Columbus Day Pt 02

On October 11, just a few days before I met Patricia, I had finished my self-described "30 dates in 30 days." Kind of a dating challenge. I had posted an ad on POF.com on September 5 or maybe September 6, edited it a dozen times until it was perfect (or as close to perfect as I was going to get), and I started meeting women on September 7. Typically, it was just one "meet and greet" per day. Sometimes two so that I could skip a day. I could meet a blond nurse for lunch at 11:30 am in the Central West End (say, Pickleman's Deli), then meet a redhead bookstore owner for a lighter lunch at 12:45 around the corner. I had dates that lasted two hours. Some were thirty minutes. The point was getting an idea of what was out there, what I wanted, what they wanted. I wanted to know if I was still dateable. I wanted a connection, sex, a "partner in crime." I gradually decided that online dating was only somewhat risky and mostly a waste of time. After meeting a few women, I made a point of doing phone interviews before the date. Just ten minutes. To determine mental status. Degree of boring. Intelligence. Wit. The experiment was mostly a failure. Mostly.

In fact, I met a few bright, beautiful women. There was Joanie, the police department supervisor with the gorgeous blond hair and exciting curves. There was Mel, the Washington University researcher who I discovered is the first cousin of my last girlfriend. Layla, another blonde. Jen, Trish, Michelle, Amie, Amy, Karen, Janet, Barbara, Dawn, Becca, Theresa, Pam, Eunice, Diane #1, Diane #2.

I skipped my UPS job on Friday, October 16. I arrived at Starbucks at 1 pm and stayed until closing, 9 pm. Patricia never showed. Not that she said she would. Instead, around 8 pm a thirty-something blonde walked in carrying a backpack and a folder and asked to sit at my large table. "Sure," I said. She bought a latte and returned and sat opposite me. She graded papers (middle school essays) and chuckled occasionally and flexed her neck by dipping her head left and right. We did some small talk. I told her I was a freelance proofreader.

"Oh. Neat. I don't want to bother you, but maybe you would give me your opinion on this essay. It's kind of funny."

"OK."

She read the essay out loud. I don't remember much about it now, but I said, "Yeah. That's pretty bad. Although, for middle school, maybe that's not the worst you have seen."

I can't give much of an assessment by listening to a paper. I can't see it. I can't see the spelling, punctuation. My skill is reading. Reading sentences word by word with my bespectacled eyes. I can then transpose words and phrases, insert and delete punctuation, correct grammar. Fix danglers and modifiers. The word only is likely the most misplaced modifier of all.

She said her name was Carol. "I'm doing this substitute teaching job. Private school. My dad is getting so tired of supporting me. I also work at The Little Gym."

"Hmm," I said.

"I used to be a dancer. Musical theater, Broadway-type shows. I performed on a cruise ship for three years. The contract called for two shows a day, six days a week, for ten months straight."

"I can see you as a dancer," I said. She was thin and toned, pretty face, pale complexion. A sharp, slightly large nose.

"Thank you. Let me tell you, when you board a cruise ship for a ten-month gig, you have to get a boyfriend within the first two days. No, the first day. Otherwise, they are all taken. I spent my first nine-month gig stealing time from other dancers' boyfriends."

"I see. I never thought about that." I smiled.

I looked back down and proofread my pages, checked email on my laptop. Drank latte.

At 8:58, the barista walked among the tables and kindly and quietly mentioned that Starbucks was closing in two minutes. I gathered my stuff and put everything in my backpack. Carol was standing on the other side of the table, waiting. We walked to the door. "Where are you heading?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe Borders. Denny's. Maybe home." We walked to the parking lot.

She said, "I would love to hang out with you."

"Ok."

"Are you going to Borders to work?" she asked.

"Hmm. I think I'm done working tonight. Maybe we should go to Denny's."

"Go together in your car? Is that ok?"

"Sure," I said.

"But you know, you have to make a choice," she said.

"What's that?"

"We can be friends. Or we can have a one-night stand." She smiled. Then she laughed.

"Really?" I said. I paused. "I guess we will be friends."

We drove to Denny's. I told her about my house in midtown St. Charles.

"I bought the house nine months ago. I'm working on the floors this month. Hell, it could be two months. The first floor is about nine hundred square feet. The house is one hundred seven years old. On the first floor I have pulled up the carpets, pads, staples, and then there was linoleum under the carpet in the dining room. The linoleum was glued to Masonite, which was nailed to the hard wood floors. Terrible shape—scratches, dings, stains, nail holes. But I spend an hour a day sanding them with a belt sander. I think they will be gorgeous when I am done."

