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.
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