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Well, hello there.

Forgive my absence. Very recently, I found myself suddenly faced with a series of unexpected deadlines for work, and I had to throw my focus into that. Then, I had to revise a manuscript that was accepted for publication. (Hallelujah.) Since finishing those professional tasks, I have been terribly busy these past weeks being terribly not busy–that is, I went on a vacation. Not a work vacation, wherein I have a little fun in between meetings or presentations or field work, but a true-blue, honest-to-God vacation, hiking and swimming and boating and site-seeing hundreds of miles away from what anyone would call civilization. It was refreshing, to say the least.

Then Ashley went on vacation without me for a week.

And Tina came to visit.

It is a fascinating experience, having my lover in my home when my wife is gone. For four days, Tina and I interacted as though we were a long-term couple. We cooked together, we spent time at the beach, we went out for drinks, all the while holding hands and stealing kisses and sharing quiet jokes and whispered innuendo. We slept in the same bed, woke up together, showered together. The spats and misunderstandings of the past months simply disappeared. We were best friends again, lovers in the truest sense of the word. I can’t tell you how badly I missed that.

And the sex. Holy fuck, the sex was mind-blowing. Passionate and intense, occasionally frantic, never shorter than an hour, and always at least twice a day. Tina is truly insatiable in bed.

Sadly, all good things must end. I recently said goodbye to her, and she has begun the long return trip to her home across the country. It was decidedly painful to watch her go. Neither of us managed it without a few tears.

I am now sitting alone in my home, at my computer for the first time in two weeks. Her scent still lingers in my house, and I occasionally close my eyes as I inhale, savoring the aroma and remembering the feel of her hand in mine, her lips against mine, her hair on my shoulder. I am still uncertain how I came to be in this position, being in love with two women, my wife and my lover.  It is a difficult thing to manage, but weeks like this are more than worth the effort.

So again, forgive my absence. I assure you, I have not forgotten my regular readers, and I am working on a couple of different entries that I intend to post here soon. But, I am also closing in on the end of my contract with my current institution, thus much of my attention must shift to work, both in terms of completing required manuscripts and datasets, and of finding a new position. As such, I may not be as regular a blogger as I have been recently, but I will continue to work here as time permits.

I hope all is well with you, my friends and readers.

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So, let’s examine the other side of the coin from my last post.

It’s no secret to Tina that my sex life with Ashley has historically been less than satisfying.  In fact, the details of our sexual relationship were one of the first things Tina and I discussed after finally admitting our shared interest in each other: the rarity with which I fuck my wife, her general lack of interest in sexual exploration, and so on.  Tina couldn’t fathom how Ashley could feel that way around me, because she had wanted me for years.  (I can be quite oblivious at times.)  So, she offered to help me relieve some of that tension.  Fast forward to a cold winter’s day reunion, when Tina and I fucked like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.  Our affair was born out of mutual respect, physical attraction, and an acknowledgement that neither of us were even close to living the sexual lifestyle we truly wanted.

When Tina started fucking her new lover, they established that they would tell each other any time they had sex with another person.  This affects him more than her, as he frequently fucks new and random people, and she wants to make informed decisions about her sexual health.  This is an entirely pragmatic arrangement in my mind, and she and I agreed we would be similarly open with one another.  It’s not been much of an issue because I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a while–just her, and Ashley–and she has only slept with him while she’s been away from me.  I understand that she sleeps with him on a regular basis, and I don’t expect her to tell me every time they fuck, but I do expect her to tell me if he sleeps with someone else because I, too, want to be informed about the risks to my sexual health as much as possible.

That’s our arrangement, in a nutshell.  We tell each other if we fuck someone else, share anything that could change our exposure to risk of STIs, and understand that we could be fucking our significant others at any time.

At least, I thought that’s what it was.

It came as a real surprise to me when Ashley suddenly became more sexually active.  For the longest time, literally years, she wasn’t at all interested in sex, and we would go weeks, if not months, at a time without being intimate.  Hence the topic of this blog.  Neither she nor I know what flipped the switch for her, but we now fuck much more regularly than we once did, and she has begun exploring new fantasies and activities with me, including BDSM, pornography, mutual masturbation, female dominance, and other fun and exciting things.  (This is likely the reason I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a long while.  I just haven’t needed them!)  I didn’t share this with Tina because I don’t ask her for similar details of her sexual escapades, and my understanding, as stated above, was that we know the other could be fucking their local partner at any time.

Boy, was that a mistake on my part.