"I would love to see your house," she said. "I love old houses."

We arrived at the Denny's parking lot. I stopped the car and looked at her. She looked into my eyes. I made a U turn and exited onto Fifth Street. I drove to my house.

It turns out that we did not become friends.

I parked in the garage. We went through the back door into my kitchen.

I switched on the lights. "As you can see," I said, "the kitchen was updated in the early 1970s."

We walked into the dining room.

"I can see what you meant by the floors. They will be gorgeous."

I stepped over a tool box. "I love the fireplace. I have used it a couple of times, but there is something wrong with the flue. It gets a little smoky in here. I have another fireplace in my bedroom."

We ascended the stairs and made a right turn into my bedroom. I flicked on the light.

"Blue carpeting, I see," she said, laughing.

"Yes. I will change that. I do not think I have hard wood floors in here, but if not, I will get some new carpet when I can afford it."

"This room is huge."

"It's twelve by twenty-six."

She looked at my bed. "Do you mind if I lie down for a bit? Maybe take a little nap?"

"Sure. Go ahead," I said.

Carol kicked off her boots and got under the covers and scooted to one side of the bed. There was movement under the covers. She was taking off some clothing. Her jeans apparently. Then she rolled onto her side and closed her eyes, facing me. I stood there for a moment and said, "I'll turn off the light."

"No. That's ok. It's not that bright in here."

I headed to the bathroom. And I pondered what to do. I stood there, then brushed my teeth, and went into the hallway, just outside my bedroom. I looked in. Her head was on the pillow, but her eyes were open.

"Don't just stand there. Come lie with me."

I kicked off my cowboy boots, peeled off my socks, unfastened my belt and took off my jeans. I got under the covers and faced her.

"Are you a good kisser?" she asked.

I laughed. "It's my specialty." I moved closer, and we kissed. Then kissed again.

Carol smiled then became serious. "Don't you dare take off your boxers unless you are wearing a condom."

I laughed again. "Well, I can't put one on until I am, ahem, aroused."

"Just so you understand," she said. "You can't even come close to my vagina without a condom. I have never had sex without a condom."

"Really? That's kinda hot. There are some in the nightstand if and when it becomes necessary."

She flipped over and faced the wall. "Hold me," she whispered.

I spooned her and placed my hand on her hip. My hand was on her panties and partly on her skin. Arousal seemed imminent.

She pressed her ass into my boxers. My erection was pressed between her cheeks. A few minutes later, she said, "I can't sleep. You know, there is something you can do without a condom."

"What's that?"

"Oral."

"Mmm. Yes. Do you mind if I take off these covers?"

She sat up and kicked the duvet to the bottom of the bed. Her legs were nice, toned, smooth, and very white. She took off her sweater and then unfastened her bra with one hand. The bra fell into her lap.

"Damn!" I said.

"What?"

"Gorgeous breasts."

"Thank you." She scooted out of her panties and handed them to me. I put them to my face and breathed.

"Oh my god," I said.

I removed my shirt and lay on my back. Carol straddled my chest, holding on to the headboard. With my hands on her ass, I guided her closer to my face. I kissed her abdomen and then her mons pubis, a soft mound of curly blond hair.

I sucked and nibbled her thighs and guided her vagina to my mouth. I inhaled her scent and my penis responded by getting harder. Wide-mouthed, I moistened the labia, kissing deeply. My tongue found the smooth fragrant skin just beyond the labia minora. She began to thrust against my mouth. I got into sync with her movements and extended my tongue to match her thrusts with long strokes along her wet pussy. I guided one finger into her as my tongue, moving side to side, massaged and vibrated the swollen clitoris.

"Oh yeah," she moaned. "Put a condom on."

I slipped on a condom as she turned toward the foot of the bed, bent over, her face on the duvet and her ass up in the air.

I kissed her ass, licked her pussy one more time, and I entered her.

Her moans were intoxicating. I found a pace and rhythm that made her moans louder, and I pushed into her over and over, cupping her breasts in my hands and alternately watching her backside bounce and glide onto my penis. I kept thinking about her delicious pussy that was sliding back and forth on me. It has never had an unprotected cock inside. OMG. I wanted to be skin to skin inside that glorious vagina. As I got close to coming, I pulled off the condom in one quick motion and was back inside her, slowing the pace to feel every sensation, every part of her warm vaginal walls. She bounced back on my dick, completely unaware that we were genital to genital, skin to skin, and I became dizzy, feeling every movement.

We had a one-night stand. And then one more. But that was later. And I'm not sure what that is called. A two-night stand, I suppose.