated Isabel. I assumed she had gone upstairs, but instead had been sneering from a short distance with the security guards.
We headed upstairs. “He ate it like a dog!” I bragged.
The next morning I had Isabel call him and instruct him to pick me up at 5pm and that he had to have me back by 8pm so I could accompany her to a disco in the City. I wanted to experience him, to know how a man unpolluted by the niceties of a pampered world made love. Isabel had been telling me for months how the men in her country were different, that the Dominican men in New York, of which I knew plenty, had been tainted by the climate, by stress, by cynical civilization. She convinced me I needed a native.
In the meantime, I basked in the warmth of the sun and my anticipation. We decided to go snorkeling. Our instructor, a small, muscular, dark man, knew he had his hands full. Both Isabel and I were afraid of the water and of the snorkel gear. I had snorkeled once before so I was slightly less of a basket case, but only slightly. Once in, we warmed up immediately. He found an excellent spot full of coral and fish. He posed for our underwater cameras and then got feisty. He pulled his cock out of his swim trunks and Isabel and I took turns stroking it. Circles of cum look beautiful underwater.
My man arrived at 5, as instructed and said he would have me back by 8. He wore a black wife beater, which showed off his smooth, strong arms. We entered a gated apartment building with a verdant courtyard. Inside the apartment a dark-skinned woman was ironing in one bedroom and in the other bedroom an old naked white man nonchalantly arose from a king-sized bed and wrapped a towel around his waist. He came and sat next to me on the couch in the living room. I wondered how and why these people lived in this small two-bedroom apartment and how I was ever going to get what I wanted.
After what seemed like an eternity, the woman came out of the bedroom and we went in. The rhythmic hum of the ceiling fan filled the room that was muted by low hues of an afternoon sun seeping in through slatted shades. We kissed. He unzipped my sundress. La Vie En Rose sung by Edith Piaf floated in from the living room. I instructed him to do just as he did in the parked car and he accommodated perfectly. He handled me like a doll.
He took off his clothes, he never wore underwear. He put me on the corner of the bed, lifted my knees and positioned himself standing above me. I tingled all over my body and my chin went numb! I shivered and writhed like never before. He hit IT; I made all kinds of sounds and screams, too entranced to worry about the others in the apartment.
The old man knocked at the door then opened it! He motioned that we had to go somewhere. I was having a peak-life experience and this old fart wanted to run an errand?! Turned out the old fart was my man’s boss and my made-for-sex man was basically his servant.
I got in the back seat of the car and tried to wind dry my sopping wet snatch. I was still partially numb and quite disoriented. We were headed to town and it occurred to me I was basically being kidnapped by two men I could not communicate with, but somehow I felt no fear. We were an hour late for meeting Isabel but the only thing I could think of was having another moment alone with this man.
After fetching the old man’s son and taking him to a babysitter the three of us went to dinner along with the old man’s gorgeous dark-skinned, young girlfriend who was a doctor. I figured this guy must be loaded to get this girl since he looked like the “Smoking Man” from the X-Files and had the personality to match. We drove back to the City to go to a restaurant called Meson La Quintana.
Fresh food and spicy Spanish wine heightened my ecstasy. The veal tasted of earth and beauty, the butter of tender fresh clouds. My man and I were all over each other and he kept asking me to marry him. The doctor kept pointing out that we only just met. She claimed to know a little English, which she certainly did not. Attempting to explain things to her so she could translate to the men was far more exhausting than just using the pantomime system my man and I had already naturally developed together. I was content to know very little of what was going on. I basked in the joy of being allowed to witness a world so different from what I knew and the language barrier heightened my thrill.
After dinner I patiently tolerated extended socializing over rum and cokes, just waiting for another chance to be alone with this man. We finally went to bed. As we made love he motioned for me to pinch his nipples, harder, harder. After another encounter with ecstasy, we fell asleep in each other’s arms.
In the morning he brought me breakfast in bed. My eggs over easy -somehow he knew just how I liked them- tasted fresher than any I’d ever had. Sweet onions and butter were baked into the toast. Warm sweet milk tasted just like him. After he fed me, he came back to bed with me.
He did everything for me with such tenderness and joy. A smile of a thousand suns burst forth from him every time he looked at me. I realized it was most likely a play for a green card, but I had never felt so alive. Eventually I made it back to Isabel, who had absconded with the snorkel instructor, and I patiently endured her cocky “I told you so’s.”
Monday, October 22, 2007
2. PERFECT BOOTY CALL
WHY: The perfect booty call is a creature more mythic and illusive than the Lochness Monster and Santa Claus combined.
While it may seem like an easy task to fill, finding someone with whom you can have great sex on a regular basis with no strings attached is indeed quite tricky. Like all great discoveries, meeting him was purely accidental. I was at a bar with some people I had just met at an Ivy League Christmas party. When a guy motioned for me to join him and his friends I jumped at the chance to ditch the brainiacs. I explained to the gentlemen what I had been doing that evening and one of the guys thought I said “ivory league” and set about referring to the people I was with as the elephant club and inquired about my tusks. I tolerated this ridiculous line of questioning because he had thick suckable lips. He was prematurely gray, but it just made him look sophisticated. He was tall and in a suit and he sat back from his friends with an air of authority.
Several drinks later I asked if I could suck his lips (and other things). He was just passing through town as a traveling salesman so we went back to his hotel. What he had between his legs was like a caricature of a regular penis, too incredibly thick and gorgeous to be of this earth. It was bigger around than my wrist and I struggled to get my mouth around it.
He would pass through town about once a month and we had mind-blowing sex every time. He had a girl in every city and I considered myself lucky to be the Austin girl. I imagined myself part of a special circle of women who would have a monthly encounter with his massive appendage then spend the rest of the month recovering.
He tactfully arranged passionate evenings and his generous expense account meant steak dinners and lots of wine. I felt luxuriously naughty waiting for him in his hotel lobby in a silk dress with no panties on. The anonymity of hotel sex will always be one of my favorite guilty pleasures.
While it may seem like an easy task to fill, finding someone with whom you can have great sex on a regular basis with no strings attached is indeed quite tricky. Like all great discoveries, meeting him was purely accidental. I was at a bar with some people I had just met at an Ivy League Christmas party. When a guy motioned for me to join him and his friends I jumped at the chance to ditch the brainiacs. I explained to the gentlemen what I had been doing that evening and one of the guys thought I said “ivory league” and set about referring to the people I was with as the elephant club and inquired about my tusks. I tolerated this ridiculous line of questioning because he had thick suckable lips. He was prematurely gray, but it just made him look sophisticated. He was tall and in a suit and he sat back from his friends with an air of authority.
Several drinks later I asked if I could suck his lips (and other things). He was just passing through town as a traveling salesman so we went back to his hotel. What he had between his legs was like a caricature of a regular penis, too incredibly thick and gorgeous to be of this earth. It was bigger around than my wrist and I struggled to get my mouth around it.
He would pass through town about once a month and we had mind-blowing sex every time. He had a girl in every city and I considered myself lucky to be the Austin girl. I imagined myself part of a special circle of women who would have a monthly encounter with his massive appendage then spend the rest of the month recovering.
He tactfully arranged passionate evenings and his generous expense account meant steak dinners and lots of wine. I felt luxuriously naughty waiting for him in his hotel lobby in a silk dress with no panties on. The anonymity of hotel sex will always be one of my favorite guilty pleasures.
3. BENEFACTOR
WHY: Everyday is like Christmas.
While it may be awhile before he’s recognized by the pope, I want to bear witness that I have found the Patron Saint of Beautiful Women. My sugardaddy would do anything for me and my friends. From delivering me lunch at my job to paying for trips around the world, he never ceased to awe me with his generosity. It had never even occurred to me to want a sugardaddy before he initiated the whole thing, but once he came into my life I wondered how I had survived without him.
I think I nearly ate him into the poorhouse. At the time I was finding it difficult to get a guy my age to buy me a cup of coffee but he would regularly plop down $500 a night for dinner at New York’s best restaurants where we rarely made it through a meal without at least two bottles of wine.
While it may be awhile before he’s recognized by the pope, I want to bear witness that I have found the Patron Saint of Beautiful Women. My sugardaddy would do anything for me and my friends. From delivering me lunch at my job to paying for trips around the world, he never ceased to awe me with his generosity. It had never even occurred to me to want a sugardaddy before he initiated the whole thing, but once he came into my life I wondered how I had survived without him.
I think I nearly ate him into the poorhouse. At the time I was finding it difficult to get a guy my age to buy me a cup of coffee but he would regularly plop down $500 a night for dinner at New York’s best restaurants where we rarely made it through a meal without at least two bottles of wine.
4. SADIST
WHY: Although it can’t last, it’s good to know this level of passion at least once.
We were only together for seven months, but in this time he managed to call the police on me twice, give me a busted lip and strangle marks on my neck, and leave me begging for more. While marrying or having children with someone like this is a very bad idea, the only damage I endured was tarnished dignity.
It was March, I had just returned from a frigid February in New York and I was happy to go to the Continental Club in Austin and hear the great Toni Price belt out “calling my heart, calling me home, back to the place where I belong.” The song had lured me back to Texas and I was happy to have finally made it. I saw my return to Texas and the purchase of a house as a commitment to domesticity, finding Mr. Right, and reproducing. Texan men are real, and so much easier to attract than New York men; yeah, whatever. I would find myself a cowboy.
Lo and behold, but what would appear…he was tall, he was handsome, and he was in boots! Heehaw! I read recently that women typically prefer caring, even feminine traits in a man’s face. Not me, his rigid jaw line and solid nose made me know he was all man. He walked with a Cro-Magnon limp – his burly testosterone weighed him down so he couldn’t even walk upright. I stared at him across a crowded room, I beamed at him, and he gave me a hello on the way to the bar. We danced all night.
After a couple dates I went home with him. “Home” was an extended stay motel. I had managed to find a 42 year old man who was practically homeless, had three ex-wives, three children, and bad credit. Any woman in her right mind would have been deterred, but not me of course. I don’t remember much of our first night together, but he said that he had me doggie-style and was banging me hard and I looked back at him with stars in my eyes. He said he didn’t understand until he got to know me that it was a look of pure bliss.
