Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day
THE BACHELOR CHAPTERS: A THINKING WOMAN’S ROMANCE
Our evening began in a Thai restaurant where we ate mussels and beef satay with dripping hot sauces. During dinner, we’d been exchanging life stories, and that’s when Dion told me he never dated anyone over the age of twenty-eight; which is when I spit out my drink.
“You do know that I’m not even close to twenty-eight, don’t you?” I asked rhetorically, wiping the gin spray from the table as we both laughed at my outburst.
I’d known him for several months, long enough to understand that he loved the company of smart mature women; he was turned on by my life experience, and it was clear that he adored me. Our intellectual rapport meant even more than our sex to me, and I was electrified by our sex.
“So why twenty-eight, how come the great divide?”
“After twenty-eight, a woman wants to be married and have children. She’s through having sex for fun or for romance. She will have plans.”
I was immediately offended. How could I not take that personally? I was on the far end of his scale of obsolescence. Such was my feminist reflex, to any opinion from a man, when women were reduced to a universal group. But Dion was smart, and I would even characterize him as a feminist; privilege and inequity were not foreign concepts in his worldview.
“How old are you?” I asked.
His spirit was much younger, but his age explained the depth of our discourse. As a pair, we had almost ninety years of living between us. I couldn’t quite believe he didn’t have a harem of fascinating forty-year-olds. He was missing so much.
I thought back to my life at twenty-eight. Beth and I had been a couple for three years and had just bought our first house. Before we met, I had been looking for love; I had wanted a partner. I didn’t want a kid, and I didn’t want just any woman, but I did hope to share my life with someone amazing. Well, there you had it. According to the facts of my own biography, the French Cowboy was right.
That was what I liked about my life at that moment; I had decided to listen. I had a lot of self-knowledge by my mid-forties, and I was more interested in how others saw the world. I was intrigued by how men saw women, in part because I had so little experience. Difference turned me on, and I pursued it by asking piercing questions and suspending judgment. There would have been a time when I would have been permanently put off by his position, but that was no longer necessary. I was grateful for that gift of maturity. So what if he had a preference for women under twenty-eight; he had a reason, and it was his life.
Men didn’t threaten me and they didn’t overly impress me. But they did fascinate me. I had lived so many years without heterosexual intimacy and outside their sphere of influence, that my curiosity about men was almost anthropological. I knew the cultural privileges of men, I knew the social expectations and stereotypes, but I actually knew very little about how individual men connected the dots of their lives.
Men like Dion attracted me because they were open but self-contained, and not invested in approval. That looked like freedom from where I sat, and I drafted Dion as my guide. I knew the high price of entwining sex with the heart, and I imagined I could beat that back with my brilliant bachelor plan. I wanted to hear what was inside his head, just as much as I wanted to feel his desire.
That night was my first visit to his home. Dion’s apartment had only two rooms; undeniably small, but with so little furniture, somehow seemed spacious. Was it coincidental that his place reminded me of the loft in Paris, where Toni and I had surrendered to ecstasy, where we had filled the emptiness with our bold theatre? In Dion’s place, there was a bed in one room, with the tiniest table and chair next to it where the computer glowed. The wall behind the bed was a salon-style homage to The Duke; there must have been more than forty framed and autographed headshots of America’s most famous cowboy. The second room was spare as well, furnished only with a cinder block bookshelf against the wall that held the LP’s and stereo. The vintage albums, with their period graphics, were displayed to be seen: lounge music from the ‘50s, country music from the ‘60s, and other strange compilations with even stranger graphics. Surfboards and snowboards and cowboy hats hung from the ceiling of the high walled room. Eclectic Americana were the only objects in the apartment, and it left the impression that he was a curator of an earlier bachelor era.
He laid an album on the turntable and the silky rhythm of a bossa nova swooned into the room. I liked the wordless first move of a man, and when he came to where I stood in the middle of the room and kissed my lips, I closed my eyes. His hands traced my cheeks from hairline to neck, past my shoulders and down my back. His tender strokes matched the slow deep kisses he offered, until gracefully, he sank to his knees and his face hovered before the burn between my thighs. He took an ankle in each hand, and then his palms glided up the back of my legs, past my ass, and back to my ankles with my panties in his grip. There was an art to lifting the leg of a woman, and he had it down, delicately lifting one foot and then the other, like the Prince helping Cinderella into the glass slippers. Next he lifted the hem of my skirt. I opened my eyes when his tongue touched my pussy, watching while I felt the magnificent spread of his mouth reach beyond my outer lips.
The view from above was surreal, like watching a movie, only I felt every frame. Voluptuous women, draped over mid-century furniture, kept watch from their seductive poses on the album covers, and framed the background behind his smooth head. I gaped with rapture as the circular motion of his head magnified the smaller strokes of his tongue, a stimulation that moved through my clit to my thighs, across my ass and up to my nipples. All zones came into play, my entire body signing on, persuaded by the sensation that radiated from his mouth on my pussy. Looking down I felt omnipotent, but helpless; I towered over his submissive position, yet I was completely dependent on his desire. A man on his knees, moving his mouth for my pleasure: was there ever a more potent image to imagine? Could I ever feel more power on the planet? Would I ever feel more like a man?
TOMORROW: Chapter 21
Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell, Tyson@rarebirdlit.com, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.