Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: Chapter 40

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day


Chapter 40

The bathroom in the warehouse space was sensual and tactile, the walls decorated floor-to-ceiling with tribal and aboriginal artifacts crafted from bone and wood. A salvaged claw-foot tub dominated the room, enormous in scale, able to hold two soaking bodies in comfort. Windowless, the room was illuminated with random pools of amber light, carving shadow shapes that mimicked the handcraft on the walls. I had lit candles, and the subtle flicker added animation to the space.

The tub was full of hot water, and I was bent over, working the faucet, adjusting the temperature for our soak. I heard Shaun come into the dim room, and knew he would be excited by my naked profile, so I made no move to greet him while his eyes adjusted and took in the view. When I did turn to look, it was my turn to stare. He was naked, and erect. I never took for granted my power to inspire that fierce reflex; it always thrilled me. The ancient objects on the walls, the pool of heated water, the dance of amber light, and the rigid capacity of the black man before me ignited my senses and seized my mind.

Writing The Bachelor Chapters in Barcelona, 2013

Writing The Bachelor Chapters in Barcelona, 2013

He stepped behind me, gripped my slim hip in one hand, and his dick with the other, and then deliberately pushed apart my naked lips. He traced the length of his shaft from my clit to my ass, back and forth, firm and certain, milking the wetness from me. Both his hands had my hips when he shifted my ass, the new angle now the perfect geometry for the inclination of his erection. I let my hands leave the rim of the bath, found the tub floor with submerged arms, and submitted my ass more fully to his gaze. I wanted him inside, but he had other plans, sliding his dick back and forth, and stirring anticipation with each stroke.

The warm water teased just below my nipples until he finally pushed inside, a forceful entry that slipped in easily, filling me up with all he had. Shaun made a guttural sound as he felt my muscles grip every nerve of his dick. I had come to treasure that moan of first entrance, that sound of fundamental gratification. It was a private moment for a man, not possible without the wet, pouty pussy; but ultimately the incomparable reflex to a self-centered reunion. I reveled in the selfish tone, embraced it as a beacon, a signal of transcendence.

Shaun began the simple strokes that delivered so much sensation, pulling my hips toward his dick, then pushing my hips away, thrusting steadily with his pelvis, driving his dick to full depth, steering without pause. The rhythm transferred to the water, and a tide began to swell; warm waves slapped against my nipples, smacking wet heat against my belly, splashing warm water onto his dick and lapping my clit between my legs. My face was soaking and my hair clung to my skin in thick bands. Shaun became fiercer, turned on by the hot water and my pussy, and how it took every inch of his force. The storm water surged, and the waves splashed, escaping the enclosure of the tub, over the rim and onto the wall. He drove faster, squeezing my ass, pushing deeper, spilling more water, until he shouted when he came, telling me and God and the devil himself that the eruption was imminent, that nothing short of death would prevent his pleasure, and that nothing short of heaven had delivered him to that moment.

TOMORROW: Chapter 41

Subscribe to Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series at The Bachelor Blog and never miss a chapter! Or follow on twitter @vickimarie44

Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell,, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: Chapter 39

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day


Chapter 39

The rain was falling in sheets from the sky with a velocity that was even unusual for rain-soaked Seattle. I had RSVPs from one hundred people, and I was expecting more; but the storm was relentless. I feared low attendance.

The event was Cocktails à Vingt Heure: Retro Soirée and Art Exhibition, a retrospective of my art, and a fundraiser for Hurricane Katrina relief for the New Orleans’s YWCA. The entire nation was still shocked by the devastation, and artists everywhere were sending aid through creative endeavors. Through my art business, Forever Forty-Four, I had produced one-night gallery shows several times, but this was the largest ever. It was a black-tie affair, and the venue was an old warehouse in SoDo, transformed into a spectacular living and working studio by the sculptor Stewart Bowen. I was bringing in other talent to create a one-of-a-kind cultural event. The headliner’s were The Fire Artists from Jason Sinclair’s party, scheduled to perform a pyrotechnic piece in the alley outside the studio’s loading dock—only that would be impossible in the rain. Dion had arranged for live music to nail the vintage lounge sound I was after; he had pieced together some talented musicians to form a four-piece ensemble of bass, drum, horn, and vocals for the event.