A handful of days later he got laid off; big surprise. Day after day we had beer for breakfast and made love all day to a cheesy soundtrack of country songs I assembled for my cowboy fantasy. “Baby lock the doors and turn the lights down low” sung in Josh Turner’s low, manly voice makes me wet every time. As we listened to the songs I selected, I had a feeling as big as Texas. It was wide open to lust, love, passion, wholesome fullness. I was overwhelmed with the bliss of being back in Texas with a rugged, manly man kickin’ off his boots to make love to me.
He never ceased to turn me on with his slightly pervy grin and devouring eyes. He might not be able to hold a job or even rent an apartment, but everyone is good at something and his something was sex. Every time he opened his mouth I cringed in anticipation of the ridiculous things that he was about to utter but he is the closest I’ve come to meeting my sexual appetite. Like he said, before we met he always thought IT would have to be his dirty little secret. We shared IT: a rich, deep, beautiful world of sexuality and lust. It’s impossible to put into words why he was such a good lover. Our connection was not mechanical or generic, it was immediate and equal; I wanted him as much as he wanted me. We felt love and fear and rage. After our many fights I would go out looking for a more appropriate replacement, but my mind always floated to thoughts of him, the universe’s joke on me.
We spent Memorial Day in the parking lot of Sunrise Mini Mart. Nothing signals class like a little parking lot car repair on a national holiday. Sweat dripped from me but instead of making me angry it made me horny. Smooth by Santana came on the radio as I licked beads of sweat from the side of his face.
One night during a typical fight at a club he followed me outside and picked me up in a choke hold. The shocking thing was not so much that it happened, but that I liked it! So much so that instead of leaving like a sane person would, I followed him back in. The fighting continued; I took him home and he claims I gave him a bloody lip. He denied choking me. Sadly we both forgot the violent moments that could’ve given us so much pleasure: the honesty of violence, the consumption of pain.
We agreed that we were drawn to each other like a bug to a bug light. BZZT! It’s going to hurt, but we couldn’t help going back for more. We were like Ike and Tina, HER MAN, HIS WOMAN. He said that he wanted to throw me away because I was too pretty; that he wanted to scar me. We weren’t with each other because we wanted to be, but because we had to be, needed to be, couldn’t resist. We found IT; we looked into each other’s eyes and found heaven and hell.
We were only together for seven months, but in this time he managed to call the police on me twice, give me a busted lip and strangle marks on my neck, and leave me begging for more. While marrying or having children with someone like this is a very bad idea, the only damage I endured was tarnished dignity.
It was March, I had just returned from a frigid February in New York and I was happy to go to the Continental Club in Austin and hear the great Toni Price belt out “calling my heart, calling me home, back to the place where I belong.” The song had lured me back to Texas and I was happy to have finally made it. I saw my return to Texas and the purchase of a house as a commitment to domesticity, finding Mr. Right, and reproducing. Texan men are real, and so much easier to attract than New York men; yeah, whatever. I would find myself a cowboy.
Lo and behold, but what would appear…he was tall, he was handsome, and he was in boots! Heehaw! I read recently that women typically prefer caring, even feminine traits in a man’s face. Not me, his rigid jaw line and solid nose made me know he was all man. He walked with a Cro-Magnon limp – his burly testosterone weighed him down so he couldn’t even walk upright. I stared at him across a crowded room, I beamed at him, and he gave me a hello on the way to the bar. We danced all night.
After a couple dates I went home with him. “Home” was an extended stay motel. I had managed to find a 42 year old man who was practically homeless, had three ex-wives, three children, and bad credit. Any woman in her right mind would have been deterred, but not me of course. I don’t remember much of our first night together, but he said that he had me doggie-style and was banging me hard and I looked back at him with stars in my eyes. He said he didn’t understand until he got to know me that it was a look of pure bliss.
A handful of days later he got laid off; big surprise. Day after day we had beer for breakfast and made love all day to a cheesy soundtrack of country songs I assembled for my cowboy fantasy. “Baby lock the doors and turn the lights down low” sung in Josh Turner’s low, manly voice makes me wet every time. As we listened to the songs I selected, I had a feeling as big as Texas. It was wide open to lust, love, passion, wholesome fullness. I was overwhelmed with the bliss of being back in Texas with a rugged, manly man kickin’ off his boots to make love to me.
He never ceased to turn me on with his slightly pervy grin and devouring eyes. He might not be able to hold a job or even rent an apartment, but everyone is good at something and his something was sex. Every time he opened his mouth I cringed in anticipation of the ridiculous things that he was about to utter but he is the closest I’ve come to meeting my sexual appetite. Like he said, before we met he always thought IT would have to be his dirty little secret. We shared IT: a rich, deep, beautiful world of sexuality and lust. It’s impossible to put into words why he was such a good lover. Our connection was not mechanical or generic, it was immediate and equal; I wanted him as much as he wanted me. We felt love and fear and rage. After our many fights I would go out looking for a more appropriate replacement, but my mind always floated to thoughts of him, the universe’s joke on me.
We spent Memorial Day in the parking lot of Sunrise Mini Mart. Nothing signals class like a little parking lot car repair on a national holiday. Sweat dripped from me but instead of making me angry it made me horny. Smooth by Santana came on the radio as I licked beads of sweat from the side of his face.
One night during a typical fight at a club he followed me outside and picked me up in a choke hold. The shocking thing was not so much that it happened, but that I liked it! So much so that instead of leaving like a sane person would, I followed him back in. The fighting continued; I took him home and he claims I gave him a bloody lip. He denied choking me. Sadly we both forgot the violent moments that could’ve given us so much pleasure: the honesty of violence, the consumption of pain.
We agreed that we were drawn to each other like a bug to a bug light. BZZT! It’s going to hurt, but we couldn’t help going back for more. We were like Ike and Tina, HER MAN, HIS WOMAN. He said that he wanted to throw me away because I was too pretty; that he wanted to scar me. We weren’t with each other because we wanted to be, but because we had to be, needed to be, couldn’t resist. We found IT; we looked into each other’s eyes and found heaven and hell.
Friday, October 19, 2007
5. ROB THE CRADLE
WHY: Why not?
Shortly after I turned thirty I ended up shagging a 21-year old, a 23-year old, and then a 22-year old. It was unintentional, but did make getting over the 3-0 hump much easier. The 21-year old was on his way to Iraq so I “did it for my country.” I was flattered when he hit on me since I was having visions of nursing homes after the birthday. Since I’ve always dated men older than myself, he was actually the youngest person I’ve ever had sex with even when I was his age. Even though he was endearing, having sex with him was like being mauled by a very excited puppy.
I realized that spending New Year’s Eve of my 30th year partying with 21-year olds and shagging a gorgeous, 23-year old was somewhere between hot and pathetic. Although it might be okay in New York, I was in Texas and single 30-year olds are looked upon with suspicion. Nonetheless, I brazenly brought him back home. In the morning I awoke to find I was face to face with his feet. After I dug him out from the covers we stripped each other down and quietly had sex trying to avoid the squeaky spots on the bed and alerting my friends in the next room to our activities. His young, lean body looked like marble as he worked on top of me.
About a month after New Years I found myself making out on a dance floor with a strapping, 22-year old Latino. Soon we were back at my place and he was telling me about his college classes. He eagerly went down on me and worked hard to show me his best moves. Of course being with a woman “in her prime” is as much of a turn on for the youngsters as they are for me.
Shortly after I turned thirty I ended up shagging a 21-year old, a 23-year old, and then a 22-year old. It was unintentional, but did make getting over the 3-0 hump much easier. The 21-year old was on his way to Iraq so I “did it for my country.” I was flattered when he hit on me since I was having visions of nursing homes after the birthday. Since I’ve always dated men older than myself, he was actually the youngest person I’ve ever had sex with even when I was his age. Even though he was endearing, having sex with him was like being mauled by a very excited puppy.
I realized that spending New Year’s Eve of my 30th year partying with 21-year olds and shagging a gorgeous, 23-year old was somewhere between hot and pathetic. Although it might be okay in New York, I was in Texas and single 30-year olds are looked upon with suspicion. Nonetheless, I brazenly brought him back home. In the morning I awoke to find I was face to face with his feet. After I dug him out from the covers we stripped each other down and quietly had sex trying to avoid the squeaky spots on the bed and alerting my friends in the next room to our activities. His young, lean body looked like marble as he worked on top of me.
About a month after New Years I found myself making out on a dance floor with a strapping, 22-year old Latino. Soon we were back at my place and he was telling me about his college classes. He eagerly went down on me and worked hard to show me his best moves. Of course being with a woman “in her prime” is as much of a turn on for the youngsters as they are for me.
6. RESPECT YOUR ELDERS
WHY: To find out what the future holds.
I’ve always gone for older men, even one that was twice my age when I was 22. I decided to take it up a notch though when I had an encounter with a man from my office who was nearing retirement. He was 60, I was 26. He would come by my office and rub my shoulders then try to grab my leg. His brazenness was annoying but also irresistible. While many men his age are filled with self-loathing and ready to be sent to pasture, he was as cocky as a rock star. He would stare freely at my chest then shoot me a knowing wink when I caught him.
I wanted to see if there was libido behind the posing. After months of being plagued by the dirty old man I surprised both of us and gave in. I invited him over to my place after work. His body was still firm and toned. Unfortunately he was a quick cummer. We laid in bed together and discussed Vietnam. He begged me afterwards for another try, but once was enough.
I’ve always gone for older men, even one that was twice my age when I was 22. I decided to take it up a notch though when I had an encounter with a man from my office who was nearing retirement. He was 60, I was 26. He would come by my office and rub my shoulders then try to grab my leg. His brazenness was annoying but also irresistible. While many men his age are filled with self-loathing and ready to be sent to pasture, he was as cocky as a rock star. He would stare freely at my chest then shoot me a knowing wink when I caught him.
I wanted to see if there was libido behind the posing. After months of being plagued by the dirty old man I surprised both of us and gave in. I invited him over to my place after work. His body was still firm and toned. Unfortunately he was a quick cummer. We laid in bed together and discussed Vietnam. He begged me afterwards for another try, but once was enough.
7. PLAY IN THE HAMPTONS
WHY: See how the other half lives.
