Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day
THE BACHELOR CHAPTERS: A THINKING WOMAN’S ROMANCE
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?”
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
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.