Art Opening, 2005

Cocktails à Vingt Heure: Retro Soirée and Art Exhibition, a retrospective of my art, and a fundraiser for Hurricane Katrina relief for the New Orleans’s YWCA, 2005

Stewart’s place was remarkable, two thousand square feet that begged for a party, and was made to display art. The foyer was twenty feet long and six feet wide; a gallery all by itself. I hung my earlier works there, salon-style, forty-four in total, four-deep from top to bottom. Individually, the petite images were little jewels of color and light, more painterly than photographic. As a whole, the frames created a spectacular grid pattern, and a bold entrance to the event.

At the end of the foyer, twenty-foot ceilings towered over the right and left arms of the space: one side for making art, the other side for living. The living area was voluminous, with three full-size, tea-colored leather couches that formed a U-shaped conversation pit in the center of the room. Rustic drums posed as corner tables, holding lamps and curios collected through world travel. Museum scale walls surrounded the sofas where I hung my new, large-scale pieces: three to a wall, measuring twelve feet across and lit spectacularly by the suspended track lights.

Stewart and I had met online, shared a riveting bachelor episode, than slid easily into a warm friendship. I had been the one who had called off the sex; it would not have been his choice. Even though he had professed love for me, Stewart never expressed a hint of bitterness about the breakup. Sixty years old, and polyamorous for decades, he transitioned seamlessly, and even encouraged me to fill him in on whom I was seeing. Far from being possessive, the man got vicarious thrills from my diverse escapades with black men and younger partners. Stewart and I were planning my exhibition at his place when I told him about Shaun Madison.

“Fantastic! I’m so happy for you, honey! I’ll clear out for that night. The studio will be yours. Invite him to stay.”

Despite my worst fears, the gala night was a hit. The people of Seattle braved the storm in big numbers, and arrived at the warehouse in their finest tuxedos and high fashion. The band was exquisite, the industrial acoustics softened by the body count. Even the rain cooperated for twelve short minutes, and allowed an abbreviated fire performance that gave the crowd something to remember. Martinis were stirred and cash was donated; I underwrote the event, so every dollar benefited the New Orleans YWCA.

My neighbor, Steve, was working the bar, and I asked him to make me a drink after the crowd started to thin. “He’s not here,” I complained, and he knew my mind was on Shaun Madison.

“He’ll be here. No worries. He’s not going to miss this!”

I had my doubts. This was an exhibition event, not an all-night rave. The end-time had passed, and a small group lingered for one last drink. Gratefully, at that moment, David Ryan rolled in, his girl on his arm.

“Vicki Marie! Sorry, we’re late! There was a live band at the Century, we couldn’t stop dancing!” David and I had cut our sex out early, but our dancing had only gotten better. His new girl had also been lifted from the dance floor of the ballroom, but she had been elevated to his number one partner off the floor; they’d been a couple for more than a year.

“Hi, Paula. Good to see you again.” I gave her a hug first, and then got a warm one from David. “How’d it go, tonight? Can I get the next dance?”

We had been spinning lounge music all night, and I was ripe for the change. I cued the music, and David took me to the center of the room, his bright smile broadcasting fun. “Be good to me,” I said, like I always did, in honor of our first dance. When the music broke, salsa sound filled the room, and we sparked our own pyrotechnics with mambo rhythm and sexy styling. David killed with his lead, laying down dips and flamboyant spins, raising my heart rate and my spirits. All trace of my pout evaporated in the heat, and our blaze crushed all conversations as the audience cheered us on. After two dances, I stood by the bar, damp and satisfied, while David took Paula into the spotlight. I had a clear view of the foyer, and saw him the moment he entered.

Shaun Madison looked sensationally elegant, cocooned in a camel-colored coat, the hem riding to his ankles. I have a short list of visual triggers that guarantee my pleasure, and the bright smile of a handsome black face will always flick my switch. When he caught my eye, his GQ poise gave way to that brilliant white smile. I was electrified.