I never belonged to any circles that did the Hamptons every weekend. I did, however, belong to a listserv that turned up an ad in the summer of 2003 for a weekend at a timeshare in the Hamptons. I figured I had to grab my chance. I met the girl who was forfeiting said share, paid her the fee, and received directions and keys to a house that my friend and I would be sharing with an unknown number of other people.
Katy and I drove out to the tip of Long Island and waded through traffic, the great democratic equalizer, alongside countless Jaguars, Mercedes, and Land Rovers to get to our turnoff. Once we reached the house we walked in to find a party of frat boys downing cheap beer. They offered us some, but we passed. We went to a bedroom that we would shortly be sharing with four foofy girls. Thankfully, we would avoid having to actually share sleep space with these creatures.
Katy and I quietly prepared ourselves for an evening out as the foofies started downing beer with the boys. A van came to pick us all up and deposited us at a nightclub.
We walked through the doors and angels sang. Suddenly I knew where all the hot New York men were hiding in the summer. I was like a kid in a candy store. I may not be “A” list, but the guys liked me nonetheless. I kissed and danced with at least a dozen men that night. At one point, as I was following Katy to the bathroom, a man grabbed my arm. I turned around to find one of the hottest men I have ever seen, certainly the hottest man who had ever touched me. He was tall, dark, handsome, blah, blah, blah. He said, with a British accent, that he liked my juicy bum. Not exactly poetry, but I was hooked. Apparently I had something unique to offer amongst the size negative two models wafting around.
Sadly Alan had to go to another party so we exchanged numbers and promised to meet up later in the weekend. His afterglow shown on everyone around me and tragically I ended up with a less than stellar specimen as the club started emptying out. Katy had left with someone and, not wanting to go back to the foofies alone, I decided to go with this guy, a slightly overweight Egyptian. We went back to his share. I’d had enough to drink to fall asleep quickly.
I woke up in the morning to the sight of a muscled stud. Unfortunately he was in the bed across the room, next to a pixie of a girl. I then glanced behind me to see that I was sharing the bed with something best not seen by the light of day. I tried to stealthily put my clothes on without disturbing it, but it awoke anyway and insisted on driving me home. Although he kept telling me how loaded his family was, we piled into a mid eighties Ford that barely seemed road worthy.
I hadn’t the slightest idea where “home” was. I told him the address, but neither of us knew how to get there from where we were. Turns out each “Hampton” has a similar set of streets and if you’re not in the know, navigating between the separate towns is nothing less than hellish. I kept begging him to let me take a cab, but he vowed to get me there. An hour and a half later we found it.
I accepted his business card, thanked him, and breathed a sigh of relief that he could probably never find me again. I then called Katy and set out in my car to find her. Thankfully her place of capture was easier to find. She also had had better luck in her man selection. I found a girl with stars in her eyes. Even though he was under-endowed, he was a good massager and gave her enough pot to make even the smallest pin prick enjoyable.
We found a treasure of a hole in the wall serving up Tex Mex. Hamptons Mexicans? Who knew? We returned to the house, put on swimsuits, and set out to find the beach. The water was brutal! After being slapped mercilessly on rocky sand a handful of times I lay on my blanket and watched Katy enjoy the beating. My little adventuresome one got in trouble with the lifeguard for going too far into the surf.
Alan called! He invited us to a house party; suddenly my status was skyrocketing! Katy and I treated ourselves to dinner at the quintessential Hamptons restaurant then set off to find the boy. After painfully navigating forested roads without signs, we managed to find our destination. A house glowing with the comfort of wealth beckoned us in. We grabbed up free wine and snacks and searched for Alan only to find out that he had already absconded to the next party. He offered to give us directions, but we’d had enough of forested mansions. We returned to the car to find a parking ticket. Apparently these labyrinthine roads were concealing a well-stocked police department.
Breathing a sigh of relief upon escaping the beautiful people, we headed for something more our speed, a local pub. AC/DC was on the jukebox and we could down beer in frosty bottles; we were content. Two locals struck up a conversation with us. I got the hot one and managed to not get too upset at the thought of Katy having to tolerate his scrappy, fat friend.
She was not overly enthused when the hottie invited us back to his house. After a little begging she agreed to come. He brought us beer out to a gazebo behind the ragged old house he shared with his mother; yes, his mother. He was young, going to junior college, worked on cars, and was hot, hot, hot! We got busy in the gazebo while Katy worked to keep fatty at bay. Katy and I arrived back at the house in the wee hours of the morning. Thankfully one of the foofies had gotten lucky so there was a bed free for us to share.
Alan called the next morning and asked us to come pick him up. We arrived at a gorgeous beach house occupied not by ten kids straight out of college like our own, but by the owner who was a photographer friend of Alan’s and a waifish model who shot Katy and me daggers as we took Alan away. I agreed to take him back to the city after we hit the beach.
Katy and I actively drooled as he took off his shirt. Having ruined my swimsuit with the violent waves the day before and not particularly wanting to parade around in a swimsuit in front of Alan anyway, I was content to keep myself in shorts and a top. Alan, on the other hand was not. He insisted I take off my top. He was going on about how Americans are so inhibited, so I gave in. Models are walking past us in Gucci and Prada bikinis and I’m sitting there in a slightly worn bra. Great.
Alan and I took a walk down the beach and made out.
We all returned to the house to clean up. Thankfully everyone else had left. As Katy was getting dressed Alan and I came in and brought her a beer. We then got naked and got in the shower while Katy sat on the toilet lid laughing. Katy had been in numerous orgies, but instead of joining in, she went into a catatonic laughing shock. Alan was once again admiring my bum and asking Karen if she agreed. She laughed hysterically and downed another can of beer.
She shook into a better state of mind when he pulled out pot for the ride home. While they toked, I drove responsibly. I took her home first then went to his place to share a bottle of wine. That bottle still lives in my wine bottle collection with my hot pink thong wrapped around the neck as a souvenir. I would get a booty call from Alan at about 4am approximately once a month for years. I finally returned to him one night. The sex was very mechanical. He took a Polaroid photo of me and added it to a stack nearing a foot in height. The calls kept coming, but I never went back.
I never belonged to any circles that did the Hamptons every weekend. I did, however, belong to a listserv that turned up an ad in the summer of 2003 for a weekend at a timeshare in the Hamptons. I figured I had to grab my chance. I met the girl who was forfeiting said share, paid her the fee, and received directions and keys to a house that my friend and I would be sharing with an unknown number of other people.
Katy and I drove out to the tip of Long Island and waded through traffic, the great democratic equalizer, alongside countless Jaguars, Mercedes, and Land Rovers to get to our turnoff. Once we reached the house we walked in to find a party of frat boys downing cheap beer. They offered us some, but we passed. We went to a bedroom that we would shortly be sharing with four foofy girls. Thankfully, we would avoid having to actually share sleep space with these creatures.
Katy and I quietly prepared ourselves for an evening out as the foofies started downing beer with the boys. A van came to pick us all up and deposited us at a nightclub.
We walked through the doors and angels sang. Suddenly I knew where all the hot New York men were hiding in the summer. I was like a kid in a candy store. I may not be “A” list, but the guys liked me nonetheless. I kissed and danced with at least a dozen men that night. At one point, as I was following Katy to the bathroom, a man grabbed my arm. I turned around to find one of the hottest men I have ever seen, certainly the hottest man who had ever touched me. He was tall, dark, handsome, blah, blah, blah. He said, with a British accent, that he liked my juicy bum. Not exactly poetry, but I was hooked. Apparently I had something unique to offer amongst the size negative two models wafting around.
Sadly Alan had to go to another party so we exchanged numbers and promised to meet up later in the weekend. His afterglow shown on everyone around me and tragically I ended up with a less than stellar specimen as the club started emptying out. Katy had left with someone and, not wanting to go back to the foofies alone, I decided to go with this guy, a slightly overweight Egyptian. We went back to his share. I’d had enough to drink to fall asleep quickly.
I woke up in the morning to the sight of a muscled stud. Unfortunately he was in the bed across the room, next to a pixie of a girl. I then glanced behind me to see that I was sharing the bed with something best not seen by the light of day. I tried to stealthily put my clothes on without disturbing it, but it awoke anyway and insisted on driving me home. Although he kept telling me how loaded his family was, we piled into a mid eighties Ford that barely seemed road worthy.
I hadn’t the slightest idea where “home” was. I told him the address, but neither of us knew how to get there from where we were. Turns out each “Hampton” has a similar set of streets and if you’re not in the know, navigating between the separate towns is nothing less than hellish. I kept begging him to let me take a cab, but he vowed to get me there. An hour and a half later we found it.
I accepted his business card, thanked him, and breathed a sigh of relief that he could probably never find me again. I then called Katy and set out in my car to find her. Thankfully her place of capture was easier to find. She also had had better luck in her man selection. I found a girl with stars in her eyes. Even though he was under-endowed, he was a good massager and gave her enough pot to make even the smallest pin prick enjoyable.
We found a treasure of a hole in the wall serving up Tex Mex. Hamptons Mexicans? Who knew? We returned to the house, put on swimsuits, and set out to find the beach. The water was brutal! After being slapped mercilessly on rocky sand a handful of times I lay on my blanket and watched Katy enjoy the beating. My little adventuresome one got in trouble with the lifeguard for going too far into the surf.
Alan called! He invited us to a house party; suddenly my status was skyrocketing! Katy and I treated ourselves to dinner at the quintessential Hamptons restaurant then set off to find the boy. After painfully navigating forested roads without signs, we managed to find our destination. A house glowing with the comfort of wealth beckoned us in. We grabbed up free wine and snacks and searched for Alan only to find out that he had already absconded to the next party. He offered to give us directions, but we’d had enough of forested mansions. We returned to the car to find a parking ticket. Apparently these labyrinthine roads were concealing a well-stocked police department.
Breathing a sigh of relief upon escaping the beautiful people, we headed for something more our speed, a local pub. AC/DC was on the jukebox and we could down beer in frosty bottles; we were content. Two locals struck up a conversation with us. I got the hot one and managed to not get too upset at the thought of Katy having to tolerate his scrappy, fat friend.
