Jefferson had set me up with a 25-year old he’d been fooling around with. He’d emailed me the link to a story featuring Aaron in Time Out New York. I read the article. “Has he been rehabilitated?” I asked Jefferson, then told him he could give Aaron my email address.
Aaron sent me an amusing email and his spelling was fine, so I was inclined to meet him, even though I hadn’t seen his photo. When Jefferson suggests something I generally do it — he’s my excuse to do kinda reckless things that often turn out surprisingly well. And, until I was waiting for him at the bar where we’d agreed to meet, I didn’t even feel nervous. Am I becoming blasé? I think the fact that he was 25 and clearly able to construct a joke reassured me.
The thing is, he lives in Dean’s neighborhood. The bar we met in was two blocks from Dean’s apartment. In fact, I’d had dinner here with Dean not too long ago (we meet for dinner. We make out. He tries to feel me up; I tell him to cut it out. You get the idea. More on this another time). My sense of place is very strong — one thing I never do in this blog is identify neighborhoods. I think I once indicated that Jeremy lived on the East Side, but that’s not even true. I feel like your NYC neighborhood is a very important clue to your identity. For instance, before I met Jefferson I guessed where he lived without much effort. I even narrowed down his former neighborhood with his ex and kids. Anyway, I was on Dean’s turf, a turf I’d been familiar with for most of my life, and one I thought was particularly suited to the life I wanted to live, and thought I might live, with Dean. That is: a settled, married life with a couple of kids and a co-op. I was half afraid I’d run into Dean, though we’d never been to this bar together.
Aaron was almost on time and just a little bit taller than I am. He wore jeans and a boiled wool blazer and the hipster style black-framed rectangular specs I find so irresistible. I thought Aaron was pretty cute, even without the specs.
And smart and nice. And, as it turned out, a native New Yorker (always a plus). I asked him where he went to high school, he told me, and, without thinking I said, “Oh, do you know Eric Martin?” Since my friend Polly’s brother went to the same high shool and is about his age.
Aaron frowned. “I think he was in my class. How do you know him?”
Oh God: “I used to baby sit him.”
We both sniggered, me a little self-consciously. Note to self: do not say the first thing that occurs to you. Polly’s brother was a bright, talkative kid. I saw him last year at Polly’s wedding. He’s married now, like almost everyone I seem to come across these days. He grew up nice.
We finished our drinks. “Would you like to come over?” He asked. Where was my sense of fear, of self-preservation? Nowhere to be found: “OK,” I said gamely. I was completely at ease in Aaron’s presence. We bought a bottle of wine and headed to his place. I’d walked past his building many times on my way from Dean’s place to the subway.
Aaron had a nice apartment — the building and neighborhood would have suggested he was an older, more financially established professional. His largish studio overlooked a park across the street. There were no shades on the windows. He put on some music and settled on the couch. There was a pile of Time Out New Yorks on the sofa. “Oh that one’s old,” Aaron said, a little self consciously. “I kept it cause I’m in it.”
I didn’t want to tell him I’d read all about the coming without warning and the mood music fiasco. “Really?” I said. “Wow.”
On the sofa we sat near each other, and I went so far as to slip off my shoes (mules anyway), but I wasn’t going to make the first move. My boldness apparently extends to going home with guys I’ve just met but no further. Taking the initiative on the first kiss? Never! Eventually Aaron leaned in and we sat there, making out. Nice.
It helped that it was a studio with a big bed in the center so it wasn’t an awkward trip to the bed. I excused myself to pee and when I came back his kiss had a mouthwash-y taste. He’d used Binaca! So cute. Also unnecessary. I hate the metallic alcohol tang.
He lay on top of me and as we kissed I peeled off most of my clothes; he followed. As his tongue slipped towards my nipple I lifted my head from the pillow: “I don’t sleep with guys on the first date.” I mean, I have, but in general I don’t. Not at the moment, anyway.
“That’s OK,” he said, and turned his head back to my body. His tongue slid rapidly down. I wriggled out of my underwear, as did he. Then he levered himself between my thighs and put his face close to my pussy, like he was inhaling me, which I guess he was. Then his tongue began to slowly circle my clit, starting with my outer lips and then moving to the fleshy plateau (I can’t write mons pubis in a sex blog) above. His tongue dripped inward. I swallowed, my pussy pulsing. Aaron looked up at me and grinned. When his tongue reached my clit I sighed aloud, straining my hips towards his soft mouth. I felt like I was sinking into the mattress.