Steve flashed his own I-told-you-so smile, then got busy and mixed a drink for my final guest. Shaun begged forgiveness for being late, blaming sleep deprivation after a late shift, followed by a full day of home renovation.

“I’m so-o-o glad you made it, baby!”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it!” He took the drink off the bar, and then toasted with a question, “To you, beautiful woman. Now when do all these people leave?”

TOMORROW: Chapter 40

Subscribe to Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series at The Bachelor Blog and never miss a chapter! Or follow on twitter @vickimarie44

 Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell,, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: Chapter 38

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day


Chapter 38

Shaun Madison was twenty-seven years old, but I didn’t know that the night he drove me home from Jason Sinclair’s party. Later, when he told me, somehow I heard twenty-nine. In 2005 I still had a bias against men in their twenties because of the obvious: they were men in their twenties.

It’s just a fact that this is the apprentice decade of adulthood; it’s ground zero for getting it right and amateurs are everywhere. And then there was my own personal handicap; I had missed the entire decade from a heterosexual perspective. Twenty-something year old men were foreigners to me. I didn’t speak their language and I was certain there was no reason to learn.

Just another forever forty-four birthday wish, 2011

Just another forever forty-four birthday wish, 2011

Yet, without fanfare, thirty-something’s had been swarming in and out of my bachelor chapters, discrediting forever the myth that heterosexual desire is aimed exclusively at queen bees below thirty. It was on my first date with Tyrone, when he confessed to his irrepressible erection, that I began my tour of duty with the proud army of men who saluted the truth; older women were just about as hot as it got. From that point forward, the thirty-something’s made it clear that they wanted me, and I immediately discovered that this is the decade where men perfect marathon sex.

I dated men of all ages, but the way things trended, my lovers were younger. I would have been labeled a Cougar if that title had existed in the early years of my bachelorhood. When I was inevitably accused of it, I rejected it like I’d rejected the unsavory booty call. These were slams that stunk just as much as slut, casting women who have sex as lecherous or desperate. My title was bachelor, a term that elevated promiscuity to social acceptance.

The younger men in my life either preferred older women or did not discriminate. After Shaun Madison, it became clear that I could consider men from every adult decade for my bachelor pool. Born in 1979, this Jamaican American, Buddhist-mediating chef and Kama Sutra-inspired lover walked into my world, and gave me earth-shaking reason to revise my bias. We stood on opposite sides of a twenty-one year age gap, but with the grace of destiny, we stretched across that divide into a sensational sexual fit.

As the years moved along, and my collection of men expanded, I began to think of their birth years as vintages. The year 1969 was a good one for me, and over time, I continued to add spicy reserves from that season to my collection. Worthy varietals from my birth decade, the 1950s, were in dwindling supply. Still, I continued to uncover those select Super Tuscan’s that shattered expectations, their silky flavor a mouthful to remember. Most of my tastings were from the 1960s and 1970s, and never a green batch among them. I was just lucky that way, like I had a filter that trapped quality.

I had almost crossed over into my fifth decade when I was tempted by the bouquet of an earthy 1985, an adventurous surfer boy, while both of us were vacationing on the Pacific Coast of Panama. My surfer buddy was barely twenty-two when he smoothly hit on me after dinner one night. He laid a steamy kiss on my lips, than strung a rosary of kisses around my neck. His passion was absolute and my arousal was immediate. The man was hot, and he had me, until that same passion broke the spell. “Do you know how sexy you are?” he whispered, before bringing me in for another kiss. I couldn’t answer with his tongue in my mouth, but I did the calculations. My tempting ocean athlete had been having adult sex for a mere twelve months; I’d been in the same club for twenty-eight years. Liberated I may have been, but the consequence of his question came at me like a bucket of ice water upended; in the shock of social context, the heat was just gone. I’d bumped into a virtual border and found a line I could not cross: the anti-age blow that I was older than his mom. We all draw the line somewhere; as individuals it’s our call. But in society others draw the lines and call the shots. We call those boundaries normal, but it’s a fact of history that sometimes normal is in need of a change.

“How old were you when you first had sex with an older woman?”

