Thursday, November 22, 2007

Good Manners Rewarded!

I was dreading my date with Paul.

It was cold and overcast, and I’d spent the previous night with Nick and wanted to go home; also my thoughts were on Dean and the thought of fucking someone new just did not appeal.

I’m sorry, I just threw up, I tried. This just isn’t going to work. I don’t want to be a slut anymore. I’ve had an accident. There’s been a family emergency.

But no. I’d already cancelled earlier in the week. I should have turned him down when he suggested it; it would be rude to back out now.

So you’re going to sleep with him cause it’s the polite thing to do? You’re afraid he’ll get mad at you? Think you’re a tease?

Huh. Apparently.


Paul had emailed Jefferson after Jefferson appeared in Time Out New York’s annual sex issue a few weeks ago. He’d checked out Jefferson’s blog and emailed him, saying he was interested. With a caveat: “I’m straight as an arrow,” he wrote, “And wouldn’t want to be in a boy-fest.”

All straight men seem compelled to remind Jefferson that they’re straight. Cause all bi and gay men want to fuck them.

When Paul wrote I was at Jefferson’s, dancing around his living room to “Too Drunk to Fuck”.

“Look at this guy,” said Jefferson. I peered over his shoulder, and looked at a photo of a dark haired, handsome man in a button down shirt.

“He’s cute.” I hopped around and did the swim – my default dance mode is always a ’60s mod move. I had recently been complaining that of late my sex partners had been disappearing: Alex’s girlfriend was back in town, Jefferson was always busy, and Jed was impossible to get hold of. I felt that for the sake of living somewhat dangerously, not to mention my as yet unsigned book deal, I ought to be fucking around with more people. And doing it as soon as possible.

“Let me at ’im,” I said. Well, not really. Instead I read their correspondence, which ended with Paul’s asking, “Do you know any woman who would be willing to ‘associate’ with me?”

“Tell him I’m hot,” I advised. “And easy!” I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in Jefferson’s window. I did the frug and a shimmy. I looked ridiculous.


Jefferson forwarded me the emails so I contacted Paul. We arranged to meet for a drink the following week.

That Thursday we met, as planned, at Vintage, where I’d gone on my first date with Dean back in July. When I arrived, I was met by a tall, thin fellow in jeans, with a messenger bag across his shoulder. Hipster version 2.0.

“Hi!” We shook hands. It was a mild evening so we wended our way to the back garden, where I ordered a Flirtini. I guessed Paul would order a Heineken or a glass of wine, but he opted for vodka and soda. When the waitress asked him what vodka brand he would prefer, he shook his head and said “Any” before agreeing to a Stolichnaya at the waitress’s prompting. This I approved of; I think it’s pretentious to ask for Grey Goose or Stoli (no one ever requests Crystal Palace, do they?). Though that’s just prejudice on my part. Just cause I can’t tell one vodka from another doesn’t mean others can’t tell if one brand is superior. Nevertheless, I stick to this reverse snobbism. But I digress.

So. Paul was lean and his hair was spiky and he had a mild, deferential manner. I pegged him at 43, tops. Then he told me he was 51. Fifty one!

“Wow,” I said weakly.

“I’m pretty healthy,” he explained.

He was a creative director at an ad agency and a native of Brooklyn. He had read some of the same books as me. He remembered the blackout of ’77, though, unlike me, he wasn’t four years old at the time. And, I noticed, his voice had a faint but unmistakable East Brooklyn tinge. What do I mean by this? I mean his voice bore a strange resemblance to Woody Allen’s! Good lord.

But despite that he was attractive. I mean, I’m not immune to lean, polite and articulate men with messenger bags. We chatted for a bit and after a discussion about the recent history of New York City -- always a turn on for me, come to think of it -- I decided that a) I would fuck him if he was game and b) he would make an admirable addition to Jefferson’s parties, despite being straight. He was attractive, personable and wouldn’t frighten the skittish (i.e. me).

So it was agreed: we’d make plans to fuck in the coming week. I went home, satisfied that I was doing my part to live somewhat dangerously.