Tina recently asked me who all I had fucked this year.  My answer: just her, and Ashley.  The anger and resentment that followed was truly astounding.

How could you possibly think I wouldn’t want to know if you had sex with Ashley.

What if my lover didn’t tell me he slept with someone else, you would be livid.

I can’t believe you would be so dishonest with me.

I reminded her that I don’t expect her to tell me when she fucks her other lover, and I assumed she felt similarly.  She argued that it was different because she shares a house with him, and she fucks him so regularly it just makes sense that she probably fucked him on any given day.  I countered with, I live in the same house with my wife, and married people fuck sometimes, which I took as a given.  She responded with a bitter comment about the “sanctity of marriage”.

Point is, it was a very, very unpleasant exchange.  She and I are still recovering from the events of that day.  It was a bit of a turning point for us, frankly, and our relationship hasn’t been the same since.  There is an underlying hostility and resentment in her words at times, roiling just under the surface, that she acknowledges because she “is slow to forgive, and never forgets”.  (Her words.)

I wonder, who is at fault here?  Was it unfair of me to assume that we had a mutual understanding?  Or was her response an overreaction to the obvious realities of being in a clandestine relationship?  Admittedly, I could have told her that my sex life with Ashley had been improving, but it seems perfectly reasonable to me that two people in a relationship will occasionally have sex.  I would have told her if I fucked a new person, or if Ashley had fucked someone else and thus exposed me to a new risk (not that that would ever happen, Ashley is depressingly monogamous)… but fucking Ashley is nothing new to me, and doesn’t change my risk exposure.  So I never shared it, because I often didn’t think to, and when I did, I simply didn’t want to chance hurting Tina.

Or, is assigning fault a useless exercise?  Emotions rarely adhere to strict reasonable guidelines.  Tina freely admits that she loves how receptive I am to her being promiscuous, and simultaneously admits that, though she wants me to have that freedom as well, she would probably be terribly hurt by me sleeping with someone else, because she wants me to be hers and hers alone.  So it is entirely plausible that her reaction was born from that jealousy, and thus assigning blame is simply a juvenile response to a natural human inclination.

Really, what it makes me wonder is whether Tina and I are truly compatible.  She is a phenomenal lover, and sex with her is arguably the best I have ever experienced.  She is a gifted professional and a remarkable woman, and I care much more deeply for her than I should.  I wonder whether that depth of feeling and our inability to act on it, and the exposure and vulnerability it brings to our emotional lives, makes us hypersensitive to things that would normally not bother us were we to be together regularly and in a committed fashion.  I’ve no way of knowing, obviously, and there are so many questions and unknowns that I can’t shake this sense of unease I’ve felt for so many weeks.

Perhaps I should just let it go, let the relationship end, but the thought of not having her in my life is extraordinarily painful.  So ever onward do I trudge through discontent and melodrama.

Perhaps I just need a vacation.

I recently chatted with an acquaintance I met through this site. Maybe not acquaintance–friend now? I’m not sure yet, and I hate assigning labels to developing relationships, but if you read this post, friend-quaintance, I think you’re just the best.

Man, I get side-tracked easily. Gotta work on that.

Anyhow. Said friend-quaintance commented that they admire my self-awareness and honesty. Though flattered, those are two qualities that I would never expect anyone to apply to me. I certainly make every effort at introspection, the better to understand myself and my interactions with the people around me, but I wouldn’t say I’ve been particularly good at it. And those times that I successfully nailed down whatever thing was stewing about in the back of my mind, I probably didn’t actually do anything about it because I am primarily driven by three desires. They are, in no particular order: 1) to learn and understand everything, 2) to avoid conflict at most any cost, and 3) to fuck as often and passionately as possible.

That last one is a real doozy, and doesn’t really mesh with the second one. Most people I have ever known don’t have my libido. My current lover, Tina, certainly does, and on our business trip we fucked every afternoon and evening, at least once, usually twice or three times, and would have gone for a fourth round if we hadn’t had to be up early for work.

What can I say, I have a really short refractory period. Multiple orgasms isn’t possible (*sigh*), but four times a day isn’t too difficult for me.

But that’s why she’s my lover. Most people don’t seem to be like that. So, when Desire Number Three kicks in, if my wife can not or will not satisfy the urge, and my lover is not available, then I have to find it someplace else.