That was something I asked all my young lovers, and I learned quickly I was never the first—far from it—their experience had been initiated years earlier, always as adolescents. “I was fifteen; she was twenty-eight.” “I had just turned seventeen, and she was forty-one.” “I was dating her daughter, we were both sixteen—I think she was thirty-nine.” Of course I was stunned: until I heard it every time. My sex-positive bachelor lifestyle had uncovered a secret subculture of women breaking taboos— and often the law. These teenage lovers had adopted a code of silence: not because they felt odd about their desire for older women, but because they had to protect their adult lovers from the consequences. I was often the first person they had ever told.

If these were adult men with teenage girls we would label them predators and charge them with rape and put them in jail. By contrast, the truth expressed by all of these adult men was gratitude. They were grateful for their sexual apprenticeships. All these men were masters at sex, and every single one was proud he’d been trained. They felt fortunate to have studied early, that they had learned a valuable skill, and that they had become great lovers for the rest of their lives.

TOMORROW: Chapter 39

Subscribe to Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series at The Bachelor Blog and never miss a chapter! Or follow on twitter @vickimarie44


Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell,, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: Chapter 37

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day


Chapter 37

The weather was perfect for Jason Sinclair’s party. It was one of those exceptional September days, where even the evening temperature was mild. The temperature was smoking hot for my buddy, Steve, however. There were at least five women for every man at the event, and I don’t think there was a single one who wasn’t easy on the eyes. The  entire house, deck, and backyard swarmed with well-fed and well-liquored guests. I lost my bearings with Steve early on, and I lost faith in potential date opportunities as well. There were simply not enough contenders, but the crowd was particularly friendly, and I wandered in and out of conversations and locations. Whenever I saw Steve, he was animated and energized, and with a different woman. This was going to cost him, I decided, and he said as much when I caught him outside the bathroom.

“How many phone numbers?” I asked.

“Four!” he beamed back with his drop-dead smile. “I owe you!” Precisely, I thought.

The Bachelor prepping the party face, 2008

The Bachelor, prepping the party face, 2008

Being solo at a party was not a problem for me. I talked to strangers for a living, and I had several lines that were guaranteed to get a conversation started. On the topic of self, everyone is an expert, and you can quickly gauge a person’s social skills and fun-potential by noticing how they represent themselves. Boring lifestyles and negative attitudes emerge just as quickly as zest and good humor.

“How do you know Jason?” was the line I pulled out that night, because it worked well with women, men, and small groups.

I discovered that Jason Sinclair knew an extraordinary number of smart, interesting and outgoing women. Many delivered the same response to my party line.

“Oh, we used to date.” After the fifth reply, I developed my own party game for the evening; find out how many ex-dates Jason Sinclair could fit into one fiesta. I hit the jackpot later in the night, when I inserted myself into a circle of four women. All of us were refugees of Mister Sinclair’s considerable and busy charm. That’s when it occurred to me Jason was not merely a bachelor; Jason Sinclair was a collector.

The party had been fun, but by 11:00 p.m., it had lost its luster for me. I was ready to pull the plug on Steve, when the bald beacon of a brother’s shaved head cruised in the front door, passed through the living room, and moved out the sliding door to the deck and out of my sight. Immediately, my boredom dissolved and I challenged myself to a brand new party game; get in front of that black man before another woman beat me to it.

I was on the deck in a heartbeat. The kissing booth was closed, the backyard bar was still pouring, but it was too dark to make out even a white face in the space. I knew timing was everything at that late hour; I had to find him before my highly capable competition maneuvered a pussy-block. I wound my way back upstairs through the basement, into the kitchen, and then back to the living room where I had started. Finally I spotted him, beer in hand, flashing a white smile, in a small cluster of— oh thank you, Jesus—men.

My new favorite stranger had the immortal visage and the timeless youth of the urban black male. In other words, black don’t crack, and this man could have clocked in anywhere between twenty-five and forty years. He was worth the chase; short and fit with broad shoulders, confident eyes, and a big laugh to backup that million-dollar smile. He was clearly enjoying the company of friends when I interrupted.

“Hi there.” I smiled into his eyes. “Excuse me, but I saw you come in, and I wanted to say hello, and let you know that I hope we’ll have a chance to talk later tonight.”

