I snuggled deeper under the covers, satiated with a week of sex and socializing. My muscles were stiff, from neck to calf. The sign of an evening well spent. Couple that with sheet burns on my elbows which I just knew were going to scab over and that translated to an evening VERY well spent. On a morning like this the Universe was a wondrous place and I was very grateful to be a part of it, however temporary.
There is, you know, a world of difference in being ‘stiff ‘and being ‘sore’ after sex. The week had been an interesting study in contrasts, in men at different stages of their sexual maturity. I had made love to two men with the same first name who could not have been more different. What were the odds of that? One had made me sore, the other very stiff.
The first one had chatted me up on the train – well we had sort of chatted each other up – when I was on my way to meet another man for dinner – I know, I know, I am a bad girl but it was ONLY dinner. We had eyed one another on the approach to the train doors and in the space of one station had secured at least one email address. He was young and handsome, big and blonde, charming and so obviously a player but then, so am I.
The second man with the same name as the lad and I had been dancing around each other for months while our pheromones worked out their happy little chemical equations. We met through a mutual friend, gone out for drinks and dinners and were on our way to the next stage when – in that big city way – suddenly came to a full stop due to scheduling conflicts on the next few tries culminating in his sudden and, he assured me, temporary transfer to Shanghai for the remainder of the winter. He was a very large man, in many ways I was sure, a gentleman, polite and fun to talk to, always eager to put me at my ease. I like well-educated executives with a taste for high end travel and lifestyles since it meant for a lot of common ground. He was, I felt, looking for something steady. I was feeling the same way, tired of chasing dog men and being chased ( though not too tired to meet up with the young lad). We were going out Friday but this was NOT the man I was going to see when I flirted with the younger fellow. That was Monday.
Like I said, it was a busy, busy week.
The younger man and I dutifully exchanged emails. He had somehow managed to hunt down some of my erotica (I wrote erotica to keep myself in Marc Jacobs and vintage Vuitton). He was very good at research, he assured me — though I did not know at first. He sent me a fun email saying if he could guess four things about me then I would agree to go anywhere. I quote, “don’t worry I assure you my intentions are completely illicit and unscrupulous. Does that sound like a fair wager? I think it makes it much more interesting than just saying ‘lets meet for a drink’.”
I thought so too. If I could guess four things about him then I got to choose our destination. I laughed. I don’t like a tease but I love a flirt. The evening we were to meet almost did not happen as his mail detailing where and when was side-tracked. When I finally located it the mail puzzled me, saying “I have spent the day reading your work and am intrigued.”
What work? I thought. He didn’t know my last name and I wrote technology under my middle and maiden name. I gave him my cell and when he called he started quoting passages of my, well, not my technology stories. I laughed so hard I thought I would choke. He was the first man who had ever, ever done a successful search on me and come up with this information.
“I am so busted!” I shouted over the phone.
“I love it,” he said. “It’s been a big distraction today.”
“I bet it has.”
Once someone has read this sort of stuff there is no point in pretending I did not know exactly what I was doing. It was actually liberating, I thought as I took the train to meet up, not to have to pretend. I could be myself or at least more myself, which is a very rare thing with a man. They are not interested in your honesty in my experience, only their own version of it.
As a journalist it’s my job to read and interpret subtle signals in voice and manners of those I interview. I had been hoping that, perhaps, just maybe, I had only speed read him. You know? Skipped a paragraph here and there? We would start with a drink at the Park Hyatt or a cool lounge that only he knew and I could later drag my pals to.
But no.
The road to Jr. Executive shag fests is paved with the twist off caps of Yellow Tail Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc.
Making straight for the cheating side of Shinjuku he picked up a bottle of wine at a little convenience store/deli.
Picking my way around the bottle caps in my Anne Taylor black suede vamps we headed for our room at his favorite hotel.