While he ate me, he shook his head back and forth, pressing his face to either side of my cunt, like a dog shaking water from his coat. Like he couldn’t get enough. I stroked his hair.
This went on for a while. I thought he might feel compelled to make me come, which I knew was unlikely. “Hey,” I said at last. He looked up sleepily from my thighs. “Don’t feel obligated to keep going,” I said awkwardly. “I never come from oral sex.” Anyway, I wanted to go down on him.
“I like this,” Aaron said, his voice muffled. He went back to eating my pussy. Well, who was I to argue?
I think I’ve come from oral sex once. This is funny. In mid 2003, prior my career as a slut, I went on a date with this guy Marco. He was Brazilian. We met for coffee, and then agreed to dinner. I went to his apartment kind of wondering at myself – I was going to a strange man’s apartment! I don’t even like him that much! What was I doing?
Marco was staying in a small apartment with the sort of modular blond wood-and-fiberboard matching furniture you see in your better college dorms. We ate dinner, started to watch a movie on his laptop, then started fooling around on his extra long twin bed.
Anyway. He went down on me and his tongue was so light and fast. I have no idea what he did, maybe some secret Brazilian tongue trick, but I came, to my great surprise. Then I got him off and we tried to sleep in the narrow bed. When I left in the morning I knew I would never see him again, and I was relieved. But to this day whenever a guy goes down on me, I usually murmur “Um, faster… lighter…” at some point during the proceedings.
Eventually Aaron got on his back and I straddled him. “You could sit on my face,” he suggested. I’d never really thought about it but sit on my face definitely had a dirty, euphemistic quality that I really liked. I mean, got me hot. I pictured myself literally sitting on his face, grinding myself against his eager mouth. But wait: “I want to get you off,” I announced.
So it was my turn to slide my tongue down the landscape of his body, making pit stops to lick the mountain of his nipples, kiss the valley of his bellybutton. Then I scooted down between his legs and moved my tongue across the scoop between the veins in his inner thigh. I licked him.
He had a nice dick. I trailed my fingers up and down, then moved my mouth around the head. Aaron stretched closer. I did as I’ve been instructed by various guys: a firm hand at the base, tongue on the sensitive bit under the head, rapid up-and-down strokes with my hand and mouth. To no avail. He wasn’t hard. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked at last.
“Um,” said Aaron politely. “You could hold my dick a little tighter. You know, squeeze it.”
I obliged and his dick stiffened right away. I grinned and sucked on his cock some more, my mouth and hand pulling at his cock, now properly engorged. Very soon Aaron gasped, “I’m going to come,” (I guess that Time Out New York lesson had taken). Then his come spurted out at me while I leaned over him, enjoying his expression. Our eyes met, and I brushed my breasts against his cock, and stomach, then rubbed it on my tits. I licked a drop off his dick.
“Do you want me to lick that off you?” he asked.
Taken aback, I spoke without thinking: “Oh, that’s OK.” But I liked his eagerness, and the implicit salaciousness. Then we settled back against the pillows and made out some more. I turned onto my stomach and he lay against me, bucking slightly. He slid a finger inside me and he moved his hips back and forth so I could feel his dick against my thighs. His dick felt stiff, the skin silky. I felt my pussy start to pulse again, and I reflected that maybe having sex on the first date wasn’t such a bad idea.
But instead we stayed like that, me feeling hot and liquidy. Then we relaxed into not-fooling-around mode and Aaron got a bowl of chocolate ice cream, which I polished off quick. I got the impression he felt chocolate ice cream was the proper food to serve following sexual activity. But I was starving, so we ventured out to a café. We sat at a marble-topped table, and I ate all my granita and most of his chocolate cake. When we left he walked me to the corner, where I hailed a cab.
“I don’t have any more money,” Aaron said. He’d bought the drinks, the wine, and the desserts. I wouldn’t have taken cab fare from him, did he think I expected it? I’m 10 years older, perhaps I should’ve paid for him. Or not. “That’s OK,” I said, nonplussed. We kissed next to the taxi. I got in and as we pulled away I saw him cross the street, his figure illuminated by the streetlamps.
I leaned back against the leather seats of the cab. I was looking forward to fucking him.