The stranger acted like it was the most ordinary moment on the planet—a half-drunk, green-eyed blonde in a denim miniskirt had snagged his attention with an obvious proposition. 

“Sounds good,” he said, returning the smile, “Let’s do it.”

Finally, I thought, a man in the house. I took that moment to walk away and spotlight my naked white legs beneath the high rise of my skirt. I imagined his eyes as I paraded out of his view, giving him a reason to welcome me back. There were many styles of flirting, and lately I had been practicing the fine art of walking away.

When I caught up with Steve, he was ready to leave. I begged five minutes more so I could finish up my business.

“Take your time, I’ll be out front,” he said, giving me a team hug before I sauntered back to the deck and my primary objective.

“My ride is leaving, so I’ll be heading out. My name is, Vicki Marie. How do you know Jason?”

“He sells wine to my restaurant. I’m a line chef at The Palace Kitchen. I’m Shaun Madison,” and with that reply, his references were sealed. I had spent the entire evening talking to the high quality people that Jason Sinclair collected, and this man was clearly another one, an industry friend, from a four-star venue downtown.

“I can give you a ride,” he said with that brilliant smile, not bothering to ask where I lived. “That sounds perfect,” I said, struck once again by the audacity of black men.

On the way out, I passed Jason’s couch, and was reminded of how our last date had ended. I found myself amused by the current plot twist, and with it, a fresh awareness emerged. I was continuing to learn from the men in my life, and often in ways that surprised me. Not unlike Jason Sinclair, it appeared that I had become a collector as well.

TOMORROW: Chapter 38

Subscribe to Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series at The Bachelor Blog and never miss a chapter! Or follow on twitter @vickimarie44

Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell,, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: Chapter 36

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day


Chapter 36

Steve, and Cara and I occupied houses on the corners of our dead end street in the summer of 2006. Cara, the June Cleaver, stay-at-home mom, had blown that myth out of the water with her recent divorce and subsequent serial dating. Cara’s new lifestyle benefited from the obvious advantages of joint custody. The ex went from being the man she could no longer live with, to the trusted off-site baby sitter. I’d met many nonexclusive single dads in my bachelor life, but Cara was the first bachelor mom.

Meanwhile, Steve was exercising his own emancipation following the heartbreak phase of his ugly divorce. His ex-wife had chosen vodka, and his best friend, over their ten-year suburban marriage. Light-hearted, loyal, and enthusiastically frank, Steve was the kid in a candy store when it came to the ladies. Thirty-something, and sporting the body earned from his serious bike-racing hobby, Steve was fearless, horny, and highly competitive in his bachelor lifestyle. Women loved him and he treated them like gold.

The Bachelor Mentor in her Bachelor Garden, 2007

The Bachelor Mentor in her Bachelor Garden, Seattle 2007

Being the veteran divorcee and bachelor-on-the-block, I was recruited as the wine-pouring mentor of our sexually over-achieving neighborhood. If Google maps had taken daily photos during our summer of lust, they might have mistaken our intersection as a destination nightspot, or a drug distribution front. How else to explain the volume of car models that rotated through our driveways?

One beautiful September evening, Steve and I headed out for an end-of-summer party at Jason Sinclair’s. This annual fete was a legendary house party, or so it was advertised in the Evite blast. The party promised fire-eaters, a kissing booth, plus food and liquor. All proceeds from the $10 cover were donated to a couple of Jason’s favorite non-profits. I drafted Steve as the designated driver and partner-in-crime. This would be new turf for both of us to scout for future playmates.

There had never been another invitation following my delicious evening with Jason Sinclair earlier that spring. I rated the date as a four-star event, and when I had pulled my panties up from my ankles, and rearranged the just-been-fucked tangle of my hair, I was certain that Jason had given me a high rank as well. Nothing would have led me to believe I was too much for that man, so there was some other reason that there wasn’t a callback from Jason Sinclair.