She was not overly enthused when the hottie invited us back to his house. After a little begging she agreed to come. He brought us beer out to a gazebo behind the ragged old house he shared with his mother; yes, his mother. He was young, going to junior college, worked on cars, and was hot, hot, hot! We got busy in the gazebo while Katy worked to keep fatty at bay. Katy and I arrived back at the house in the wee hours of the morning. Thankfully one of the foofies had gotten lucky so there was a bed free for us to share.
Alan called the next morning and asked us to come pick him up. We arrived at a gorgeous beach house occupied not by ten kids straight out of college like our own, but by the owner who was a photographer friend of Alan’s and a waifish model who shot Katy and me daggers as we took Alan away. I agreed to take him back to the city after we hit the beach.
Katy and I actively drooled as he took off his shirt. Having ruined my swimsuit with the violent waves the day before and not particularly wanting to parade around in a swimsuit in front of Alan anyway, I was content to keep myself in shorts and a top. Alan, on the other hand was not. He insisted I take off my top. He was going on about how Americans are so inhibited, so I gave in. Models are walking past us in Gucci and Prada bikinis and I’m sitting there in a slightly worn bra. Great.
Alan and I took a walk down the beach and made out.
We all returned to the house to clean up. Thankfully everyone else had left. As Katy was getting dressed Alan and I came in and brought her a beer. We then got naked and got in the shower while Katy sat on the toilet lid laughing. Katy had been in numerous orgies, but instead of joining in, she went into a catatonic laughing shock. Alan was once again admiring my bum and asking Karen if she agreed. She laughed hysterically and downed another can of beer.
She shook into a better state of mind when he pulled out pot for the ride home. While they toked, I drove responsibly. I took her home first then went to his place to share a bottle of wine. That bottle still lives in my wine bottle collection with my hot pink thong wrapped around the neck as a souvenir. I would get a booty call from Alan at about 4am approximately once a month for years. I finally returned to him one night. The sex was very mechanical. He took a Polaroid photo of me and added it to a stack nearing a foot in height. The calls kept coming, but I never went back.
8. SEDUCE A SUBORDINATE
WHY: Because men shouldn’t get to have all the sexual harassment fun.
My friend liked to haughtily refer to me as the U.N., as in my “membership” roster of men was as diverse as the United Nations. New York is a beautifully diverse city, why would I want only white bread when I could have everything from babka to focaccia? I don’t mean overly polished, pampered Euro trash. Instead I would search out the men a little rough around the edges, the ones who had fought battles to get to the United States and were stronger for it. The real men are not riding around in the back of limos then ordering bottle service at Lotus, they’re working construction then catching a beer at a hole in the wall.
During my time in New York I dated men who were: Irish, Jamaican, Dominican, Turkish, German, Mexican, Polish, Italian, and British and had sexy accents to prove they were fresh off the boat. I needed to add a Puerto Rican to the list. Despite the plentitude of Puerto Ricans available in the Bronx, there was only one I wanted. I’ve always liked having work crushes and this man made me melt. He had a sexy scar across his nose. He was one of the superintendents at my company and a man of few words. I looked at him with fuck me eyes every time I saw him, but he did not seem interested.
A coworker decided to take the matter into her own hands. It had never worked for me in grade school, but when she told him she knew somebody who liked him and that that somebody was me, she said he was pleasantly surprised. She made it clear I did not want to date him, I just wanted one thing. I had never solicited someone like this. He could get me fired for sexual harassment.
He started coming by my office for chit chat, which was not his forte. I felt like getting the coworker to reiterate that I wanted only one thing. Months went by and he never called. I imagined he had a long waiting list. Finally I accosted him coming out of work one day and asked him if he wanted to come over. He paused, and then said he needed to go to the barber shop first. Was this like a girl staying home to wash her hair? He said he would call by 4; 4 came and went. I gave up. At 7 he called and said he was headed my way. I filled with nervous antici……….…pation!
When he arrived I nearly melted. He had gone to the barber shop for a shave and was sporting one of those sexy, thin jaw line beards. I offered him beer and wine. He said he only drank liquor, but would have a beer. We sat nervously on my couch having beer after beer and painfully forcing conversation. I asked him about the scar on his face hoping for a heroic battle story, but it was just a childhood accident. He constantly had to duck outside to take phone calls. The seduction cd I prepared had already repeated itself several times. He went to the bathroom and I seized the opportunity to move the activity to the bedroom. He came out of the bathroom and came to me and finally kissed me.
I took off him shirt, yummm! He was solid and smooth mocha. It was rather mechanical, but I got what I wanted. I hoped for a repeat and drunk dialed him once or twice, but sadly my number on the waiting list never came up again.
My friend liked to haughtily refer to me as the U.N., as in my “membership” roster of men was as diverse as the United Nations. New York is a beautifully diverse city, why would I want only white bread when I could have everything from babka to focaccia? I don’t mean overly polished, pampered Euro trash. Instead I would search out the men a little rough around the edges, the ones who had fought battles to get to the United States and were stronger for it. The real men are not riding around in the back of limos then ordering bottle service at Lotus, they’re working construction then catching a beer at a hole in the wall.
During my time in New York I dated men who were: Irish, Jamaican, Dominican, Turkish, German, Mexican, Polish, Italian, and British and had sexy accents to prove they were fresh off the boat. I needed to add a Puerto Rican to the list. Despite the plentitude of Puerto Ricans available in the Bronx, there was only one I wanted. I’ve always liked having work crushes and this man made me melt. He had a sexy scar across his nose. He was one of the superintendents at my company and a man of few words. I looked at him with fuck me eyes every time I saw him, but he did not seem interested.
A coworker decided to take the matter into her own hands. It had never worked for me in grade school, but when she told him she knew somebody who liked him and that that somebody was me, she said he was pleasantly surprised. She made it clear I did not want to date him, I just wanted one thing. I had never solicited someone like this. He could get me fired for sexual harassment.
He started coming by my office for chit chat, which was not his forte. I felt like getting the coworker to reiterate that I wanted only one thing. Months went by and he never called. I imagined he had a long waiting list. Finally I accosted him coming out of work one day and asked him if he wanted to come over. He paused, and then said he needed to go to the barber shop first. Was this like a girl staying home to wash her hair? He said he would call by 4; 4 came and went. I gave up. At 7 he called and said he was headed my way. I filled with nervous antici……….…pation!
When he arrived I nearly melted. He had gone to the barber shop for a shave and was sporting one of those sexy, thin jaw line beards. I offered him beer and wine. He said he only drank liquor, but would have a beer. We sat nervously on my couch having beer after beer and painfully forcing conversation. I asked him about the scar on his face hoping for a heroic battle story, but it was just a childhood accident. He constantly had to duck outside to take phone calls. The seduction cd I prepared had already repeated itself several times. He went to the bathroom and I seized the opportunity to move the activity to the bedroom. He came out of the bathroom and came to me and finally kissed me.
I took off him shirt, yummm! He was solid and smooth mocha. It was rather mechanical, but I got what I wanted. I hoped for a repeat and drunk dialed him once or twice, but sadly my number on the waiting list never came up again.
9. FRENCH TICKLER
WHY: The culture is made for love.
Okay, let’s face it; I went to Paris on my birthday to have a French lover. I thought I would find a man who knew his way around a woman’s body, who knew how to please a woman. Let’s just say I didn’t exactly spend my 31st birthday eating bonbons with my feet in the air.
Edith Piaf boldly sang "La Vie en Rose" in my mind as I boarded the plane. I awkwardly had to ask which row was mine upon seeing a good-looking, tall, slightly nerdy but perfect for me man sitting next to what would be my seat. I knew my luck was not that good, I'd never actually had the good fortune on my numerous flights to be put next to a potential mate; 70 year old retired school teacher, check, woman with crying baby, check, soul mate, err, no. My trip and future flashed in front of me. I would have to edit my French lover fantasy, but it would be worth it when we told our grandchildren of our romantic meeting on our way to the City of Lights. I was blushing as we chit chatted. Then I saw it. David nervously started twirling the band around his wedding finger as if it had given him a little bzzzzt shock to remind him it was there. It wasn't even a real wedding band, just one of those gimpy Irish heart friendship rings.
I calmed down, reverted to original fantasy, and tried to figure out how to get this guy to stop talking to me. We chatted often throughout the flight. He was a marine biologist professor who traveled the world doing research. The little voices were laughing in the back of mind at the fact that this too was perfect for me; that I had often said my dream husband will be a professor who has to travel the world doing research and I would be his muse with him every step of the way. All in all my dream man was a bit too preachy and I'm sure I'd be ready for separate bedrooms before the first anniversary. His wife was from Chile. I had bought Tales of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez in the airport bookstore. He had his South American, I had mine.
About half an hour before we were set to land he came out with the confessional. Why do married men always have a confession, a shadow story? His was that his wife had come to the US under a study visa and her country required her to return for two years. They were six months into this time period but he was speaking with doom and doubt in his voice of their uncertain future. He finished it off with an "ah, now you know the whole sordid story" and asked me if I wanted to go to Versailles with him the next day; hmmmm.
The evening of my birthday I set out for dinner around 10pm. I had overestimated Paris' pleasure principal; I expected it to be like New York where 10pm is considered a perfectly reasonable time to begin your evening. The streets seemed rather empty and restaurants were closing up.
A disarming, goofy Spanish guy who did not speak English met me on the street and was intent on trying to help me find the restaurant I wanted. I was too naïve to realize I should’ve told him to shoo like vermin. After walking nearly in a circle and asking numerous people for directions, we found the restaurant I wanted to try only to discover that it was closing. Being that it was MY BIRTHDAY I was intent on having a full dinner despite Juan’s gentle suggestions that I settle for a crepe. After several blocks we came to a café still serving food and I ordered an appetizer, entrée, and carafe of wine while he had only coffee. After he sat patiently as I gorged myself on foie gras and duck and a delirium-inducing carafe of wine, I felt pity on him. Everything was closing down and I figured this was my chance for birthday sex so I decided to go for it. He was young and cute and buff; I could do worse. He bought me a Nutella crepe which served as my birthday cake.