…well, “have to” is strong phrasing. It’s not as though it’s a necessity. But I’m sure we can all agree that the need to fuck is a powerful motivator. Sadly, the other people in my life would certainly not take well to my promiscuous endeavors, and so I am driven to craft elaborate and entirely believable lies and scenarios that permit me to engage in my infidelities without upsetting Desire Number Two.

But, I sometimes wonder what it would be like, not to be dishonest. Not that I think I would be any good at true openness and transparency, mind you. Deception is too much a part of who I am at this point. But if I were to do that… what would it even look like? What would it take? I am only ever truly honest on this site, because this is about as safe and accepting a place as exists for me to share the things I think about and struggle with. I can’t really imagine what an honest relationship would be, because I’ve never seen or experienced one. I’m not sure they exist. Like a really communicative sasquatch.

I can say, however, that if I were to really try at that kind of honesty, it would only be for a woman who was every bit as sexual as I am. She would have to be able to read this blog and not be terrified. She would be accepting of how much I struggle with these things, and rather than judge me for them, she would experience them with me. She would share my sexually debauched lifestyle in every way. Swing by my office for a quickie over lunch. Bring home a random man or woman she met at a bar, and let me watch them fuck her. Wake me in the morning by straddling my face. Plan a weekend involving a premium hotel suite, pizza (because room service is for chumps), four bottles of wine, and an arsenal of new dildos, vibrators, masturbators, restraints, and lingerie.

Hmm. That last one sounds a bit pedestrian when you say it that way. But you lock me in a hotel room with my dream woman for 60 hours and there is no telling what will happen. They’d probably have to burn that bed.

It’s likely such a woman exists, somewhere, but sadly I’ve never met her. If I did, I imagine I would be willing to communicate anything and everything she wanted for another chance to ride that particular unicorn.

Or sasquatch, if I want to continue that metaphor. But “riding the sasquatch” sounds incredibly dirty.

Tina comes close. Probably closer than any woman I have ever been with. But she has her reservations as well, and is not nearly the go-getter I am when it comes to sex. She’s also not a morning person, so straddling my face first thing when she wakes up probably will never happen.

Which is a goddamned shame, because fuck waking up to the smell of coffee, I want to wake up to the smell and taste of a woman. Hence my previous post.

Though coffee is a close second.

First and foremost, I appreciate the concern I’ve received from so many of you.  Numerous comments and dozens of e-mails inquiring as to the state of my mental and physical well-being, statements that my absence has been noticed, requests that I return to writing.  Even a text message or three checking in on me.  Thank you, one and all.

I know I don’t have to explain myself, so please don’t interpret the following as justification for my absence.  As per the usual, I’m just writing to get things out, to let spill the tide of various emotions I’ve been feeling for a while so that I may think more clearly.  I don’t want anyone to have the impression that I’m not okay.  I’m always okay.  I just have those moments.  The past month and a half has been a particularly long moment.

Christ, has it been that long?  Anyway.

A day or so after my last post, Pretty Grad Student and I had a nice sit-down about our affair.  It had become obvious to me that she was developing some pretty serious feelings for me, which she confirmed over coffee.  I had to explain to her, as gently as I could, that while I certainly shared the emotional connection with her, it could never replace the emotional connection I share with Ashley.  That I firmly believe it’s possible to have intense feelings for multiple people, but that acting upon them by committing to some form of exclusivity can be risky for everyone involved, particularly when one or both parties are already participating in exclusivity elsewhere.  (That’s scientist speak for, “Yeah, I have feelings for you too, but I’m married and that ain’t changin’.”)  This led to an intense discussion (not a fight, but a sincere, gin-yoo-wine conversation) about my feelings for anyone–her, the numerous other women I’ve slept with, Ashley, and even myself.  She ultimately suggested that I may be depressed and need to seek some kind of counseling or otherwise attempt to right the wrongs in my immediate universe.

I value Pretty Grad Student’s opinion more than most.  She’s a sharp cookie, very perceptive, exceptionally sympathetic.  So I took some time off from everything but work, with the intention of examining what, out of all the things I’d excluded, I missed the most.

It didn’t quite work out like that.  Sure, I spent a lot of time at work, and just as much time at home with Ashley.  But I found that, the more I isolated myself from everything, the less inclined I was to come back to it.  I found myself thinking, “Hmm.  I could do [insert activity here].  But I don’t know if I want to.”  That indecision stopped me from doing a lot of things, including writing this blog, and I saw no measurable difference in my happiness.  Effectively, I spent a month and a half treading a fine line between depression and apathy.

And that pisses me right the fuck off.