What had been peculiar, but by no means uncommon, was that after extracting multiple orgasms from me with his handwork, Jason had made no move to shoot his own stuff. He wasn’t the first man on my roster to mess with common knowledge about the male prerogative for orgasm. Some men just don’t fuck at the first opportunity. Reasons for the delay vary, and I don’t pretend to know them all. In general though, these men adore pussy, and derive some degree of satisfaction from getting women off. Remembering my pre-bachelor conversation with Katsu, it was clear that the two of us had been shortsighted with regard to the complexity of male sexuality. I’d had a catalog of lovers since then, and could testify that sexual performance was anything but predictable in the heterosexual man. I’d quit questioning a man’s decisions or choices in the sexual moment, and instead, observed and responded to what he had to offer. Just like with salsa, if I accepted the dance, I followed the lead.

I was curious when a man like Jason Sinclair, who had enjoyed my mind and my body, vaporized so soon. By now, however, I had lost interest in solving the mystery, and came to accept that some things are forever unknown. Instead, I became attached to the belief that what mattered to me most was the moment: the energy of his company, the taste of good food, and the exchange of sexual pleasure. It was an event with clear borders, never a promise of more territory. And while it might seem odd or rude or even tawdry that such an intimate good time didn’t automatically initiate another, my expectations had evolved. Every event could be its own blessing. Why did we need to stitch our moments together? Why reach for the thread and the needle to validate significance? Why burden a meaningful connection, in the present moment, with the weight of a future expectation?

I would have accepted another invitation from Jason Sinclair that spring, but it did not impact my self-worth or my confidence that none was offered. It wasn’t about me. I had come to find peace in the fact that I did not need to know why. In fact, I had come to believe it was actually none of my business.

TOMORROW: Chapter 37

Subscribe to Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series at The Bachelor Blog and never miss a chapter! Or follow on twitter @vickimarie44

Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell,, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: Chapter 35

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day


Chapter 35

Trish and I were in Palm Springs when I met Dylan Rizzo, the rock and roll musician that I’d uncovered from the weekend’s talent pool. He was on tour with Blondie, and we met at the hotel bar that hosted the bands for The Dinah, the four-star venue for the temporary Lesbian Nation that hit Palm Springs every spring. There were three thousand beautiful, bikinied and boy-shorted lesbians as far as the eye could see, and I had found one of the only ten men on campus.

He presented himself as a soft-spoken gentleman, in contrast to his black leather and spiked hair. I had no designs on a rocker dude, but when I learned of his position in Debbie Harry’s band, I couldn’t help but think that was cool. Maybe a bar conversation could lead to a backstage invitation and face time with a rock and roll legend. The man was young, tall, rock star handsome, presumably talented, and serenely reserved in manner and disposition. I wound up enjoying his company, and when he invited me to a private party with the band later that night, of course I said yes.

The Dinah, Palm Springs, 2006

Midnight at The Dinah, Palm Springs, 2006

The party was in a hotel room with the road crew and the band members, but I was told the star always went to bed early, and never partied with the boys. And boys they were, young and old, and more goofy than cool. In his shy way, Dylan made it clear he wanted my middle-age ass, but I declined and left the hotel for the trailer and Trish.

My tune changed the following night, during the concert. My shy friend transformed into a passionate musician and a stage savvy singer. The kid was hotter than hot, and my stargazing was split between Harry and him. We partied again that night with his friends, and this time when he asked me back to his room I said yes.

Dylan Rizzo had a monster white dick, and his passion for me matched his earlier stage performance. He had been fucking me from behind, the best position for full entrance when the dick measured XL. The chemistry was hot and athletic and we were salty with sweat. He moved underneath me, took my nipple between his teeth, and went crazy with face-shaking stimulation. The dramatic gesture took me right back to the edge. Greedy and gifted, I came quickly: without a hand, a dick, or a mouth near my kitty-cat.

I was grateful, but not grateful enough to grant his next request. “No, baby, sorry. I don’t do that on the first date.”

Dylan Rizzo didn’t reply, just continued stroking my bum, creating a tender cup with his large palm. I closed my eyes, grateful for the pause. We had been at it awhile.

Dylan pulled away from my chest, brought his lips to my ear, and asked again, “Just suck it. For a minute, that’s all.” I had to compliment his strategy. Not persuaded, however, I repeated, “I just don’t.”