I thought he had indicated he lived nearby, so I was shocked when the cab driver drove an unsettling distance and delivered us to a slum area I had wrinkled my nose at on the way in from the airport. I had tried asking this guy where he worked during dinner and he kept saying McDonalds. This was also his answer when I tried to ask him where he had eaten dinner so I was hopeful he just did not understand what I was saying. As we pulled up in ‘da hood it became painfully clear that the misunderstanding was all mine. We climbed several flights of stairs to his small room with two twin mattresses propped against opposite walls, a TV, a kitchen that creatively placed the refrigerator beneath the burners (New York apartments have been wasting so much space with a stove!), and a bathroom with a seatless toilet.
I rolled my eyes as I undressed for this overeager creature. Should this be my first sex in Paris? I think not! It wasn’t just that he was poor, but the place was unclean and creepy. He mentioned that he had not had anyone at his place and was clearly elated when he stumbled upon me, sucker du jour! He wrestled with the condom like he was trying to stuff a watermelon into a Ziploc bag sideways. He came at me; we engaged for a brief time then I got up. I ran to the bathroom and hopped in his shower trying to wash off the nasty experience and then had to dry off with a hand towel. I rushed to my clothes and began applying them as he begged desperately, dick in hand, for me to give it another go. I threw on dress then coat, not bothering with buttons or belt, and sought out the door. He accompanied me down the stairs, dick in shorts, to tell me to be careful and he specifically indicated what street I should turn on. Of course I went one street too far; being brazen and always right, I figured the street closest to the freeway would be the most trafficked. On the way I snapped photos of the blighted buildings like an American tourist nitwit.
As I turned the corner a skinny, light black man with dreads asked me if I needed help. Ha, I had learned my lesson with Juan; I wasn’t going to talk to anyone else on the street. I said no thanks and continued down the block. About half way down the block I realized he was running up behind me. He quickly overtook me as I began to run. He grabbed my bag, I yelled NO, NO PLEASE NO, TAKE THE CASH BUT NOT THE PASSPORT. He dragged me into the street; I was lying down in the middle of the road clutching the bag to me when he finally got the best of me and ran off with it. I ran after him into a courtyard in front of a social housing project. I continued my rant. I caught a glimpse of a man on a bike escaping into the building just as the door slammed shut.
I ran to the street which now had traffic and a blessed African family pulled over. The driver phoned the police for me as his family looked upon me nonplussed. The police came soon and dispatched men to the building. I was quite pleased. If this had happened in, say Austin, I’m sure I would’ve been questioned and accused as to why I was in “that” neighborhood, not sober, and smelling of sex. Not only were none of the above brought up in an accusatory way, but I think the Chief officer developed a bit of a crush on me. He convinced me to fill out a police report, suggesting it might help me get my camera replaced. He had a NYPD vehicle as the background on his desktop and was getting quite a kick out of interviewing me. I sheepishly confessed that the perpetrator was alone and unarmed. The Chief had me look through binder after binder of mug shots hoping I would recognize him. Some faces came close, but I wasn’t about to ruin some guy’s life based on my faulty memory.
As I was describing the brand new $400 camera Mom had bought me for the trip, I received my birthday miracle: the two cops who had gone into the building returned with my bag! The camera and cash were gone but my passport and credit cards were still there. The officers said the mugger would not want traceable items. When we were finished he handed me a four-page police report and I was taken aback when I realized it was all in French! I was eloquently labeled Victime Mademoiselle. Two officers sped recklessly through Parisian streets to return me to my hotel around 4am. Having an officer escort was the crowning touch to my birthday evening.
Several days later I followed a cutie out of Shakespeare and Company after we made eye contact several times. I crossed the street to where he was and he spoke to me. Vincent knew little English and had only went into the English language bookstore because I did. He asked me if I wanted to get a drink. The sexy French accent is not so sexy when stumbling over English. Listening to and deciphering his speech and simplifying mine was exhausting. I jumped when he offered to drive me around town on his moped, a romantic moment that required no speech!
We had a lingering kiss on one of the bridges over the River Seine. After knowing him only a couple hours he was embracing me and kissing me all over Paris as if we were life long lovers. I wondered how many of the cute couples I spied in envy also just met hours earlier. I suppose this was the secret of the French romantic mystique.
Vincent, although cute, was smelly and had long, yellowed teeth, and bloodshot eyes. He was hyper and heaving and came too quickly, then couldn't get hard again. He had no technique to speak of for fellatio or intercourse and he kept his hand at his dick while he was fucking me. Very annoying. He also stayed too late; I thought it was hard to get rid of a guy in the morning who speaks the same language. He articulated “it is difficult to get up;" try harder buddy!
The best thing a vacation can do is make you happy to get home. Back in cowboy country I read through some of my favorite parts of A Moveable Feast. Hemingway and I were both starving Americans in Paris. He starved out of poverty; I starved because I was frequently too embarrassed to request a table for one.
My sampling of French men left me unimpressed. They use too much tongue when kissing; shameful considering the kiss is named for them. And they smell! Isn't it the land of perfume?
Okay, let’s face it; I went to Paris on my birthday to have a French lover. I thought I would find a man who knew his way around a woman’s body, who knew how to please a woman. Let’s just say I didn’t exactly spend my 31st birthday eating bonbons with my feet in the air.
Edith Piaf boldly sang "La Vie en Rose" in my mind as I boarded the plane. I awkwardly had to ask which row was mine upon seeing a good-looking, tall, slightly nerdy but perfect for me man sitting next to what would be my seat. I knew my luck was not that good, I'd never actually had the good fortune on my numerous flights to be put next to a potential mate; 70 year old retired school teacher, check, woman with crying baby, check, soul mate, err, no. My trip and future flashed in front of me. I would have to edit my French lover fantasy, but it would be worth it when we told our grandchildren of our romantic meeting on our way to the City of Lights. I was blushing as we chit chatted. Then I saw it. David nervously started twirling the band around his wedding finger as if it had given him a little bzzzzt shock to remind him it was there. It wasn't even a real wedding band, just one of those gimpy Irish heart friendship rings.
I calmed down, reverted to original fantasy, and tried to figure out how to get this guy to stop talking to me. We chatted often throughout the flight. He was a marine biologist professor who traveled the world doing research. The little voices were laughing in the back of mind at the fact that this too was perfect for me; that I had often said my dream husband will be a professor who has to travel the world doing research and I would be his muse with him every step of the way. All in all my dream man was a bit too preachy and I'm sure I'd be ready for separate bedrooms before the first anniversary. His wife was from Chile. I had bought Tales of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez in the airport bookstore. He had his South American, I had mine.
About half an hour before we were set to land he came out with the confessional. Why do married men always have a confession, a shadow story? His was that his wife had come to the US under a study visa and her country required her to return for two years. They were six months into this time period but he was speaking with doom and doubt in his voice of their uncertain future. He finished it off with an "ah, now you know the whole sordid story" and asked me if I wanted to go to Versailles with him the next day; hmmmm.
The evening of my birthday I set out for dinner around 10pm. I had overestimated Paris' pleasure principal; I expected it to be like New York where 10pm is considered a perfectly reasonable time to begin your evening. The streets seemed rather empty and restaurants were closing up.
A disarming, goofy Spanish guy who did not speak English met me on the street and was intent on trying to help me find the restaurant I wanted. I was too naïve to realize I should’ve told him to shoo like vermin. After walking nearly in a circle and asking numerous people for directions, we found the restaurant I wanted to try only to discover that it was closing. Being that it was MY BIRTHDAY I was intent on having a full dinner despite Juan’s gentle suggestions that I settle for a crepe. After several blocks we came to a café still serving food and I ordered an appetizer, entrée, and carafe of wine while he had only coffee. After he sat patiently as I gorged myself on foie gras and duck and a delirium-inducing carafe of wine, I felt pity on him. Everything was closing down and I figured this was my chance for birthday sex so I decided to go for it. He was young and cute and buff; I could do worse. He bought me a Nutella crepe which served as my birthday cake.
I thought he had indicated he lived nearby, so I was shocked when the cab driver drove an unsettling distance and delivered us to a slum area I had wrinkled my nose at on the way in from the airport. I had tried asking this guy where he worked during dinner and he kept saying McDonalds. This was also his answer when I tried to ask him where he had eaten dinner so I was hopeful he just did not understand what I was saying. As we pulled up in ‘da hood it became painfully clear that the misunderstanding was all mine. We climbed several flights of stairs to his small room with two twin mattresses propped against opposite walls, a TV, a kitchen that creatively placed the refrigerator beneath the burners (New York apartments have been wasting so much space with a stove!), and a bathroom with a seatless toilet.
I rolled my eyes as I undressed for this overeager creature. Should this be my first sex in Paris? I think not! It wasn’t just that he was poor, but the place was unclean and creepy. He mentioned that he had not had anyone at his place and was clearly elated when he stumbled upon me, sucker du jour! He wrestled with the condom like he was trying to stuff a watermelon into a Ziploc bag sideways. He came at me; we engaged for a brief time then I got up. I ran to the bathroom and hopped in his shower trying to wash off the nasty experience and then had to dry off with a hand towel. I rushed to my clothes and began applying them as he begged desperately, dick in hand, for me to give it another go. I threw on dress then coat, not bothering with buttons or belt, and sought out the door. He accompanied me down the stairs, dick in shorts, to tell me to be careful and he specifically indicated what street I should turn on. Of course I went one street too far; being brazen and always right, I figured the street closest to the freeway would be the most trafficked. On the way I snapped photos of the blighted buildings like an American tourist nitwit.
As I turned the corner a skinny, light black man with dreads asked me if I needed help. Ha, I had learned my lesson with Juan; I wasn’t going to talk to anyone else on the street. I said no thanks and continued down the block. About half way down the block I realized he was running up behind me. He quickly overtook me as I began to run. He grabbed my bag, I yelled NO, NO PLEASE NO, TAKE THE CASH BUT NOT THE PASSPORT. He dragged me into the street; I was lying down in the middle of the road clutching the bag to me when he finally got the best of me and ran off with it. I ran after him into a courtyard in front of a social housing project. I continued my rant. I caught a glimpse of a man on a bike escaping into the building just as the door slammed shut.
