IN WHICH I DEBRIEF MY DE-BRIEFING WITH DAVE.
By texting Dave that he’d given me blue balls, I’d teasingly wanted to avenge his insulting selfishness on an occasion that was supposed to be my simultaneous second deflowering/ blossoming. Ever-boorish Dave did not respond, and after his previous ardor, his silence was deafening.
IN WHICH THE UNIVERSE HANDS ME A NEW, UNWELCOME DEFINITION OF “ANTICLIMAX.”
Dave left me with a tender kiss, but I wasn’t fooled. As far as I was concerned, he’d enjoyed an afternoon of sensory satisfaction more with Hugh Jackman than with me — they should’ve gotten a room.
IN WHICH THINGS, BUT NOT DAVE, HEAD SOUTH — FAST.
When Dave had scored twice and I hadn’t at all, I’d gestured to my crotch and said, “Okay, I need to have an orgasm now!” — time to take that handsome head of his for a tour of the Southlands. But since he’d wanted to watch a movie, I figured he planned to pleasure me after. Because, after all, Dave’s prolific hot sexting of the prior two weeks had focussed heavily on his love for Southern cuisine.
IN WHICH DAVE MAKES SWEET LOVE NOT TO ME, BUT TO HUGH JACKMAN.
After inhaling a couple greasy cheeseburgers and fries, Dave — still naked — collapsed on the sofa and demanded to watch a movie. Burping from a series of Cokes, and farting with equal abandon, he chose X-Men, into which he proceeded to disappear, transfixed as if by the greatest art imaginable. I lay next to him, thinking the farts — which I greeted repeatedly with “Make yourself at home, Dave!” — were far less objectionable than the antics of Wolverine.
IN WHICH DAVE PUTS A FEW MORE MILES ON ME.
Between my lack of lube and Dave’s injured rod, we were both hurting from our erotic wrestling match. He said he would be ready again in a few minutes, and when I marveled over the endurance he was capable of, he remarked that girls with him could come two times to his once — something I could well believe: he had gone on and on.
AND WHILE WE’RE IN SIXTIES SONG MODE: IN WHICH I CAN’T GET NO SATISFACTION.
Considering how young Dave acted and made me feel, it’s not inappropriate to call what we were now getting ready to do, GOING ALL THE WAY.
IN WHICH THE TEASER TURNS OUT TO BE A TEASE INDEED.
We got high, me with just one hit — I hadn’t had any in a long time. As we continued to kiss, the unfortunate stoner’s Mojave Mouth affliction set in, and I realized we’d need to drink something, pronto. But I was distracted by Dave’s hot n’ hard joystick jamming into me, which made me suddenly remember his skirmish a few days before — with an apparently jealous zipper.
IN WHICH I ENTERTAIN GREAT EXPECTATIONS.
Dave got up to roll a joint — it turned out, according to him, he is the Scarface of Queens — and sat down at the kitchen table, inviting me to sit in his lap and kiss while he did it. I straddled him carefully in the Philippe Starck lucite martini chair, a favorite possession I had no desire to break. We nuzzled like teenagers while he rolled a Rasta-worthy spliff, interrupting his task now and then to plunge his tongue deep into my mouth, or suck on my lower lip, or kiss my eyelids tenderly, or make a silly, teasing comment to make me laugh.
IN WHICH WE BEGIN OUR TOUR OF THE BASES, ON OUR JOURNEY TO HOME.
Dave stepped off the elevator, one tall drink of hot, with the handsome face and long brunette curls to his shoulders I’d expected — but with a big, meaty frame I had not. Turns out, that construction work he’d listed as one of his many jobs was the main one, the one which registered in his huge arms. From our sexting, I knew his thang was a throbber; however, I never expected his biceps to be like disposed. I was attracted, alright. Yum!
IN WHICH I FAIL TO MAKE PEACE WITH WAITING TO MAKE MY PIECE.
After Dave’s injury, at first I tried to resign myself to the notion that we would have to wait. Yet as we continued texting and Facetiming in the next day, I found myself absolutely fed up with virtual contact: I demanded we meet physically, now, whatever the condition of his rod — I was just too curious and, in fact, so was he.
I'm a gorgeous goddess of a certain age who transformed from shot to hot, a feminist playa refusing to go into the sunset without a Mojito in one hand and a tumescent, throbbing ... well, you know what I mean ... in the other. Because sixty IS the new forty or even thirty I will not be dying with my boots on, but with my Jimmy Choo stilettos, thank you very much. I, a sexually liberated woman, stand defiantly against ageism and sexism, adamantly asserting not only is it possible to maintain and even enhance our sexual allure as we ripen, we women have the same right as men to romp in the hay with playmates decades younger.