“Yeah, it’s our first date, but it won’t be our last,” he whispered softly, trying a new angle.

“Don’t go there,” I laughed. “You’re funny, baby. And maybe we will meet again one day. But really, it doesn’t matter. I just don’t do it.”

I adore the dick. I like the way it looks, the way it feels, the way it smells, and I like what it can do. But, I do not like to suck dick. I know the BJ is every man’s favorite position. I understand it’s the must-do on every man’s to-do list. I have been told time and again that I am the first woman who has said no.

My mouth is too small, the dicks are too big, and the result is an ache that contracts every muscle from my forehead to my neck. It was after fifteen years of lesbian sex that I discovered that dick-induced face cramps were not a turn on for me, which led me to a simple and unconflicted decision—I don’t go there. And besides, I’m no good at it. I refuse to hear one more man shout out, “stop—stop—stop!” because I dragged my teeth along his shaft.

“But I ate your pussy.”

“It’s not the same.”

“And I know you liked it.”

“Yes, I did. I hope you did it because you liked it. It was hot.”

“Don’t you think it’s only right if you do the same?” Men love logic, so I always countered with common sense.

“OK, baby, tell me—have you ever sucked dick?” There is nothing quite like the look on a straight man’s face when you put that picture in his head.

“Well, baby, I’ve sucked pussy and I’ve sucked dick—and you’re just going to have to trust me on this one—they’re just not the same. It’s not even close.”

I’ve had straight women fight me on this for not being equitable. I’ve had gay men go fish-eyed and shake their heads in sympathy for the straight brother in my bed. And I’ve had more than one helpful man on a barstool explain, “It’s not really painful—you must be doing it wrong.” Like he would know. This is the point where I remind the passionate blowjob lobby that if the BJ is a deal breaker for the man of the moment, then he is free to move on, with a wave goodbye and no hard feelings. I am not going to do anything I don’t like. Remember, I’m not denying any lover the gratification of a dick-lick—I don’t ask for an exclusive engagement. The universe has provided, and there is a world full of women who adore a mouthful of man. And even if they don’t, my sources tell me, the sisters in the sheets will not be saying no.

People are often surprised that I have limits: as if the fact that because I was a lesbian, means I will be the first to drool over the Victoria’s Secret catalog. As if the fact that because I’m uninhibited, means I want more than one naked body in my bed. As if the fact that because I’m a bachelor I’m predatory toward men and will even spread my legs through a lover’s social circle. Because I operate outside the territory of mainstream sexuality, the presumption is that I must be actively turned on by every possible deviation of human desire.

I do try things. Curiosity can prompt exploration, but that’s not to be confused with desire. I wanted to suck dick, because it’s fucking hot. I wanted sex outside of monogamy, because I was tempted by difference. But ultimately, I decided against blowjobs and I decided against cheating. In my forties, I had even decided against love, and as I moved through the successive chapters of my bachelor life, I came to cherish that decision.

TOMORROW: Chapter 36

Subscribe to Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series at The Bachelor Blog and never miss a chapter! Or follow on twitter @vickimarie44


Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell,, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: Chapter 34

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day


Chapter 34

Jason Sinclair was anything but your average white guy. A gentleman and a ladies man, he clearly loved women, and was excellent at the fine art of balancing seductive intention with playful charm. I felt desired under his gaze, and I savored the attention. He was, quite simply, a man who made me feel like a woman.

We sat for one evening of fine dining in a downtown restaurant before I got the tour, sans Trish, of the wine cellar in his south Seattle home. On our first date I explained my bachelor lifestyle, and he described a few female friends who were doing the same thing.

“You’re the first person who’s told me that,” I said with surprise. “But I knew I couldn’t be the only woman on the planet on the bachelor path.”

“Nothing unique about a booty call,” he shot back.

“That’s not how I think of it, at all. That’s too crude for my taste.”

“But, that’s what it is, isn’t it—un-partnered sex, free of commitment, mutually beneficial?”