I ran to the street which now had traffic and a blessed African family pulled over. The driver phoned the police for me as his family looked upon me nonplussed. The police came soon and dispatched men to the building. I was quite pleased. If this had happened in, say Austin, I’m sure I would’ve been questioned and accused as to why I was in “that” neighborhood, not sober, and smelling of sex. Not only were none of the above brought up in an accusatory way, but I think the Chief officer developed a bit of a crush on me. He convinced me to fill out a police report, suggesting it might help me get my camera replaced. He had a NYPD vehicle as the background on his desktop and was getting quite a kick out of interviewing me. I sheepishly confessed that the perpetrator was alone and unarmed. The Chief had me look through binder after binder of mug shots hoping I would recognize him. Some faces came close, but I wasn’t about to ruin some guy’s life based on my faulty memory.
As I was describing the brand new $400 camera Mom had bought me for the trip, I received my birthday miracle: the two cops who had gone into the building returned with my bag! The camera and cash were gone but my passport and credit cards were still there. The officers said the mugger would not want traceable items. When we were finished he handed me a four-page police report and I was taken aback when I realized it was all in French! I was eloquently labeled Victime Mademoiselle. Two officers sped recklessly through Parisian streets to return me to my hotel around 4am. Having an officer escort was the crowning touch to my birthday evening.
Several days later I followed a cutie out of Shakespeare and Company after we made eye contact several times. I crossed the street to where he was and he spoke to me. Vincent knew little English and had only went into the English language bookstore because I did. He asked me if I wanted to get a drink. The sexy French accent is not so sexy when stumbling over English. Listening to and deciphering his speech and simplifying mine was exhausting. I jumped when he offered to drive me around town on his moped, a romantic moment that required no speech!
We had a lingering kiss on one of the bridges over the River Seine. After knowing him only a couple hours he was embracing me and kissing me all over Paris as if we were life long lovers. I wondered how many of the cute couples I spied in envy also just met hours earlier. I suppose this was the secret of the French romantic mystique.
Vincent, although cute, was smelly and had long, yellowed teeth, and bloodshot eyes. He was hyper and heaving and came too quickly, then couldn't get hard again. He had no technique to speak of for fellatio or intercourse and he kept his hand at his dick while he was fucking me. Very annoying. He also stayed too late; I thought it was hard to get rid of a guy in the morning who speaks the same language. He articulated “it is difficult to get up;" try harder buddy!
The best thing a vacation can do is make you happy to get home. Back in cowboy country I read through some of my favorite parts of A Moveable Feast. Hemingway and I were both starving Americans in Paris. He starved out of poverty; I starved because I was frequently too embarrassed to request a table for one.
My sampling of French men left me unimpressed. They use too much tongue when kissing; shameful considering the kiss is named for them. And they smell! Isn't it the land of perfume?
10. JUNGLE FEVER
WHY: Woman cannot live on white meat alone.
When I first spotted Derek I was chatting with a blonde guy my height at the bar Fado in Austin, Texas. I tried to focus on this guy’s pickup spiel, but my eyes kept wandering over to the massive black man at the end of the bar. He was looking at me too. My future life flashed in front of me: I could do the responsible thing and get to know this man oozing with husband, caregiver potential, or I could satisfy my animal cravings for big dick. I graciously excused myself from husband material and made my way over to Derek. Turns out the little blonde dude was Derek’s friend. Aside from the fact that he scoops up girls from his friends, Derek turned out to be a really great guy. Not a pimp or gansta as I secretly hoped for, but a bigwig at Dell. He asked me if I preferred tall or short men, duh!
Derek and I left for another bar. I relished walking with this beautiful man towering next to me. He wore 270 muscular pounds on a 6’8 frame and was bigger than most football players. At the next bar we listened to jazz while I sucked on his thick lips. I was too exhausted that night to contemplate tackling what he could possess between his legs. I romantically whispered to him that I liked him and therefore was not going to fuck him until the next time we saw each other.
The next week we met for dinner. I had psyched myself up for what treasures may await me. Considering his stature I was afraid/excited that he might be hung down to his knees. I arrived at the restaurant in a tight skirt and no panties. As soon as I saw him I knew I was up to the task at hand. We ate, we flirted, and I got him back to my place. Alas, it was a big, juicy, velvety cock, but nothing horse like. I was able to walk the next day even if my thighs no longer touched each other.
He liked my body and next to him I looked tiny (he was nearly a giant after all). He loved my curves. I loved his muscles. I loved the contrast of my ivory skin against his dark brown satin skin.
I went to his house for several bootie calls after the first date. Again I was doing the skirt with no panties. As soon as he opened the door I came all over myself! I had to make a beeline for his bathroom to clean myself up! He liked to wear shirts that were one size too small and hugged his perfect, muscular physique. I liked this too except when my enthusiasm was dripping down my leg.
When I first spotted Derek I was chatting with a blonde guy my height at the bar Fado in Austin, Texas. I tried to focus on this guy’s pickup spiel, but my eyes kept wandering over to the massive black man at the end of the bar. He was looking at me too. My future life flashed in front of me: I could do the responsible thing and get to know this man oozing with husband, caregiver potential, or I could satisfy my animal cravings for big dick. I graciously excused myself from husband material and made my way over to Derek. Turns out the little blonde dude was Derek’s friend. Aside from the fact that he scoops up girls from his friends, Derek turned out to be a really great guy. Not a pimp or gansta as I secretly hoped for, but a bigwig at Dell. He asked me if I preferred tall or short men, duh!
Derek and I left for another bar. I relished walking with this beautiful man towering next to me. He wore 270 muscular pounds on a 6’8 frame and was bigger than most football players. At the next bar we listened to jazz while I sucked on his thick lips. I was too exhausted that night to contemplate tackling what he could possess between his legs. I romantically whispered to him that I liked him and therefore was not going to fuck him until the next time we saw each other.
The next week we met for dinner. I had psyched myself up for what treasures may await me. Considering his stature I was afraid/excited that he might be hung down to his knees. I arrived at the restaurant in a tight skirt and no panties. As soon as I saw him I knew I was up to the task at hand. We ate, we flirted, and I got him back to my place. Alas, it was a big, juicy, velvety cock, but nothing horse like. I was able to walk the next day even if my thighs no longer touched each other.
He liked my body and next to him I looked tiny (he was nearly a giant after all). He loved my curves. I loved his muscles. I loved the contrast of my ivory skin against his dark brown satin skin.
I went to his house for several bootie calls after the first date. Again I was doing the skirt with no panties. As soon as he opened the door I came all over myself! I had to make a beeline for his bathroom to clean myself up! He liked to wear shirts that were one size too small and hugged his perfect, muscular physique. I liked this too except when my enthusiasm was dripping down my leg.
11. SEDUCE YOUR BOSS
WHY: A boss is meant to be seduced.
There’s a thin line between love and hate. There’s also a thin line between curiosity and disgust. My boss disgusted me, but I was curious about what it would be like to have him exposed, aroused. I wanted to wipe the goofy grin off his face and see him panting.
I loathed him for never being around and never giving me guidance, and for basically impeding my mission of saving the world. Gradually my idealism wore off and my whore wore on. After I’d been at our company in the Bronx a year or so I adopted his work style, moseying in around 10am, leaving at 5pm on the dot, and taking a two-hour lunch with wine in between. I knew he knew at this point that I was the only person at our organization with any idea of what was going on so I banked on job security. I was far from his first affair and given his reputation I was rather insulted he had not tried to seduce me. I chalked it up to intimidation of my great beauty and brilliant intellect, of course.
The seduction opportunity first presented itself at a bar after a conference. At this point we had been working together for years. The responsible people had all gone home and I was left chatting with him and his buddy. Alcohol and my affinity for sexually charged situations led me to suggest we all go to the Hustler titty bar on the West Side Highway.
It was here, in a back booth that a gorgeous Eastern European waif model child pulled down my top and kissed my tits, and boss man followed suit. His little red beak nose leaned in for a kiss while his drug hyped eyes looked into me with aroused fear.
The next day at work we behaved as if nothing had happened. It drove me crazy! For the months that followed I spent hours preparing myself for work every morning, seducing myself in the mirror as I danced around to sexy songs. I would listen to Paula Cole’s Feel Love in an orgiastic state as she sang of feeling the Amazon running between her thighs. I pranced around like a proud pony. I’d never shaved so much or so often! I drenched my completely clean-shaven body in baby oil and perfume and then oozed into tight tops, short skirts, boots.
And in return I got…nothing!
The caddy gals at work inquired for whom I was dressing, but I wouldn’t let on. When no one was around I would strut into his office and sit across from him at his desk and ask him very proper questions. He would follow with questions for me and I was occasionally caught off guard. How could he be thinking about work at a time like this?!
We had our company fundraiser a couple weeks later and I fantasized about us dancing together, trying to hide our sexual tension. Instead I drank too much and passed out early in the super’s apartment. I found out later that he had inquired about where I was and I was thrilled to have had the chance to play hard to get, to be mysterious, all while passed out in my own drool.
The Christmas season rolled around and I was certain that he would have to invite me to at least one party. Indeed, one of our company’s contributors was having a party in the city and he asked me to accompany him. He was notorious for saying he was going to attend an event and then never showing up, so I tried not to get my hopes up. Fortunately, there was also a seminar downtown that we both needed to attend and he offered to give me a lift.
Damn my lack of faith! I had given up the short skirts, as it was in the thirties and raining, and I was wearing a dreadful turtleneck and plaid pants. It was one of those outfits that always looks good when you first put it on in the morning, but looks more like prison garb as the day wears on.
Oh well, I was going to be charming and witty and clever. On the ride downtown his mouth went a mile a minute, as he tends to, about baseball, his kids, the staff, his favorite bands. I sat mostly silent lost in the buzz coming from his little brain. Two completely objective individuals had compared his attention span to that of a fly upon meeting him…bzzzzz. I hated talking to him, I didn’t want to talk to him, I wanted to…
He parked in a lot several blocks from our seminar and half-heartedly shared his umbrella with me, ah the romance! We sat next to each other and he looked keenly interested in the lecture while I monitored the distance between our legs. Afterward he asked me a few questions about how we would implement the strategies laid forth in the presentation and I glared at him with a you’ve got to be joking with this fake job dedication crap and when are we going to screw look.
