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After an extremely contentious and miserable 15-year marriage, I wasted little time getting an online dating subscription so that I could safely sample the fruits of the dating world—and perhaps start a relationship that would eventually turn into satisfying and mutual love. I needed to be loved. I really needed it. And I had so much to give a kind, secure, gentle man who would see my love as a gift and not as a resource to be consumed, as had my husband. And some killer sex along the way, I mused, would be a bonus, considering that my angry and sad marriage had been without affection for more than two years.
At 39, I am still very pretty and youthful—most people are shocked to hear that am old enough to have five kids and a PhD in comparative literature. Some of the men I met have gone so far as to say that I am “beautiful,” “fucking gorgeous,” and even “exotically sexy.” Having birthed five healthy-sized babies, I was very nervous about hitting the scene with that squishy mound of pizza dough that lives just above my c-section scar and about the soft layer of marshmallow fluff that covered my formerly muscular, petite athlete’s physique. At 5-foot-nothin’, you’d think 155 pounds would pop and protrude all over the place, but I managed to hide it pretty well among the gymnast calves, the soccer player thighs, and the Playboy bunny tits. I was soon to discover that being curvy in all the right places is still very desirable to many, many men, if not all of them. And my well-placed curves were desirable to one man in particular.
Will Rogers Keller was the very first man whose online profile I had read in what would turn out to be an 18-month tour of online dating disappointments:
The uncomfortable first meetings with careless men who said things like, “Oh. I had hoped you’d have longer hair” or “I really prefer women who take care of themselves” (HELLO! My profile says “Curvy!” you moron…not “Vanna-White-Head-on-a-Stick Chick”).
E-mails so heart-wrenchingly desperate that I considered actually meeting one or two of these English-challenged “Larry the Cable Guy” types who sent them to me—just so they might have one gentle experience in the cyberjungle that is online personals.
The three or four octogenarians who unerringly proclaimed their youthful vitality and ability to keep up with “a dish” like me. (Eww.)
And not a few lesbians. I’ll tell you, after seven months of rude assholes, artlessly-grabbing-my-boobs-five-seconds-into-the-first-kiss assholes, booty-call assholes, and heart-breaking assholes, those lesbians were tempting! But I feel passionately that there’s no substitute for a deep dickin’. No woman—however attentive, gentle, or skilled in bringing another woman to juicy, slippery climax—was going to do it for me like a beefy, strapping man with an 8-inch cock ramming its way home.
So…I went back into the Virtual Land of the Assholes to search for that one true rosebud who might possibly love and cherish me. And service me daily with brain-numbing, pussy-squirting, multi-orgasmic sex…
Back to Will. As I was saying, his was the very first online profile I encountered after entering some fairly restrictive search criteria: 37-42 years old, non-smoker, college educated, taller than 5′ 10″ (did I mention that I like ’em big?), and employed. (It’s amazing to me that I’d had to stipulate that a dude have a job, but, believe me, plenty of using losers noted my advanced education, my parenting status, and my curvy lusciousness…they thought they’d hit the freakin’ Power Ball with a woman who makes big bank, is ambitious, is clearly nurturing, and most of all is HARD UP for love and some of’ that deep dickin’).
But Will’s profile was hilarious, and I would come to know, unique. He co-opted a bit of Internet viral material that had been circulating for some years—ostensibly written by a high school senior for his college applications. You might know the one I’m referring to: “I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru. Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries.”
Anyway, it just cracked me up. His pictures were…okay. He had a boyishness that was appealing and a sparkle in his eye that said he was mischievous and knew a secret that no one else knew. He was 37 and 6’1″, but attractively boyish. Unfortunately, his goatee, reddish hair, and full lower lip reminded me a bit of my soon-to-be-ex. I had never really been into long-haired guys—and his mane was shoulder length. You see, I have two dating rules I never break (until then, that is): don’t get involved with a guy who is skinnier than I am or with a guy who has prettier beşevler escort hair than I have. And his hair was PRETTY.
But because I admired his approach to profile writing (despite his resemblance to my dickless ex-husband) and his competitively vibrant tresses, I dropped him a quick message through the dating site telling him I found him adorable and that he made me laugh out loud, even though he looked a little like my ex-asshole.