Navigating in Medellín, 2013

Navigating in Medellín, 2013

I thought of my lovers over the past few years. Sure, zero commitment and mutual benefits were key components. But there was always the backdrop of the date, the ambiance of the dinner, the conversation with the cocktail, a call to dance before the sex. There was the dressing up, the attention to the details of seduction, the drama and play of what I was fond of calling, “adult entertainment.”

Booty call evoked an image of hanging out in your sweats, flipping through the Rolodex, and then grinding out quick satisfaction. That wasn’t even close to what I was doing. That wouldn’t turn me on; that was dude-style. That was gay boy bumping.

Flavor, music, wardrobe, fragrance; I brought all the senses and more into my sex. For me to be turned on, for me to hit my capacity, my mind had to be engaged. I relished the foreplay, the set, the costumes, the props of romance and luxury. It wasn’t simply sex I was after. It was experiential. It was something to savor. I composed a romantic short story, absent of drama, focused on pleasure. Before the disrobing or the heavy breathing or the first orgasm, I had to stimulate the most important sex organ, the one above my shoulders. At the end of the day, it was all in my head.

“I learned this recipe when I was just a kid, on my first job as a sous-chef in New Orleans. It’s not Cajun, it’s just damn good. I’ve been making it for more than twenty years.”

It was our second date, and Jason was throwing together a meal off the grill. I sat in the evening sunlight on his west-facing deck, sipped the red wine he’d snagged during the cellar tour, and listened to his stories about the grind and glamour of the wine industry. Good food and good drink were his bread and butter, and I was partial to all industries founded on pleasure. Dad gave me that. He worked as a bartender, but fine cooking and strong flavor was the hobby he practiced the two nights a week he was home. Food, drink, and breast-beating dialogue; dad looked for adventure in a recipe, and theatre in a conversation. That was my inheritance, and those were the memories I was able enjoy again after he died.

I laid a slice of brie on my tongue, and let the Washington Syrah lend a burst of spice to the creamy texture. The falling sun tinted the wine in my glass with a robust glow, and the bird on the grill sent out an aroma infused with garlic and rosemary.

Our slice of heaven was as simple as a man and a woman and a meal on the way. Would I like him to kiss me before we ate? Would I welcome sex after dessert? However the evening unfolded, then that’s where we would land. I was moved by the suspense, and my fundamental preference: I was on a date with a man, and I was in for the follow.

After our meal, we cleared the dishes, and moved the conversation to the couch. Without a word, Jason brought his face to mine, and took my mouth with his thick lips. I brought my hands to his face, finding the surface rough from his shadow beard. He deepened the kiss and the spark spread between us. I dragged my fingers through the curls on his head, found the skin of his neck, squeezed into the tight muscle of his deltoid. Unwavering and deliberate, his tongue in my mouth, Jason traced my legs with his open palm, lingered on the roundness of my ass, found the firm flatness of belly, then the hard reflex of my nipples. He was direct and exploratory, extracting pleasure from my limbs, the back of my neck, the crease that frames the pussy between my legs. There was urgency in how he handled me, and that fact pushed sound into my breath, the signal that I burned from his touch. The man didn’t merely want me: he was taking me. I bore into his hard chest with my palms, pressed into his thighs with my hip, felt his hot breath against my cheek.

His hand came to the button of my blue jeans, freed the zipper from its locked position, and found the heat inside and the wetness he inspired. I welcomed his first finger, and then his second, thrusting my pelvis toward his fist, pushing off his chest with my arms. When his fingers sunk in, I arched the length of my spine, rode the silk wave of rapture, and gripped everything he had inside of me. He watched with his eyes while he fucked me with his hand, pulling in and out like a dick, steady, fierce, and deepening against my bucking hips. My eyes were closed, but I felt him watching. I could see in my mind he was turned on by the storm he’d provoked and I pictured his dick, rock-hard with power. We’d arrived in that expansive state where sexual capacity feels limitless, and physical sensation explains all existence, because it has hijacked the mind. His method was self-serving, and his victory secure. In that ironic madness of desire, he’d made it all about me, so it could be all about him.

TOMORROW: Chapter 35

Subscribe to Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series at The Bachelor Blog and never miss a chapter! Or follow on twitter @vickimarie44

Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell,, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.