Finally we left. The Christmas party was to take place in a Midtown hotel, so we went to a Times Square bar to kill time. I sucked down some Coronas while he explained horse racing to me. I had beginner’s luck and my horse picks were responsible for him winning some dough. I drank it back from him. We proceeded to the party and were joined by a friend of his, urgh. We ate, we danced; I got a kick out of his white boy boogie. We snuck into the coat room and kissed. I went to the restroom. When I returned and saw that he was still joined at the hip with his buddy, I decided to leave. This is my m.o.; I prefer ducking out to long goodbyes. Anyway, I was due at another party. When I reached the other party I called him, repeatedly, and asked if he wanted to meet somewhere. He did, I did, but, once again, nothing happened.
Thanks to a dead Vietnamese man I finally got to screw my boss. Months passed, spring arrived, and I had pretty much given up, until he asked me to accompany him to the funeral for the father of one of our co-workers. I was not very close to this girl, but suddenly I felt compelled to show sympathy and support.
We met at the funeral parlor. About ten Buddhist Monks were arranged in a circle in the front chanting. Apparently it is customary for such monks to chant for days following a person’s death. I was in awe of this devotion, I was moved by the family’s commitment, I was brushing my leg gently against my boss.
As we walked out of the funeral parlor he asked me if I wanted to get a drink. He was not getting away this time! I followed him to Montezuma, the Bronx’s version of a Mexican restaurant, suitable only for people who’ve never had Mexican food. In hopes that we would not be there long, I suggested we just sit at the bar. We each ordered Coronas and I ordered nachos, which was a whopping order of four whole chips!
Just when we were starting to warm up to each other, a co-worker walked in with her family! 1.35 million people live in the Bronx and of all those people this woman was pretty much the last one I wanted to see at this moment. We exchanged niceties, the boss man bought the family a round, and we continued drinking until they finally left.
Too many beers later we were alone again, unmonitored. He put his hand on my knee and the whole world opened into beauty. I'd been waiting for this for months and I would make sure it happened, I would get what I craved. We kissed and we kissed and we kissed. "Is this for me?" he asked, touching the lace of my thigh-high peeking from under my skirt as I sat next to him on a barstool. Yes! We talked at the bar and I told him I'd wanted it since we first kissed.
I was already quite toasted, the four nachos had done little to defend my stomach, but he wanted to keep drinking. We ordered mixed drinks, bad idea, and shots, worse idea. We kept kissing. We had three and a half years of pent-up sexual tension to work through and I was ready to get started.
He asked me if I wanted to go somewhere; yes, and how! He asked me to pick a place, I’m not sure why really, guess he wanted to seem innocent. He could’ve written a field guide to Bronx hot sheet motels (places designed to rent rooms for a couple hours for, umm, “napping”). He’d just told me that he’d never been with anyone from the office and that we would have to keep this our little secret; yes dear, whatever.
I was clueless about where to go. I decided upon a place that was in Westchester County a couple miles from where I lived because I passed it all the time and it looked lovely with hanging crystal chandeliers in the lobby. It was definitely not a hot sheets place and was certainly out of our league as we arrived very drunk and obviously not interested in staying for the whole night. For some silly reason, they gave us a room anyway.
Sadly, I don’t remember much from the first night, I wanted more. I wanted to have a sober session with him. The next day he called me a million times as I sat at my desk hungover and I wanted so badly for him to ask. He even came to my office as I sat typing and getting tingles thinking of his kisses, tongue never going deep enough but blocking my tongue from exploring him and making me never want to stop trying to get deeper, deeper. He came to me around 5pm to ask if I had plans for the evening. Sadly I did already.
The next day, though, the skirt and thigh-highs were back and I was prepared. He came to my office and asked if I was doing anything for lunch. We both had happy grins. He told me to meet him in front of the Bronx Zoo (appropriately). I pulled up behind him then followed him onto the Bronx River Parkway with some difficulty as he was on the phone, driving like a maniac, and clearly not focusing on whether or not I was behind him. We exited on Gun Hill Road and went down to the intersection with Boston Road to the illustrious Crown Motor Inn.
Apparently I had passed the test; he no longer needed to seem innocent. Clearly some thought had been put into finding this place. It was the perfect distance from our place of employment; not too close, not too far. I imagined he probably had some kind of membership. He sent me for beer while he got the room. He motioned to a store across the street.
Picture this, if you will, I was the only white girl in sight, I was wearing a tight black sweater and skirt, thigh-highs with a back seam, high heals, and a perky scarf around my neck as I pranced across the street from a hooker motel to get a 6-pack. I would not take this abuse from anyone else. I went into the bodega, the boys were quite friendly, and I fumbled with the beer in the fridge to assemble a 6-pack. My boss radioed me to say we’re in room 24. I frantically struggled to turn off the volume on my phone as the guy behind the counter smirked.
I walked in a tight skirt back across hooker road while getting cat calls from every angle. I spotted a cop and thought there was a very good chance of me getting arrested. My thigh high slipped down just as I reached the motel parking lot and I bent over to fix it, laughing at the image of myself at this shady institution of quick, messy sex.
Once I had negotiated with the thigh high and was nearing the room, I saw a man who looked very much like the painter who worked for our company, was screwing a girl in the office, and wanted to screw me. I imagined that perhaps this was a trick and my boss had sold me off to a gang bang, or maybe they got a group rate on the rooms. He didn’t recognize me at first, but instead of averting my gaze, I kept staring at him as if he were on fire. He suddenly got a jolt of recognition and a look that explained he grasped the delicacy of the situation. I did a silly little panic dance in which I turned back toward my car thinking I should just escape, then I figured that would solve little, so I just knocked on the door to room 24 and was let in. I told my boss who I saw and he said oh shit, but then shoved his tongue in my mouth, which was where I wanted it.
I delighted in undoing his tie that was always done perfectly as the crowning touch to his suburban dad/GQ look. It unleashed his office persona and let loose this sexual person I wanted to know, wanted to see exposed. The persistent kissing continued, making it difficult for clothes to be removed, but we managed. He gently pushed me down to suck his now-exposed cock, which I did gladly. He pushed me back and crawled on top and fucked me and kissed me. Then he turned me around so he could fuck me from behind. I delighted in the image of my hair hanging down, my back arched, and my plump ass working his cock all reflected in the mirrored wall next to the bed. He talked dirty to me. He came all over the sheet, a great round splatter right in the middle of the bed. He leaned back and said he was sorry he didn't show more concern about my run-in with the co-worker, but he was just so horny he had to release. I liked this raw honesty; it is why I wanted this.
We watched porn and drank Corona. We fucked again and he left. I turned on Sesame Street and bounced around on the bed like a little kid. I took the paper bathmat with me as a kitschy souvenir. I went to a deli and got the most delicious sandwich I’d ever tasted: pastrami and American on white bread with mayo. I ate it in my car by the park with a fantastic grin on my face.
There’s a thin line between love and hate. There’s also a thin line between curiosity and disgust. My boss disgusted me, but I was curious about what it would be like to have him exposed, aroused. I wanted to wipe the goofy grin off his face and see him panting.
I loathed him for never being around and never giving me guidance, and for basically impeding my mission of saving the world. Gradually my idealism wore off and my whore wore on. After I’d been at our company in the Bronx a year or so I adopted his work style, moseying in around 10am, leaving at 5pm on the dot, and taking a two-hour lunch with wine in between. I knew he knew at this point that I was the only person at our organization with any idea of what was going on so I banked on job security. I was far from his first affair and given his reputation I was rather insulted he had not tried to seduce me. I chalked it up to intimidation of my great beauty and brilliant intellect, of course.
The seduction opportunity first presented itself at a bar after a conference. At this point we had been working together for years. The responsible people had all gone home and I was left chatting with him and his buddy. Alcohol and my affinity for sexually charged situations led me to suggest we all go to the Hustler titty bar on the West Side Highway.
It was here, in a back booth that a gorgeous Eastern European waif model child pulled down my top and kissed my tits, and boss man followed suit. His little red beak nose leaned in for a kiss while his drug hyped eyes looked into me with aroused fear.
The next day at work we behaved as if nothing had happened. It drove me crazy! For the months that followed I spent hours preparing myself for work every morning, seducing myself in the mirror as I danced around to sexy songs. I would listen to Paula Cole’s Feel Love in an orgiastic state as she sang of feeling the Amazon running between her thighs. I pranced around like a proud pony. I’d never shaved so much or so often! I drenched my completely clean-shaven body in baby oil and perfume and then oozed into tight tops, short skirts, boots.
And in return I got…nothing!
The caddy gals at work inquired for whom I was dressing, but I wouldn’t let on. When no one was around I would strut into his office and sit across from him at his desk and ask him very proper questions. He would follow with questions for me and I was occasionally caught off guard. How could he be thinking about work at a time like this?!
We had our company fundraiser a couple weeks later and I fantasized about us dancing together, trying to hide our sexual tension. Instead I drank too much and passed out early in the super’s apartment. I found out later that he had inquired about where I was and I was thrilled to have had the chance to play hard to get, to be mysterious, all while passed out in my own drool.
The Christmas season rolled around and I was certain that he would have to invite me to at least one party. Indeed, one of our company’s contributors was having a party in the city and he asked me to accompany him. He was notorious for saying he was going to attend an event and then never showing up, so I tried not to get my hopes up. Fortunately, there was also a seminar downtown that we both needed to attend and he offered to give me a lift.
Damn my lack of faith! I had given up the short skirts, as it was in the thirties and raining, and I was wearing a dreadful turtleneck and plaid pants. It was one of those outfits that always looks good when you first put it on in the morning, but looks more like prison garb as the day wears on.
Oh well, I was going to be charming and witty and clever. On the ride downtown his mouth went a mile a minute, as he tends to, about baseball, his kids, the staff, his favorite bands. I sat mostly silent lost in the buzz coming from his little brain. Two completely objective individuals had compared his attention span to that of a fly upon meeting him…bzzzzz. I hated talking to him, I didn’t want to talk to him, I wanted to…
He parked in a lot several blocks from our seminar and half-heartedly shared his umbrella with me, ah the romance! We sat next to each other and he looked keenly interested in the lecture while I monitored the distance between our legs. Afterward he asked me a few questions about how we would implement the strategies laid forth in the presentation and I glared at him with a you’ve got to be joking with this fake job dedication crap and when are we going to screw look.