A day or two passed, and when I opened my mailbox, I was thrilled to see my first reply from this silken-haired jester. Nothing huge: just a teasing line or two. I had NO IDEA how this online personals thing was supposed to work (I’m much more circumspect now about what I’ll say to and ask prospective dates), so after a few teasing and bantering back-and-forths in which I discovered him to be exceptionally bright and culturally literate, I included a list of questions for him to answer: Ginger or Mary Anne? Chocolate cake or cheesecake? Gym shoes or dress shoes? Beach or mountains? Top or bottom?
He took the bait. He answered my innocuous questions first: Mary Anne. Chocolate cheesecake. Flip flops. The beach. His reply to my loaded question was a partial sentence followed by a simulated groan and assertion that he couldn’t write coherently anymore because all of his blood had run from his brain into his cock. (Funny, how after countless subsequent sexual escapades with him, I still don’t know the answer to that last question. He seemed to like and excel at all positions equally.)
Then one week after “first contact,” he asked me to meet him at this dive-y little bar in my part of town. I knew it was a pretty dingy little place, but he didn’t, and he seemed excited to take me there. We exchanged a few messages after that, and he expressed his anticipation and aroused excitement about meeting me. I got a little nervous about my mommy-body, I admit, and I told him that I hoped he would not be disappointed. I sent him some more pictures of me—he said I was beautiful to him, and that my words had gotten him so hot, he wouldn’t care what I looked like. In retrospect, I can see how unusual that is—most of the men online, even though they are disgusting slugs themselves, seem to feel entitled to landing a “slender” or “athletic” woman.
I arranged for a friend to stay with the kids—until quite late—and then I spent three hours getting ready to meet this charming, boyish, brilliant man, who, for whatever reasons, was really doing it for me before I’d even met him. My makeup was stunning. My 38-C-enhancing v-neck, cute cropped jeans, and kicky little open-toed sandals were exactly what this first meeting called for: flirty and sexy, but stylish and smart. I looked 28 years old, at most (which our lesbian waitress confirmed when Will went to the bathroom and I drunkenly asked her what she thought of him—she said she was less interested in him than she was in me and was shocked to hear my true age).
Back to the main story. (I digress a lot; bear with me, reader…you won’t be disappointed.) We met at said dive at 9:00…but only after I tried to scope him out with a couple of drive-by’s in my mommy minivan and stopped at a convenience store to get breath mints. I popped a couple of those little fluid-filled ball-type mints, and then drove into the bar’s parking lot, where I saw resting against the hood of a truck this tall, broad-shouldered, long-haired boy-man with the sparkly smile that extended to his eyes and accentuated his jaw line. I nervously got out of my family truckster, adjusted my cleavage, fluffed my perfectly calculated but messy waves, and walked around the van.
Will’s smile was so big. So charming. So…sparkly. I nervously blurted out, “Oh, thank God! You ARE cute!” and he in turn said that my pictures didn’t do me justice—that I was stunningly beautiful in person. He quickly closed the three steps between us, took my chin in his hand, and calmed my anxiousness with the gentlest kiss I’d ever known. Just soft, plush lips pressing and sliding lightly for four seconds, and then the teeniest pressure of his tongue tip to mine. He pulled back, looked into my eyes, and said, “Stunning.” I nervously giggled something stupid about “getting that out of the way,” but I was drunk already on my first little nip of Will.
We went into the bar with his strong hand at my back (he actually opened the door for me!) and took the first booth. As he got up from the cracked vinyl seat to get our first round, but then he briskly turned on his heel and said, “One more!” He kissed me just as sweetly as in the parking lot, but with a bit more pressure and just a touch more tongue. I was floored by the physical chemistry I had with this man. He smelled and tasted like fucking. In my nervousness, I drank three vodka and tonics in about 15 minutes, as he recounted some odd dreams he had had recently.
We stayed through the three drinks, I had my exchange with the lesbian waitress, and then beypazarı escort we left in his truck to go to another local spot with a fun, outdoorsy atmosphere. Damn. I was freakin’ falling in love with this guy minute by minute. And loving the way it felt. I felt alive for the first time in ten years. I felt desirable and beautiful and sexy and horny as hell.