So this morning, as I stood comfortably in Virabhadrasana for the first time in weeks, watching the sun creep up over the hill, I decided, at least for the time being, to embrace who and what I am.  Fuck if I know where things are going, or what will happen in the near future.  But I’m tired of fighting it, of trying to justify it, of struggling with something that is as deep a part of me as anything can be.  So I ran with more purpose than I’ve felt in months.  So I worked harder, wrote faster, thought more clearly.  So I left work early and fucked Pretty Grad Student with all the intensity our bodies could muster.

When we were done, she rolled onto her side, pressed her bare body to mine, and said, “It’s good to have you back.”

All I could say was, “It’s good to be back.”

“So what did you think of the conference today?”

I walk down the hall, my hands in my pockets, messenger bag over my shoulder, side by side with Pretty Grad Student.  We spent the day, as did most of our colleagues, at a small conference on management and ecology.  Unlike the massive conferences for which we typically plan for weeks, this was more directed, with an emphasis on the intersection between policy and ecology.

“It was disappointing,” I answer, continuing the inner monologue I’d been running for the past several minutes.  “It was like everyone wanted to be the keynote speaker, so hardly anyone presented any real science.”

“That one guy did.”

“Yeah, one guy,” I agree.  “I was expecting presentations on new findings and advancements in the field, not hours of proselytizing.”  I shake my head and sigh.  “Two days, wasted.  I could have made such headway on my analysis.”

“Quit overachieving,” she scolds me.  “You’re making the rest of us look lazy.”

“Quit being lazy and you too can be the department bitch,” I say with forced enthusiasm.

She snorts.  “Now you’re just whining.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say.  “Just frustrated.”  I unlock my office door and step inside, tossing my bag into one of the empty chairs across from my desk.  I fall into my large work chair, an excessive expenditure I have never once regretted, and slump comfortably.

Pretty Grad Student shuts my office door and sits on the corner of my desk, silent.  After a moment, she asks, delicately, “Are things going better with your wife yet?”

I glance at her.  We normally don’t talk much about my and Ashley’s relationship.  It’s not like we purposely avoid the subject, but we always seem to be occupied by other things (usually our nether regions).  The only reason she knows we’re in a rough patch is because she stayed with me at my hotel, helping me make the most of my self-imposed isolation.  Her interest surprises me, and I say as much.

“I worry about you,” she says calmly.  “I don’t think anyone realizes how much effort you put into being happy.  I mean, I didn’t realize it either until these past few days.”

“I’m spending time with you because I genuinely enjoy your company,” I say calmly.  “I’m not using you.”

“No, and I’ve never thought you were,” she says.  Then a sly smirk crosses her lips.  “But, for the record, you can use me any way you need, baby.”

I smile at her.  “Thanks.”

Her smirk remains, but she furrows her brow as though concerned.  “Seriously though, it can’t be healthy for you to keep all this frustration bottled up like you do.  It’s great that you put on a stiff upper lip and all that, but eventually you have to let yourself be unhappy.”

“I don’t want to be unhappy,” I answer, annoyed, swiveling to and fro in my chair.  “I don’t have any reason to be unhappy.  I’m tired of being unhappy.”

She stands up and moves toward me, sitting on her knees in front of me.  She takes my hands in hers and locks gazes with me.  “If you want to quit being unhappy, then stop pretending that you aren’t.  Lying to the world about how you feel is one thing, but refusing to let yourself experience your own emotions is another.”  She smiles warmly, if a bit sadly.  “You’re the most amazing man I’ve ever known.  But even the most amazing of men can have bad days, and it sounds to me like you’ve been having an awful lot of them.  You deserve to let it out.”

I look at her and smile weakly.  “Thanks.  But I don’t agree with you.  The best thing I can do is try to keep positive and not let myself get overburdened by my own baggage.”  I squeeze her hands lightly, and she nods quietly.  She kisses my knuckle once before standing, leaning forward, and kissing me gently on the lips.

“Suit yourself, baby,” she says, more lightheartedly than before, but the concern is still there.  “But don’t think I’m going to let this go.  We’re going to talk about it tonight.”

I grin.  “Assuming you can get my mouth off of you long enough to get me to say anything.”

“If you’re not talking, you’d better have your mouth on me.”

“Now you’re just repeating me,” I say as I wave her off.  “Get to work, minion.  I’ll be ready to leave in an hour.”

She glares playfully and snaps her teeth at me.  (It’s much sexier than it sounds, especially coming from her), then turns abruptly, letting herself out.  I hear her voice from around the corner: “Yes sir, professor.”