Finally we left. The Christmas party was to take place in a Midtown hotel, so we went to a Times Square bar to kill time. I sucked down some Coronas while he explained horse racing to me. I had beginner’s luck and my horse picks were responsible for him winning some dough. I drank it back from him. We proceeded to the party and were joined by a friend of his, urgh. We ate, we danced; I got a kick out of his white boy boogie. We snuck into the coat room and kissed. I went to the restroom. When I returned and saw that he was still joined at the hip with his buddy, I decided to leave. This is my m.o.; I prefer ducking out to long goodbyes. Anyway, I was due at another party. When I reached the other party I called him, repeatedly, and asked if he wanted to meet somewhere. He did, I did, but, once again, nothing happened.
Thanks to a dead Vietnamese man I finally got to screw my boss. Months passed, spring arrived, and I had pretty much given up, until he asked me to accompany him to the funeral for the father of one of our co-workers. I was not very close to this girl, but suddenly I felt compelled to show sympathy and support.
We met at the funeral parlor. About ten Buddhist Monks were arranged in a circle in the front chanting. Apparently it is customary for such monks to chant for days following a person’s death. I was in awe of this devotion, I was moved by the family’s commitment, I was brushing my leg gently against my boss.
As we walked out of the funeral parlor he asked me if I wanted to get a drink. He was not getting away this time! I followed him to Montezuma, the Bronx’s version of a Mexican restaurant, suitable only for people who’ve never had Mexican food. In hopes that we would not be there long, I suggested we just sit at the bar. We each ordered Coronas and I ordered nachos, which was a whopping order of four whole chips!
Just when we were starting to warm up to each other, a co-worker walked in with her family! 1.35 million people live in the Bronx and of all those people this woman was pretty much the last one I wanted to see at this moment. We exchanged niceties, the boss man bought the family a round, and we continued drinking until they finally left.
Too many beers later we were alone again, unmonitored. He put his hand on my knee and the whole world opened into beauty. I'd been waiting for this for months and I would make sure it happened, I would get what I craved. We kissed and we kissed and we kissed. "Is this for me?" he asked, touching the lace of my thigh-high peeking from under my skirt as I sat next to him on a barstool. Yes! We talked at the bar and I told him I'd wanted it since we first kissed.
I was already quite toasted, the four nachos had done little to defend my stomach, but he wanted to keep drinking. We ordered mixed drinks, bad idea, and shots, worse idea. We kept kissing. We had three and a half years of pent-up sexual tension to work through and I was ready to get started.
He asked me if I wanted to go somewhere; yes, and how! He asked me to pick a place, I’m not sure why really, guess he wanted to seem innocent. He could’ve written a field guide to Bronx hot sheet motels (places designed to rent rooms for a couple hours for, umm, “napping”). He’d just told me that he’d never been with anyone from the office and that we would have to keep this our little secret; yes dear, whatever.
I was clueless about where to go. I decided upon a place that was in Westchester County a couple miles from where I lived because I passed it all the time and it looked lovely with hanging crystal chandeliers in the lobby. It was definitely not a hot sheets place and was certainly out of our league as we arrived very drunk and obviously not interested in staying for the whole night. For some silly reason, they gave us a room anyway.
Sadly, I don’t remember much from the first night, I wanted more. I wanted to have a sober session with him. The next day he called me a million times as I sat at my desk hungover and I wanted so badly for him to ask. He even came to my office as I sat typing and getting tingles thinking of his kisses, tongue never going deep enough but blocking my tongue from exploring him and making me never want to stop trying to get deeper, deeper. He came to me around 5pm to ask if I had plans for the evening. Sadly I did already.
The next day, though, the skirt and thigh-highs were back and I was prepared. He came to my office and asked if I was doing anything for lunch. We both had happy grins. He told me to meet him in front of the Bronx Zoo (appropriately). I pulled up behind him then followed him onto the Bronx River Parkway with some difficulty as he was on the phone, driving like a maniac, and clearly not focusing on whether or not I was behind him. We exited on Gun Hill Road and went down to the intersection with Boston Road to the illustrious Crown Motor Inn.
Apparently I had passed the test; he no longer needed to seem innocent. Clearly some thought had been put into finding this place. It was the perfect distance from our place of employment; not too close, not too far. I imagined he probably had some kind of membership. He sent me for beer while he got the room. He motioned to a store across the street.
Picture this, if you will, I was the only white girl in sight, I was wearing a tight black sweater and skirt, thigh-highs with a back seam, high heals, and a perky scarf around my neck as I pranced across the street from a hooker motel to get a 6-pack. I would not take this abuse from anyone else. I went into the bodega, the boys were quite friendly, and I fumbled with the beer in the fridge to assemble a 6-pack. My boss radioed me to say we’re in room 24. I frantically struggled to turn off the volume on my phone as the guy behind the counter smirked.
I walked in a tight skirt back across hooker road while getting cat calls from every angle. I spotted a cop and thought there was a very good chance of me getting arrested. My thigh high slipped down just as I reached the motel parking lot and I bent over to fix it, laughing at the image of myself at this shady institution of quick, messy sex.
Once I had negotiated with the thigh high and was nearing the room, I saw a man who looked very much like the painter who worked for our company, was screwing a girl in the office, and wanted to screw me. I imagined that perhaps this was a trick and my boss had sold me off to a gang bang, or maybe they got a group rate on the rooms. He didn’t recognize me at first, but instead of averting my gaze, I kept staring at him as if he were on fire. He suddenly got a jolt of recognition and a look that explained he grasped the delicacy of the situation. I did a silly little panic dance in which I turned back toward my car thinking I should just escape, then I figured that would solve little, so I just knocked on the door to room 24 and was let in. I told my boss who I saw and he said oh shit, but then shoved his tongue in my mouth, which was where I wanted it.
I delighted in undoing his tie that was always done perfectly as the crowning touch to his suburban dad/GQ look. It unleashed his office persona and let loose this sexual person I wanted to know, wanted to see exposed. The persistent kissing continued, making it difficult for clothes to be removed, but we managed. He gently pushed me down to suck his now-exposed cock, which I did gladly. He pushed me back and crawled on top and fucked me and kissed me. Then he turned me around so he could fuck me from behind. I delighted in the image of my hair hanging down, my back arched, and my plump ass working his cock all reflected in the mirrored wall next to the bed. He talked dirty to me. He came all over the sheet, a great round splatter right in the middle of the bed. He leaned back and said he was sorry he didn't show more concern about my run-in with the co-worker, but he was just so horny he had to release. I liked this raw honesty; it is why I wanted this.
We watched porn and drank Corona. We fucked again and he left. I turned on Sesame Street and bounced around on the bed like a little kid. I took the paper bathmat with me as a kitschy souvenir. I went to a deli and got the most delicious sandwich I’d ever tasted: pastrami and American on white bread with mayo. I ate it in my car by the park with a fantastic grin on my face.
12. THREESOME
WHY: There is no greater thrill than having two men, cock in hand, begging you for attention.
For my 26th birthday I treated myself to a night at the Waldorf Astoria and set out for Madame X, one of my favorite New York City bars, to find company. I ordered a Corona, looked around, saw nothing particularly appealing and was planning to leave as soon as I finished my beer. A dark, handsome man with black hair pulled into a ponytail began chatting with me. Soon a blonde, built man came from the restroom and joined us. The two had thick Turkish accents and had been friends since childhood when their parents moved to America.
They asked me if I wanted to go salsa dancing with them at a bar around the corner. Why not?
Instead of one of them finding another girl, plenty of whom were available; they both took to dancing with me, one in front and one in back. The music pulsed and we bounced along in time. Soon we became the focal point of the crowded dance floor. All eyes were on me as I shook my hips between these two gorgeous men. I kissed one while rubbing my ass against the other. I took turns kissing them both and they did not seem to mind.
After we worked up a sweat I asked them if they wanted to come back to my hotel. We all crammed into the blonde’s two-seater sports car and I sat in the lap of the pony tailed boy. The blond was showing off, revving up to 80 between the lights on Park Avenue, and we got pulled over. They were frantic as the officer approached the car considering we were drunk, speeding, and illegally had three people occupying a car meant for two. The officer looked in the car saw my “sweet, innocent face” and just told the men to get me home safely.
The rest of the evening, as I was giddy about the fact that my first threesome was going to occur in the Waldorf Astoria, all these fools could talk about was getting off without a ticket!
The giggles stopped eventually and we got down to business. I was impressed that we all lasted for hours. When one of them got close I would switch my attention to the other for cooling off time. We covered all imaginable combinations although the double penetration was surprisingly difficult to maintain. We had a porno-perfect simultaneous finish and I kissed them goodbye.
For my 26th birthday I treated myself to a night at the Waldorf Astoria and set out for Madame X, one of my favorite New York City bars, to find company. I ordered a Corona, looked around, saw nothing particularly appealing and was planning to leave as soon as I finished my beer. A dark, handsome man with black hair pulled into a ponytail began chatting with me. Soon a blonde, built man came from the restroom and joined us. The two had thick Turkish accents and had been friends since childhood when their parents moved to America.
They asked me if I wanted to go salsa dancing with them at a bar around the corner. Why not?
Instead of one of them finding another girl, plenty of whom were available; they both took to dancing with me, one in front and one in back. The music pulsed and we bounced along in time. Soon we became the focal point of the crowded dance floor. All eyes were on me as I shook my hips between these two gorgeous men. I kissed one while rubbing my ass against the other. I took turns kissing them both and they did not seem to mind.
After we worked up a sweat I asked them if they wanted to come back to my hotel. We all crammed into the blonde’s two-seater sports car and I sat in the lap of the pony tailed boy. The blond was showing off, revving up to 80 between the lights on Park Avenue, and we got pulled over. They were frantic as the officer approached the car considering we were drunk, speeding, and illegally had three people occupying a car meant for two. The officer looked in the car saw my “sweet, innocent face” and just told the men to get me home safely.
The rest of the evening, as I was giddy about the fact that my first threesome was going to occur in the Waldorf Astoria, all these fools could talk about was getting off without a ticket!
The giggles stopped eventually and we got down to business. I was impressed that we all lasted for hours. When one of them got close I would switch my attention to the other for cooling off time. We covered all imaginable combinations although the double penetration was surprisingly difficult to maintain. We had a porno-perfect simultaneous finish and I kissed them goodbye.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)