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