I look at the empty doorframe, listening to her footfalls as she goes down the hall.  I smile, despite my frustration, and sigh.  Strangely enough, I feel a bit better.

I’m having coffee with Ashley tonight.

That’s such a strange thing to say.  “I’m having coffee with Ashley tonight.”  A perfectly unremarkable statement, carrying with it some weighty implications, as though it were an event that required planning, that having coffee with her should somehow be out of the ordinary.  It’s normal for married couples to have coffee together.  I see it all the time on television (and we all know anything on television must be normal).  But it becomes weird when you’ve been estranged from your spouse for over a week.

I haven’t seen her in ten days now, not since June 8, when we had our argument.  We’ve barely been in communication since then.  Presumably, she realized that I wasn’t just going to come home with nothing resolved, so there were a few days with no communication whatsoever.  Then today, I got an e-mail from her, asking if I wanted to have coffee at our favorite cafe.  I hem-hawed about it for a while, before finally texting her my assent.

So, after ten days of separation, I’m meeting Ashley tonight, to have coffee and catch up, and, I assume, to discuss the state of our marriage, why I left, and what it means for our future.  It’s not like we haven’t had this conversation a dozen times before.  We’re not breaking new ground here.  But, given the circumstances leading up to our meeting tonight, I have no idea how this is going to go.

…you know, I say that.  But it’s not entirely true.

I know that I’ll arrive fifteen minutes early, because that’s what I do.  I know I’ll be done with my first cup of coffee, likely with a shot of Bailey’s in it, by the time she shows up, perfectly punctual, as always.  I know she’ll look beautiful in her summer attire.  When I see her, my heart will skip a beat, my throat will catch, my stomach will turn in knots, the same as always when I see her the first time after any extended period apart.  And I know, despite how happy I will be to see her, I won’t hug her, or shake her hand, or anything, because I’m stubborn.  I’ll stand up while she sits, because that’s what a gentleman does, and I’ll ask how her day was.  She’ll tell me some brief anecdote about the day’s events, then ask me the same, and I’ll do the same.

By the time her first, my second, coffee arrives, we’ll have run out of pleasantries.  We will be silent for a little while.  I’ll ask her why she wanted to have coffee.  She’ll say she missed me, that she wanted to talk.  I’ll tell her there’s nothing to be said that hasn’t been said before.  She’ll agree, and her voice will catch, and she’ll try not to cry.  She will tell me she loves me, that she wants to be there for me sexually, but she doesn’t know how to change herself.  I will tell her that I love her too, that not a single day goes by that I don’t thank God for bringing her into my life, but unrequited physical intimacy is sufficient to destroy any relationship.  She’ll tell me she knows this, but she just can’t bring herself to be physically intimate as often as I’d like.  So I’ll ask her what she wants to do about this, the same problem we’ve had for years now, because something has to be done, because even though I thank God for her every day, there is also not a day that I don’t feel some level of resentment toward her for refusing to be intimate with me.

And this is where the future becomes cloudy.  It’s unlikely that she’s going to tell me that a permanent separation is in order, but given the state of things, I doesn’t strike me as totally impossible, either.  It’s just really improbable, because we still love each other as much as we ever have.  Ashley feels like she’s not enough for me (and let’s call it like it is–she isn’t), which scares and upsets her, but she won’t do enough to amend the situation.  However, that’s not enough to drive her away from me.  She wants me for the rest of her life, as she so often reminds me, in the most romantic, if still asexual, manner possible.

That means, if things go badly tonight, it will most likely be my doing.  And for all our problems, and despite my indiscretions, I’m not ready to say goodbye.  Being away from her always reminds me just how much I need her.  I acknowledge it frequently, but it’s her absence in my daily life that makes the need more palpable.  When we’re together, I crave her physical touch.  When we’re apart, I just crave her.

Anyhow.  This was intended as more of an update, and instead evolved into some kind of inner monologue about the state of my marriage.  My apologies.  Also, please forgive my absence in the past couple of weeks.  I just… haven’t felt up to responding to emails, comments, etc., which I hope is understandable.  I’ll be back soon, hopefully with something more positive to report.

Regards,
BimodalTendancies

When I got up this morning, after a long night of debauchery, I stumbled downstairs and checked my phone.  Through bleary eyes, I saw a message from Marian.  And another.  And another.  And another.

Hey, are you doing anything today?  I thought we could grab lunch.