But now we were meeting again and I was having second thoughts. I’d spent the previous night with Nick, it was rainy and cold, my feet hurt and the idea of spending a few hours fucking a near-stranger did not appeal. I sat on the uptown bus, loathing myself.

When I got to Paul’s door he welcomed me with a big smile and took my coat. “Can I get you a glass of wine?” he asked as I seated myself on his sofa.

“Yes please.” I figured alcohol would go a ways towards easing my doubts.

He poured me a glass of Riesling (he had, in fact, emailed me earlier to find out if there was anything I preferred and I’d been quick to lodge a request). It was slightly fizzy and sweet, and went down a treat.

“Oh, this is nice,” I said, leaning back against and feeling myself relax ever so slightly.

We talked and talked and my eyes wandered to a pile of books. I approved of his selections (mostly non-fiction, but still) and after a while I forgot that I didn’t want to be here. I did, in fact, want to be here. I drank most of the bottle of Riesling.

“Maybe we should take our clothes off,” said Paul at one point as I poured myself another glass of wine.

“Why?” I smiled. “Do you have to be somewhere later?” I mean, what was the hurry?

“No, I just thought it would be nice to continue talking naked,” he said, sounding embarrassed.

“Well, you’re not in a rush, are you?” But when he lay on the couch I slid next to him, and when he climbed on top of me I didn’t protest.

We kissed for a while. For a 51-year-old, he had a great body: lean, muscled, blah blah blah. He had a great body for a 30 year old, in fact. He took off my shirt and nuzzled my breasts. I smirked at the ceiling. Eventually, stripped to our underwear, we headed to his bedroom.

On the bed we lay next to one another, kissing. I straddled him and dangled my breasts in his face. He licked my nipples, then kissed the aureoles. “You have great tits,” he observed. He ran his hands from my waist to my hips. “You’re really voluptuous.”

I giggled. “You know what that means to a woman?” I asked. “Voluptuous? It means fat.”

“No, no,” he protested, “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” I rubbed myself against his smooth skin. I mean, I did know. He didn’t mean I was fat, and that’s not what the word voluptuous means, either. But for an American female, words like “voluptuous”, “curvy” and even “healthy” have sort of double meanings, and those double meanings are apparent in everything from Glamour to Craig’s List.

And frankly I am kind of voluptuous – I have a small waist and wide hips (and, unfortunately, wide thighs, too). My tits are a reasonably-endowed B. I’ve got trim ankles, though, which is a weird source of pride for me and would definitely up my hotness factor if this were 1891.

But anyway. Paul was hard, and I was wet. I was sliding up and down against him, almost as if we were actually fucking rather than mimicking the actions our bodies would soon perform, that role-play of sex that often precedes the event itself. My cunt was tipped against his cock, I was close to opening up to him.

I rolled off him and he put on a condom, and I got back on top. I sighed as my flesh yielded to his dick. It felt great, even better than I’d expected. I rode him slowly.

“Ah,” he said.

“You like that? You like being inside me?”

“Yeah, I like your pussy,” he sighed.

Oooh, he’d said pussy. “You do?” I hinted.

“Yeah, you’ve got a sweet, wet pussy…”

I felt this warm, dreamy contentment steal through me, at odds with the physical urge I had to keep pushing against him. I was flooded with the disassociated bliss that usually follows sex before I’d even had an orgasm. I rocked back and forth absently.

“Is that good?”

“Yeah, I’m going to lick you pussy and fuck you and … ride my cock.” Paul looked pleased and secretive.

I did, and then I came. I collapsed onto Paul’s chest before tumbling onto my back so he could fuck me.

On top of me his cock pushed up against me. “This is the best time I’ve had all day,” he breathed into my ear.

“Well, I should hope so!” I would hope sex with me would trump laying off employees, which, Paul had told me, he’d spent the last few days doing at the behest of his higher ups.

“I mean, the best time I’ve had all year,” he corrected himself, laughing. I assumed that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I appreciated the sentiment.

I stretched against Paul’s comforter, enjoying the cool cotton against my skin. With a long, slow shudder, Paul came, and I lay there, smug and warm underneath him while the rain battered against the windows.

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