I had anticipated sex at the end of the evening. All my dates end that way if the man and I like each other. But he was coming on to me before the date!
* * * * * * *
My sexual life as an unattached woman includes about fifty one-night stands. I plan to count them up more accurately one of these days. Being an accountant I have an interest in getting the numbers right.
One of my briefer affairs went from a handshake to a union of harmonious conjugation in half an hour. I was living in South Africa and a friend made me a blind date with an American visiting Pretoria on business. She told me that he was fifty years old, handsome, and married but with a roving eye. I have nothing against dating married men provided their wives are not in the same country as I am.
At the time, I was 42 years old and had worked at American embassies and lived in remote countries in Africa for eight years. Romantic relationships with local Africans and American co-workers were discouraged by my employer, so the possibilities for sex were mostly with visitors to the country. And, unfortunately, African countries have few visitors.
My date, who we'll call Slick, was to pick me up at my apartment to go to a party. I fixed myself up nicely. I'm no glamour girl, but I have a healthy, wholesome appearance. I wore a scoop neck dress that revealed a goodly expanse of cleavage and a loose flowery skirt that helped cover up broad hips.
Slick was as advertised: Hollywood handsome, perfectly coiffed, casual, and elegant. I hated him at first sight; he had the oily charm of a car salesman, but hate is not always antithetical to desire. I served him a gin and tonic, we sat down together on the couch, and he complimented me on my dress, which was in fact rather stylish, and felt the fabric, allowing his hand to brush lightly over my breasts -- which may have already been heaving.
About two minutes after we sat down on the couch he made his move. I suspect that the girl friend who arranged the date had told him that (1) I was easy; and, (2) I was desperate. Both statements were true. His hand found its way expertly to my waist and he pulled me closer to touch his lips gently against my forehead and cheek. I was taken aback. I had anticipated sex at the end of the evening. All my dates end that way if the man and I like each other. But he was coming on to me before the date!
I both admired and despised his expertise -- and I also knew that he was going to rumple my pretty dress. I had a choice between stopping him or taking off the dress --so I took it off and carefully laid it out over the couch. I led him into my bedroom. He took off his clothes, being similarly careful to hang them up to avoid wrinkles.
What followed was a good, albeit brief, encounter. He worked his way with hands and mouth up from my feet to my lips, and I explored him with my hands. His pubic area was as carefully groomed and sweet-smelling as the hair. I opened a drawer on my bedside chest and took out a condom. Some men I trust. Slick Never. I slid it onto him and we locked together with urgency.
Slick paced himself expertly to cum with me. On my rating scale he was four firecrackers out of five. We allowed ourselves a scant couple of minutes of afterplay and then agreed that we would be late to the party if we didn't rise, shower, dress, and get moving. I looked at the clock. Thirty minutes from handshake to consummation. I like numbers. We showered together, caressing each other's pubic areas with soapy hands. The night was young, with promise of more in the near future.
At the party, however, Slick became unresponsive and inattentive and I quickly ascertained that I was of no further interest to him in light of several other women there. That was not a tragedy, although I was insulted. While Slick was trying to decide which of two sweet young things he was going to seduce, I found myself another man. We'll call him Clod.
I had known Clod -- in the biblical sense -- a couple of times. He's pleasant and harmless, a fumbler and bumbler in bed, not much to look at, and hardly prized as a catch by the local fishing fleet of lonely women. But, he was a man and I asked him to take me home.
"I thought you came to the party with Slick," he said.
"I did, but I'm going home with you." As we walked out the door I had the satisfying pleasure of seeing a surprised look on Slick's face. I waved at him and smiled.
Well, I owed Clod for rescuing me from being humiliated by Slick and I paid him back by giving him a night to remember. Oily Slick had aroused me, I had to admit, and I was more than ready for a second go round.
I love ears. A man who greets me with a brush of the lips on my cheek and a gentle caress of one of my ears arouses me instantly. During an orgasm my hands usually find their way to a man's head and hair and ears. Another favorite pleasure is to hold a man's head between my legs while he drinks the nectar at my fountain of love. I quiver at the feel of his face and hair and ears against the soft skin of my inner thigh.
With a bit of subtle guidance, Clod performed beyond all expectations. Head buried in my thighs he gave me a thrilling orgasm and then I proceeded to pull him down on top of me, lock onto his penis , and lead him on a wild and impassioned ride. In the passion of the moment, Clod blurted out, "I love you. Will you marry me"
I kept on humping hard and answered, "I never accept a proposal of marriage from a man with an erection." Fortunately, he didn't bring up the subject of marriage again.
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