I wrote about a guy that I have only a few sentences worth of material, the memory of answering the door, going down on him and nothing else. He was sweet in his communication afterwards, kept it up even though I moved across the country. When I was coming back out to the area for a visit, we decided to meet each other again – my motives were one he was unaware of – I was in an Ambien blackout when I was with him and didn’t remember him; I wanted to meet the man I had sex with.
So I knew he had the red hair, we had been exchanging photos and from the original dating site I found him on it had a picture of his face. He wasn’t abnormally tall when I greeted him at the door and I took his hand and pulled him into the bedroom. No point in trying to stumble over awkward conversations with a one night stand that I hadn’t seen in over a month. I stripped out of the baggy sweats I greeted him at the door with, to reveal the lingerie he requested I wear underneath. I even managed to wear fishnet stockings last minute thanks to my sister loaning me a pair.
He muttered how he missed my body as he drank me in his vision, his hands roaming almost reverently. I stood up on tiptoe and kissed the side of his neck, and he turned to capture my kisses into his mouth. His hands began to roam in earnest and our bodies pressed together. Our sex was mostly foreplay by me, sex with him on top. “Do you want me to cum?” he asked, and I replied that I did as he thrusted inside my body.
“One down,” I joked, as he paused on top of me before withdrawing. He laughed.
He had mentioned wanting to come four times that night, he had also mentioned rubbing himself against me while I slept and waking me up for morning. He bought a large box of condoms in expectation of all the fun we would have while I was visiting – he didn’t want a one night stand, he wanted to stay over every night that I was in town.
After his first orgasm, we laid in bed and talked a bit. No awkwardness. I told him that I didn’t remember a lot from that night, that I was very sleepy. He didn’t fill in many details for me like I was hoping – just that he stayed for about four hours, that I was amazing, that he struggled to stay hard a second time, that I told him that I write about sex and what name I went by….ugh, did I really? I questioned that one with what I hoped was nonchalantly, and he said he couldn’t remember exactly the name.
I wish I could remember that night. It does bother me that I confessed to things that I am clueless about, that I had sex completely unaware, that I blacked out, that there was this sweet guy that I simply didn’t remember. While our conversation flowed easily, with him doing a lot of the talking, I began kissing him again, starting at his fingertips which rested peacefully beside me. It was getting late, I was tired, and if he had a goal of four rounds then I wanted to get them going.
“Will you ride me?” he asked in a voice that always struck me soft gentleman tones.
“Yes,” as I reached for a condom to hand to him, licking and sucking on his thighs and balls while he unrolled it over his shaft. I straddled him and just sunk myself down to his hilt. He was long and he hit a wall, but I kept him there anyhow, missing the feel for some reason of that type of pain. His hands gripped and caressed up and down my body, especially my breasts and hips, while I rotated my hips slowly to find the right angle, then with more urgency when it began to feel good. After a bit, I went to raise up off of him so he could be on top. “No, wait, I’m cumming,” he pleaded quickly and my body clenched down on the tip since he was almost out of me at that time and I slid down again, taking him all the way down again.
“Tell me next time,” I breathed out as I slid down and then up again in measured strokes.
“Okay,” a groan, “sorry,” a grunt, and I ground down on him until his noises became softer and his body melted more into the mattress instead of tensing up into me.
“Did I ruin it?” I asked, concerned, looking down at him.
I raised myself up and slowly moved up, smiling at his noises of sensitivity. “Two.”
He laughed. “That might be it for tonight. I’m not the young buck I used to be.”
I smiled, rolled over, and thought of him being thirteen years my junior. If he wasn’t for my slutfest, I wouldn’t have even considered having sex with him. If I remembered him, I probably wouldn’t have invited him for round two. Yet, as he told me how he appreciated my forthright and direct manner that first time in approaching him for sex and my skill in it, as my body lay beside his and felt his heat wash over my skin, I was glad I was in bed with him. I wasn’t going to do another slutfest, but it sure was nice having one dedicated partner help me chase away the loneliness in a town that had everything to do with my husband and our future dreams.