Are you there?

Are you mad at me?

You don’t have to ignore me.

Real mature, asshole.

Umm.  Okay.

A few seconds later, I tapped out the following response:

Sorry, was out late with a colleague. Got up late, didn’t mean to miss your messages. But you just crossed the fine line between concerned and crazy bitch. So, we’re done. Don’t bother contacting me again.

I know it was one time, but really, one time is all it takes.  I feel like I narrowly avoided a really bad situation here.  Like I was bending backward Matrix-style while bullets of crazy whizzed past me at a speed of batshit bonkers.  I’m The One, people.

Me:  “So what, you’re saying I can dodge bitches?”
Morpheus:  “No, Bi.  I’m saying, when you’re ready… you won’t have to.”

I don’t know why I find that so very amusing.  I think it’s the residual bits of exhaustion.  I haven’t had quite enough coffee this morning.

Fuck, is it even morning anymore?

That’s it.  Yoga.

Pretty Grad Student:  “Enjoy your weekend.  Got any good plans?”

Me:  “Dick all, that’s what.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “That sounds fun.”

Me:  “Except for the chafing.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “Inappropriate workplace humor is a good way to end the week.”

Me:  “It’s only inappropriate if you make it so.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “I guess so.  Well, I have something for the chafing, if you need.”

Me:  “I’m always interested in new weapons in the war on chafing.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “How about industrial strength lube?”

Me:  “I was thinking lotion.  Get your mind out of the gutter, minion.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “But lotion isn’t as much fun.”

Me:  “It is for me.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “But I prefer the lube.  I think you will too.”

Me:  “That might be the most poorly delivered invitation I’ve ever heard.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “But it’s an invitation all the same.  My place?”

Me:  “Nine o’clock.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “Bring the booze.  I’ll take care of the rest.”

I can’t make this shit up, people.

I sit on one of the two couches in the communal living area, relishing the deep cushions and plush fabrics.  I have a thing for old furniture.  It’s softer, more pliable, because of its lived-in character, and this couch is exceptionally old.  It feels lovely under my intoxicated fingers.

Beside me, a young woman chatters away about her dream of becoming an “alternative fashion designer”.  Before the six-pack and ninth shot kicked in, I’d asked her what that meant, and she’d described a number of designs she had in mind based on insect anatomy.  I recall being vaguely horrified by the idea of a woman made up to resemble a praying mantis, given that the females of the species are sexually cannibalistic following copulation, and that my only real interest is in her sexual qualities makes it particularly concerning.  But she’s attractive enough that I’m willing to risk having my skull eaten.  She’s tall  with little curvature, save for one of the more amazing racks I’ve ever seen–perky, round, at least a large C, made all the larger by her slender frame, barely covered by a skin-tight black tanktop.  She wears nothing under the tank or her baggy green cargo pants, based on the view she’d inadvertently given me bending over earlier.  She sports a nose ring and multiple earrings, and a colorful tattoo creeps up her back, along her neck, onto her buzzed scalp.  I have no idea what her name is, but I’ve never fucked a girl with a shaved head, and damn if her decidedly punk appearance isn’t driving me crazy.

Or rather, it would be, if the ethanol hadn’t suddenly kicked in with full force.  It’s making me much more interested in the upholstery than I should be.  But I do my best to nod and appear interested as she describes, in more detail than one would imagine possible, her idea to recreate a moth’s wing patterning using black embroidery on a grey dress.

“That’s cool,” I say absently.  “Though I’m not sure there’s much of a market for that kind of thing here in the South.  Maybe Chicago or Detroit, someplace with a larger punk subculture?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!”  She starts to say something else, but a noise behind her distracts her.  A noise best described as slobbery.

We both look over her shoulder, to the other couch in the living area, where Hank and a European girl are making out.  Intensely so.  She’s laying on top of him, her shirt tossed across the room, her jeans open and half down around her hips.  His lips smack loudly against her tongue, producing the slobbery sound.  It’s not as pleasant as one might imagine.  (Or, perhaps, precisely as pleasant.)

“How did I miss that,” I mumble to myself.  I glance at the punk girl.  “I suddenly feel decidedly left out.”

“Yeah, me too.”  She shrugs.  “Wanna make out?”

I blink.  “Umm… yes?”

In one swift, sudden movement, she straddles me and wraps her arms around my shoulders.  She kisses me deeply, immediately moaning, as though this were something she’d been considering and desperately wanting for hours.  It catches me off guard, and I laugh against her lips.