Since he knew so much about me – at least erotically — he felt he might as well be frank about himself and we chatted away like old friends. The hotel was nice – though I feel Japanese spend too much effort on sexing up the baths. I hate sex in the bath, the water washes away all your natural lubrication and the porcelain digs into your back or your knees depending on the position he wants you in. My skin is very fair. The bruises last for weeks. How is this fun? The floor, a table, a desk, the bed, dear god anything but the bath.
The lad had survived a hard life but was well on the way to an extremely successful career in Japan with all the high end perks. He was going to the top. No doubt there. Cocky yet totally endearing and frank at the same time. It was no wonder he was having sex with a different woman every night, as he proceeded to detail for me somewhat endlessly until my eyes started to glaze over. Believe me I live a very shy, retiring life compared to this lad. He had charm but was wrong in sensing a kindred spirit. I was never interested in diving into that endless loop of quantity over quality. He was still racking up numbers, hardly able to catch his breath on his passage between one woman’s creamy thighs and the next – mine included. I had wanted to have sex with him on a whim. Thinking a lad would be fun.
Straight out fucking is fun.
Of course it is.
Man or woman, sometimes all you want to do is mount that pony and ride, ride, ride.
But not always. In fact, not most of the time.
Men like this tend to thrust like it was a race to fill a spare tire with a hand pump. They are in a hurry, already thinking about the next fuck. Their hands all over your crotch even when it isn’t necessary, without the finesse and understanding of the subtleties, the eroticism of seduction, the placement of the woman’s hips in relation to their cock –taking the high road to vaginal orgasm or keeping it low to draw the passion out — of the excitement of slower sex mixed in with the hard ride. Not for them the subtlety of body language. Allowing the woman’s pleasure to excite your own is a mature man’s game. These are the guys – whatever their age — that leave you sore the next day, smoothing Vaseline or Neosporin over your raw and swollen self.
I had taken my cues from him and kept the process simple and straightforward, holding my own desires in check. We parted in a friendly manner but no doubt neither of us interested in meeting up again.
Now the second man was a very different fellow altogether. It was purely coincidence or maybe divine providence that these two events were so close together. Early 40s, divorced, experienced, interested in the give as well as take of conversation and, I was sure, much more. As I said, we had known each other for several months but had been prevented, by various circumstances, from arriving at this precise point; this unspoken understanding that tonight we would take the next step. After chatting for several hours over coffee at the busy Starbucks in the Tokyo Midtown development we left to get a room. http://www.tokyo-midtown.com/en/shop/68/index.html
There is always that feeling of tension the first time; nerves stretched tight, your tummy jumping. Wondering how first your mouths and then your bodies would fit together.
We were fiddling with the music both of us playing with the stations looking for something to set the mood, preferably alternative rock when we kissed, our first real, deep kiss. He had a lovely mouth and a beautiful tongue, wide and smooth. Though I have no scientific evidence to back it up I believe a man’s kiss and especially his tongue tell you how the rest of him is going to be. A beautiful tongue that feels so lovely in your mouth, smooth and strong without being invasive or choking is the best sign of good things to come. A rough tongue, scratchy and hard is never a good sign.
I have said before a petite woman loves a large man and he was a big fellow. He had a classically beautiful cock, long, thick and red though he was very pale. I worked hard to please him and he did the same, using all my muscles to push up against him in different positions, increasing the pressure and pleasure over the next few hours while Snow Patrol, Arctic Monkeys, Fall Out Boy, The Killers, Keane, Beck and others played along with us. My hair was ruined, my lips numb, we were both totally covered in sweat and body oils, exhausted and limp in the most pleasant way possible. I couldn’t help but think of Miriam and several other unhappy friends at that moment knowing this sort of satisfaction and contentment was something they seldom or never experienced. I met the nicest men. Even the dogs were invariably very sweet, at least to me. No one had ever threatened, used or abused or even frightened me – except for maybe those few seconds after Bill mentioned Hog Tying (see Suite and Spicy) If life was a learning process I was lucky to be in a very good school.
When I woke up this morning every muscle ached but I was not sore at all, not a bit.