After a couple more drinks at the patio bar, we were both laughing and teasing and engaging in that sort of sexual-tension-charged intellectual banter that you used to see between Bruce Willis and Cybil Shepherd on that ’80s detective show, Moonlighting:
Me: Will, may I have some ANSWERS please?
Will: Delaware, all of the above, 90 degrees.
Will: Jennifer, I just don’t think…
Me [interrupting]: That’s okay, you look good.
At one point, between sips, he asked me what I thought of him so far. And in my tipsy state, I honestly told him that although I found him intriguing and adorable, he tended to talk abut himself too much, and that it would be nice if he asked about me occasionally.
He looked at me thoughtfully, and said, “You’re right. I do tend to make everything about me. So tell me, what’s your degree in again? What is your work like?”
Despite the slight tension, we were reveling in our personality similarities: our ability to quote all things Monty Python, our Sean Connery imitations, our shared love of Dennis Miller and his obscure cultural references that no one else ever gets. We not only had an intense physical chemistry that was clear to everyone around through our intimate hand strokes, sneaked kisses, and entwined forearms as we fed each other chicken wings, but we had this meeting-of-the-minds thing happening too. I have always loved a man with a big, throbbing brain and an irreverent sense of humor to match mine, and he was my match in every way. Again, falling in love with…each…passing…minute.
It was getting late. I wanted to be fair and reasonable with my sitter and not stay out ALL night. We tripped back to his truck, laughing and holding hands. He helped me into the passenger side door. Sweet. Attentive. New to me.
When he got into the truck himself, he turned to me, pulled my whole body to him, and kissed me hard and frantically. Lots of tongue this time. His hands in my mahogany waves. His breathing irregular and gasping. I moaned and purred and cooed with pleasure as he tugged at my hair gently and touched my face with his long fingers and slipped his tongue deeper into my mouth. It had been so long since I had been kissed so meaningfully and with such fervor. It wasn’t just the horny—although we had both admitted to a long sexual dry spell—it was passion and attraction and instant connection that rated this clutching make out session in my top two of all time.
We continued to kiss each others’ lips, jaw lines, and necks; groan into each other’s open mouths; and giggle with pleasure at the teasing strokes we subjected each other to. His fingers brushed the soft skin of my neck and chest and gently dipped into my cleavage to feel the slight rise to the full, bouncing firmness of my hidden tits. I tangled my fingers through his reddish-brown mane and lightly scratched the back of his neck and his scalp with my newly French-manicured nails. We were both moaning and melting and needing so much more…
He reached into my shirt and assertively lifted my left breast out of my bra cup and up through my v-neck. He wiped his thumb over the nipple as he tongued my ear, and then he squeezed my sensitive, hardening nub as he simultaneously fondled the heft of my breast.
“Mmmmm,” he groaned. “So full and your skin is so soft.”
I was losing it—the second he lowered his mouth and flicked my nipple with his tongue, I felt a jolt zigzag down my torso from the nipple outpost to the pussy center of operations. When he enclosed my pink bubblegum nipple with his lips and sucked and tongued it firmly, I had the first of a dozen orgasms that night.
He stopped sucking and looked at me with wide, wondrous eyes. “Did you just come?”
“God, yes,” I gasped, as I clutched at his biceps and jammed my tongue between his soft lips again.
I am an exceptionally verbal and physical lover, and my poor, deprived body was demanding firmer and more resolute action. I wanted this beautifully adorable hot man to strip me naked right there in the parking lot of the patio bar, cover my soft, hot body with his hard, massive frame, and stroke me everywhere into multiple orgasms. But because the bar was closing, and the other patrons will milling about, we had to at least keep our clothes on as we pawed and mauled each other.
“Touch me, Will. Touch my tits and my ass, and tease me everywhere…make me come over and over for you.”
He responded to my demands by grabbing me between my legs at the crotch of my jeans and roughly squeezing and pinching at the seams. I lifted my ass off the car seat ankara escort and leaned into him so that he could really grab at my mound and hit my clit with his thumb. When he had a firm handful and was grinding my hard little clit into oblivion under the thickness of the denim, I returned his volley with an assault of my own. I laid my palm flat on the stretched fabric of his own jeans, where his cock pushed, demanding to be freed. I pushed down with my palm and rotated it a little—kind of like you do to fan a stack of napkins or a deck of cards. I repeated this press-and-turn motion for about 30 seconds, and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled his waistband away from his body and tugged his purple 6.5-incher out for some air.