She responds by biting my lower lip and muttering through clenched teeth, “Shut up,” grabbing my hands, and placing them firmly on her breasts.  They’re every bit as firm as I had imagined, yet pliant, moving under my touch in the way only natural flesh can.  The laughter is replaced by a groan in the back of my throat, and I grind my hips up against hers, kneading flesh and smelling gin and tasting stale cigarettes on her tongue.

She abruptly pulls back and looks at me, panting, her chest rising and falling heavily.  Her eyes are wide with what my inebriated brain interprets as desire.  “Bathroom,” she says simply.  “Now.”  I’m too drunk to argue (not that I would, mind you).

She leaps to her feet, pulls me to mine, and leads me down the hall, into the bathroom.  She slams the door shut behind her and pulls her shirt off in one deft motion.  Her cargo pants are so baggy that all she does is unbutton them, and they fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but a pair of combat boots.  Her body is long, lean, completely smooth and without a single hair.  She drops to her knees in front of me, releasing my jeans with practiced ease.  Perhaps a bit too practiced.  But my concerns evaporate as she pulls my semi-turgid length into her mouth.  She helps me out of my jeans, and I pull my shirt over my head, allowing her to do as she pleases.  My head falls back and I close my eyes, sighing contentedly as I listen to the wet, slippery noises she produces.

I can still hear Hank slobbering on the European girl.  It makes me giggle.

Without warning, she jumps to her feet and moves around me to the bathroom sink.  She hops up onto it, sitting precariously on the edge, while pulling me toward her.  “Now, fuck me.”

“Who am I to tell a pretty girl no,” I answer, my best inebriated attempt at wit.

She reaches up and puts her hand over my mouth, her voice breathy.  “No, don’t talk.  Just fuck me.”

Well.  Yes ma’am.

I close what little distance remains between us and press my length against her.  She’s incredibly moist, so much so that I imagine her cargo pants must be soaked.  One easy thrust buries me inside of her, and she cries out softly, quietly.  She wraps one leg around my hips, the heel of her boot against my lower back, and plants her other foot on the long bathroom counter, spreading herself wide, taking me in as deeply as she can.  She places her hands squarely on my ass, holding me against her as she rocks her hips, guiding my movements precisely the way she wants them.  There is very little thrusting–it’s more a gyration, my shaft rotation clockwise inside of her, her smooth groin gliding against mine.

It’s almost like I’m a sex toy.  I like it.

I relax and let her show me precisely what she wants.  She presses her breasts against my chest and hides her face in my neck, whimpering with each movement, whispering words of encouragement and complimenting my size and skill between moans of approval.  I let my hands explore her back, tracing her spine, her shoulder blades.  I kiss her ear, her temple, smell the alcohol in her skin, feel her loins tighten, the muscles contracting rhythmically, pulling at me, as she gasps against my throat, almost growling through her orgasm.  I hear her whispering, “You too… you too… cum for me…”   And I grind harder against her, at her prompting.  I gasp once, grunt… and she pushes me back, dropping to her knees and grabbing my length, stroking hard, fast, furious.  My breath catches in my throat, my eyes close, and I release, her hand moving expertly along my shaft, guiding me through my own orgasm, coaxing every bit of life out of me that she can.

As I come to, I open my eyes and look down at her.  I expect to see her chest or face covered in my cum, but I am surprised–hell, more than surprised–to see that she actually jerked me off onto her head.  The thick white ropes cling to her shortly buzzed hair, pooling in some places, stretching out in others, drawing lines and amorphous shapes across her scalp and forehead.  It looks remarkably like a two-tone abstract painting.  I can’t help but laugh.

“Now that’s a hell of a sight,” I say contentedly.  She grins and sucks the last remaining bit from the head of my cock, making a little *pop* in the process.

“Most guys like that,” she says, standing and stretching languidly before me.  “It’s unexpected.”  She runs her hands over her head in a most unladylike fashion, scraping as much off as she can before washing her hands.  I step behind her and press my slowly relaxing length against her ass.  She growls playfully and pushes back against me.

“Next time, maybe I’ll consider eating it for you,” she casually remarks as she dresses.  I start to respond, but she covers my mouth again, kisses my cheek, and whispers into my ear,  “You’re a damn good fuck, honey.  Don’t spoil it by talking now.”  She steps back and gives my cock a playful squeeze.  “I’ll see you again real soon.”

And she exits the bathroom, leaving me standing naked in the bathroom.

