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I was an ugly duckling as a young woman: tall,
clumsy, nearsighted, and shy. My personality matched my appearance. I was
an accountant, and I dressed and looked average style.
At age 33, my sex experiences had been as uninspiring as my person. A
one-year affair at college, and a marriage that lasted ten years (he, and
two wonderful out-of-character one-night stands, which should have tipped
me off to the delights of variety. I've learned that lesson -- more than
100 men have spilled their seed in me since then. Wine is not the only
thing that improves with age.
I was still looking for the perfect relationship when I ran into Simon. He
was a decent fellow, a few years older than me, and had never been
married. Like most unmarried men approaching middle age, Simon was
old-maidish in his methodical habits and too attentive to his mother but,
hey, I had modest expectations. I had been divorced for more than a year
and had gone months without sex -- except one memorable sweaty night in
Thailand. See "Beach House Bingo."
Simon and I followed the script for conventional romances. On our third
date, I invited him to my apartment "for a drink." He didn't set off any
sparks in bed that night, but we became a couple and I was happy to have a
man and the security of a relationship.
We went out a couple of nights a week. I stayed over at his place once,
but in the morning he was in a hurry to see his mother, it being Sunday --
and he always, always spent Sunday with his mother.
We were one-trick ponies -- missionary sex after a brief warm-up. He just
climbed on and hunched himself to climax and I usually climaxed about the
same time. And that was it. It began to get just slightly weird when we
had been going out for three or four weeks. I was lying on my back, my
legs spread and waiting for him to mount up and ride, when he asked,
"Would you masturbate me?"
I said, "Sure." I was nothing if not compliant in those days. I made a
feint at his penis with my mouth, but he didn't respond. A hand job was
what Simon wanted. I gave it to him. I enjoy masturbating men -- and I
hadn't done very much of it during my unadventurous sex life. So, Simoning
off a man was new to me. We had enough light in the room for me to watch
cum spurting out and pooling up on his chest. I stuck my finger in the
pool and tasted it. I got the impression, however, that Simon didn't like
me tasting his cum. Maybe his mother wouldn't have approved.
Simon got up quickly and said he had to go home and I was left lying there
on the bed wishing that at least he had finger-fucked me. Well, sex isn't
always satisfying, I told myself, and, in fact, the next time we went out
he missionaried me adequately. But then next time he asked again for a
hand job (you get the idea why I am calling him Simon, don't you?) and
after that we rarely fucked. Our dates sometimes began and usually ended
with a handjob for him and nothing for me.
I consoled myself that Simon was presentable, had a good job, and didn't
molest children. Most of all, it pampered my tiny ego to have a boyfriend,
inadequate as he was in the care and feeling departments. Things went on
this way for six months until I got a job with the State Department and
was told to report to Washington in a month. Suddenly, I had a bright
shining alternative to Simon and my built up resentment against his sexual
selfishness came to the fore. I was looking forward to saying sayonara. I
didn't plan, however, to do it in the spectacular way that it happened.
On our next date Simon wanted to be Simoned off before we went out. I
acceded to his wishes, as usual. He just pulled his shirt and pants off
and laid down on my bed and I stroked him to completion. I didn't even
take my clothes off -- and he didn't care. Then, we went to a restaurant
to eat. The dining room was full, but we saw several friends at a large
table in the bar and sat with them and drank margueritas and ate nachos.
"Cameron" showed up. I had gone to high school with him. He was tall and
handsome and slick and a notorious lady's man. Cameron had never paid the
slightest bit of attention to me. Until then. "Sophie," he said, kissing
me on the cheek. "You're looking good." That was an exaggeration, but I
had been working on my appearance, and I'm a sucker for a compliment.
Cameron pulled up a chair and joined us, sitting by my side. Simon was on
the other side of the table, talking about football with another guy.
To make a long story short, I ordered another marguerita and drank too
much too fast. Then, I was sick. Cameron helped me out of my chair, saying
to Simon, "Stay where you are, Simon ol' boy. I'll take care of this."
Simon looked at me with a puzzled expression, but he didn't offer to help.
Football was more interesting than my gastric distress.
Cameron half-carried me to the parking lot and I vomited all over the
boxwood bushes. He helped me into the front seat of his car and wiped
vomit off my dress with a paper towel. I was alert enough to notice that
my dress was hiked up way over my knees, and my legs were splayed. I
didn't care. He sniffed my breath and clothes and recoiled. "I'd better
take you home. You're a mess." he said, "and so am I." I muttered my
address, and went to sleep.
Cameron hauled me up to my apartment and found the key in my purse and
opened the door. I staggered into the bedroom. The bed was still stripped
down to the sheets where, two hours before, I had Simoned off Simon. I
toppled over onto the bed; I was waking up and feeling better. I could
still smell Simon on the sheets.
"You want to take a shower?" Cameron asked.
"Yes," I said. And I sat up and began taking off my clothes. Cameron
helped me unzip my dress, and pulled it over my head. Sitting there in my
panties and bra I had a twinge of romantic feeling. I put my arms around
him and started laughing hysterically. Or maybe I was sobbing as I
contemplated the bed where Simon had been, thin penis upright and
quivering, as my hand stroked him. "Simon and the Beanstalk!" I shouted.
"Hit the Road, Simon!"
"Shhh," Cameron said. "You'll bother the neighbors." Quickly, he slipped
my bra off and I sat there dumbly surprised, my breasts hanging free. I
didn't protest when he pulled my panties off and led me to the shower,
turned on the hot water, and pushed me inside. "Simon be nimble, Simon be
quick" I shouted. "Simon me off with a hockey stick." I continued my loud
recitations until, suddenly, Cameron was in the shower with me, naked, and
he put his hand over my mouth. He handed me a bottle of mouthwash. "You
need it," he said. I took a swig, swirled it around, spit it out, and then
he kissed me, his soapy finger finding its way to my clitoris.
I was as hungry for sex as a bear is for honey. I was still noisy. "Fuck
me gently, fuck me slowly," I sang. "Take it easy, don't you know, that I
have never been fucked like this before." I was so, so out of character.
Cameron and I dried each other off, headed for the bed, and reclined
together.
That was when Simon stuck his head through the door. He had a key to my
apartment and had come looking for me. It must have been a sight. I was
lying on my back, my hand on Cameron's penis, his body half covering mine,
his finger inside me and his mouth on my breast while I tunelessly sang
"Fuck me gently, fuck me slowly." It was a mortifying moment -- but Simon
turned soundlessly and left. For just a moment I froze in the bed. Cameron
paused, but he didn't look over his shoulder at the retreating Simon. He
looked at me, and I smiled, and we continued. Simon was history.
Cameron was into Tantric sex or something that gave him enormous staying
power, and I hit all four opening notes of Beethoven's Fifth with booming
orgasms. I should have called Simon the next day to apologize, but in the
sober light of day I couldn't -- and I was leaving town anyway. I never
had another encounter with Cameron. I hear that he got married, got
religion, and became a perfect family man. I hope his wife appreciates him
the way I did. |
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