I noted with a touch of dismay that it wasn’t the eight inches of my fantasies, but I brightened when he placed my hand over his shaft: I was stroking a thick, dense, veiny tool with the silkiest skin I had ever touched. It was heavenly. “Screw the eight inches,” I thought. “This will be like fucking a Coke can!”
As all straight men do, he loved the feel of a soft, feminine hand jerking him off. He started to lose it and grabbed at my pussy with one hand and my other breast, still in my shirt, with the other.
“Let’s get a hotel room and fuck the right way,” he croaked in my ear.
We stopped our groping and looked at each other while we panted.
“God, I want you,” he said to me. It was the sweetest admission I’d ever heard.
I bit my lower lip and said, “Drive!”
We pulled into the local Holiday Inn, and then he ran into the lobby to get us a room. I sat in his truck alone, feeling overwhelmed and a little scared, but absolutely certain that I would die if I didn’t get this amazing guy’s cock buried, all fat 6.5 inches, in my tender and swollen cunt TONIGHT.
He came back to the truck and chuckled nervously and, I think, painfully: “They’re all booked up. Said there’s not another room available along this strip tonight.”
I audibly gasped in disappointment. He looked at me hungrily and questioningly. “Next weekend?”
Oh my God! There was no way I could hold out seven days before I got his fingers and his cock up inside me, his mouth all over my clit, and his cock down my throat. I wanted all of him. Now. But we didn’t have to say out loud what we both felt—that we had something potentially special here, and we didn’t want to taint it with a mere truck-fuck. I knew I wanted to hold him and be held all night—after we fucked like big dogs.
“Follow me back to my place,” I said.
“Really?” he asked. “What about your kids?”
“They’ll be asleep and so will the sitter. You can sneak out before everyone wakes up.”
“Are you sure?”
In response, I ground his still-hard cock with my palm and stuck my tongue down his throat.
I hopped into the Mommy Mobile, and drove the six miles to my suburban home, looking in my rearview mirror frequently to make sure I didn’t lose him on the way. I was aware that I was inebriated. I was nervous about driving under the influence. I’d never done that before. I mused at how just three months before, I also would never have seen myself bringing a near-stranger into my home for some fuck action—with my kids under the same roof! But hormones are insistent little bastards, and they demanded that their torturous two-year lock-out be halted and that they be allowed to return to their jobs. Common sense be damned!
I pulled into the driveway of my four-bedroom house, and he parked on the street in front. I didn’t even care what the neighbors might say. Most of those husbands wanted a piece of me, I was certain. I could tell by the way their gazes followed me at the block parties and how their wives ignored me at the bus stop. So let the men fuck me vicariously and the wives hate me for getting it on with a younger, hot guy! Hee!
I nervously unlocked my front door and led him up the stairs to my bedroom. We were kissing and pawing each other the whole way, and when I opened my bedroom door and flipped the light on, I was shocked to see my sitter and her three kids snuggled into my bed.
“Oh shit!” I gasped as I turned off the light and quickly shut the door.
I stood there for a beat or two, and pointed: “This room!” I gestured across the hall to where my oldest son sleeps—he was away at a sleepover, so I was fairly certain his bed was available.
Before the door clicked shut, we were both undressing frantically, anxiously wanting to feel flesh on flesh. Naked as the day we came into this world, we grabbed at each other and kissed as hot as we had in his truck, but this time without the thick fabric and layers of underthings blocking our progress. I don’t remember the exact sequence of our lovemaking, but I do know that I came in his hand as he pushed it between my thighs and stroked my furry mound. (I’m usually a shaver, but in all of my ministrations earlier that evening, I had not had time to clean the girl up and ready her for a potential pleasure assault. I think the good Catholic girl in me—I walled her up years ago deep in my psyche because she’s such a buzz kill—was trying to prevent me from falling sluttily into bed with this guy, so she made me run out of time and hot water.)
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