I look down at my clothes, then at myself.  I grin.  “Well.  That was fun.”

You can’t always have a dramatic climax.  This was one of those times.

——————————————————————————

I pass Marian a fresh cup of coffee.  “Here, I’ll let you doctor this one to your liking.”

“So considerate,” she says, with a touch more sarcasm than one might like.  I watch her pour half a gallon of creamer and a pound of sugar into the cup.  Stir and taste, frown, add another half a pound of sugar.

“I’ll be amazed if you don’t fall into a diabetic coma right here,” I say offhand.  Marian shoots me a half-hearted glare over her cup.

We resume our slow meander along the sidewalk.  Marian has grown quiet, taking more frequent sips of her coffee, leaving me to carry most of the conversation.  I tell her about my work, why I do what I do, stories of student entitlement and mishaps in the field, of being chased on a bum ankle by an angry bull elk, of coming face to tentacle with a jelly fish, of being treed by a mama pig.  She chimes in occasionally, prompting me for more detail or asking questions about various aspects of the story, but for the most part, she just listens.  I talk enough that I drink my coffee more to soothe my throat than for the flavor, even after it grows as cold as the night air around us.  But finally I run out of stories to tell (no small feat, I assure you), and we adjourn to my car.

Marian offers concise turn-by-turn directions to her home.  It’s a small house just off one of the less heavily trafficked city roads, with a gravel driveway leading through a wooden fence to a circular parking area that simplifies exiting the drive.  Flower beds and potted plants adorn the porch and front facade with cheery splashes of red, pink, and yellow.  There are even white window shutters.  It has a distinct Little Stepford House on the Prairie feel to it.  I park and quickly exit the vehicle, moving to the passenger side and opening the door for her.

“Precisely the sort of place I’d imagined,” I remark.  “Cute, comfortable, and inviting.”

“Thanks,” she answers as she takes my hand, exiting the car.  “I put a lot of effort into my flowers.”

I walk alongside her toward her porch, escorting her to her door.  As we approach, she suddenly says, “You know you’re not coming in, right?”

I blink at the back of her head as she mounts the step.  “I thought I’d already established that I held no presumptions about how the evening would end.  I’m merely escorting you to your door.”  She turns and looks at me, and I smile.  “It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, especially after having so thoroughly disappointed you tonight.”

Marian stares at me, her face expressionless.  I merely continue to smile, my hands in my jacket pockets.  After a moment, she says, “Nothing really gets to you, does it?”

I furrow my brow.  “Depends on what you mean.”

“I mean, you’ve been calm, cool, and collected the entire night,” she elaborates.  “Even when you told me…”  She nods her head a little, and opens her hands as though to say, You know what I’m talking about.  “…even then, you were just so cool and confident.  You never lost your charm.”

“I would take that as a compliment if I didn’t suspect there were an underlying ‘but’ somewhere in there.”

She nods.  “It’s a little scary, actually.  Anyone who can keep piling on the charm under those circumstances, to me, must be a sociopath.”

“That’s a hell of a ‘but’.”

She squints slightly, as though assessing me.  “But you’re so honest, and polite, and so fucking charming.”  She punctuates that word with a small stomp of her foot.  She’s frowning intently now, and she looks down at her feet.  “It’s not fair.”

Marian folds her arms across her chest and continues to divert her eyes downward.  I purse my lips and sigh through my nose.  I step forward slightly and lightly touch her forearm while maintaining a bit of distance between us.  She glances up at me, and I offer a half smile as I retract my hand.

“I’m sorry for misleading you,” I tell her.  “Old habits die hard, I suppose.  But you should know it wasn’t my intention to hurt you, or to lie to you.  I asked you out because I was genuinely interested in getting to know you.  I still am.  If you’re not, though, I get it.”  I shove my hands back in my pockets.  “If you want to talk to me again, you’re welcome to text me.  But I’ll put the ball in your court.”

She sighs and nods.  “Don’t expect too much.  You’re a little too dangerous for my liking.”

I smile and return the nod.  “Fair enough.”  I offer my hand, and she grasps it lightly.  I hold hers in both of mine briefly.  “If we never speak again, it was truly a pleasure meeting you, Madam Librarian.”

I release her hands, turn on my heel, and walk to my car.  In a few short seconds, I’m slowly circling around her drive, heading back toward her street.  I glance into my mirror and see Marian still on her porch, watching me go.  I feel a slight pang of guilt, but I shake it off as I pull onto the street and drive away.