A Pescadero Welcome

This is the first part of a year's worth of sexual discovery by an Asian woman on a fellowship in the United States. The series will be titled, "Thanks For The Memories". There will be straight sex, gay sex, group sex, domination, submission and all shades of erotic love. I hope you like Dani's saga. Comments and suggestions always welcome.

DANI'S SONG

Trolling for love on the Net is much like a treasure quest. Plenty of wrong turns, missed forks, false clues. For every ten thousand treks, maybe a rainbow or two. I've had guys presenting themselves as cheery hunks and turning out to be creepy, barely literate, with jowls and beer guts. Gary did the opposite.

He sent photos of his self two decades back, when he looked like a worn-out Santa Claus. Our friendship was sexy but not carnal. He wrote and chatted about his gals, the real ones and the fantasies, and penned stories that should be anthologized as "What Women Want". I shared funny stories about love fumbles, male and female alike, the hot sex with butches and the drama that followed because everyone wanted commitment after the third fuck.

"You are such a little man, Dani!" Gary didn't mean that as a compliment. He was a feminist through and through, thoroughly in touch with his softer side. He despaired of my need for enough personal space to write and read and daydream, and listen to music and daydream, and draw and paint and daydream and orgasm from phone sex and daydream.

I do think like a man most of the times. Comes with work territory drowning in machismo. In the law enforcement field, feminine traits like compassion are trump cards, to be taken out only when absolutely necessary. Otherwise, all those brats would suck up your soul.

I can also swagger with the best of them. That's the first thing you learn when you're pint-sized in a huge clan of athletes and politicians. I was one, too. Got awards for gymnastics and swimming (before everybody outgrew me by a foot or more), taekwondo and judo, and was the masochist dirt-hugger of our champion volleyball team.

But the swag is tempered by the flow of dance (ballet, jazz, hula, ballroom - mom believed in finishing school skills). And music always betrays the real gal, the one whose eyes peek sideways and don't flash like knives, who bites her lips instead of clenching the jaw, whose hands trail slowly across check and nape and neck instead of perching on the hips.

My two sides clash the first time I meet Gary at the San Francisco Airport, at the start of a year-long fellowship for crime analysts.

I peek around giants, looking for Santa and his riot of silver curls. I tense when a hand clasps my left wrist, then remember there is no pistol to draw.

Thigh muscles ripple through denim as a man steps into my personal space. I step back and try to slide my wrist free.

"How can you walk so fast with that cart?"

That Texan drawl mixed with California lilt. I look up, way up. My jaw drops.

Silver waves are held back in ponytail, trim soft fuzz in the same tone emphasize a square jawline. Gray eyebrows frame eyes of a shade of blue that heralds a storm. No Santa belly; only nipples that strain against a plain white t-shirt. A tan leather jacket drapes around shoulders more than twice my width.

He is three or four inches taller than his avowed 5'9". My neck is starting to ache from looking up.

I twist my wrist free and step in to reclaim space. My eyes turn cold.

"Bastard," I whisper.

A woman hears it, frowns and turns, looking ready to save 'lil Thumbelina.

Gary smiles at her and she stops.

"Let's talk later," he whispers back, smoothly ejecting me from behind the cart and gliding off with a second smile at my would-be savior. What can I do but add to his smile and follow?

Gary looks over his shoulder just once and we proceed in silence to the car park. I do not bother to keep pace.

Despite the anger, I have to stifle an urge to whistle at his butt. Life is a bitch. I came ready for the safe shore and get 6'1" of danger.

His car is on the far side, the adjoining slots empty. He's stuffed all my bags in his Range Rover before I reach him. He turns, his gaze calm.

"Talk?"

I shake my head.

"Where I can smoke."

To his credit, he doesn't smile. He opens the passenger door, takes my arm and practically lifts me onto the seat. He smiles and shrugs at my glare and stalks to his side.

We drive in silence for ten minutes. Gary turns into a park. He presses a button and windows slide down. I gesture at the door and hear the lock click open.

We walk to a bench. He sits. I lean against a tree and light my first smoke in 15 hours.

My eyes close as the first nicotine rush leaves me floating. The disorientation is gone as I grind the butt against the public ashtray. I light another stick, puff out smoke and look down at him.

"Why?"

Gary slumps with his hands clasped, looking at the ground for 30 seconds before he returns my stare.

"I don't like people deciding because..." he trails off, a hand gestures up and down his torso.

The honorary woman. I am still peeved and hold back a grin.

"We've know each other for more than a year," I challenge him.

He is hunched on his knees again. The silence grows longer. He sighs, sits up, rubs both hands against his thighs.

"I didn't want to scare you."

I deserved that. Little Ms Feminist had gone trawling Yahoo's adult chat rooms and then declared she was simply looking for friends.

"I don't scare easy, Gary."

He stands up. I have to crane the neck again.

He comes nearer. And nearer. My eyes are at the level of his nipples.

"No. You just walk away."

I have no answer to that.

A hand softly cups my chin.

"I've always acknowledged my attraction," Gary reminds me. "I promised not to push. That still stands."

The son of a... I take off his hand and ground out the cigarette. I run my hand over my butt and take a deep breath. I turn around and cock my head. I smile. He raises a brow.

"Next time, let me make an informed choice."

Beauty is no reason to break off an almost two-year friendship.

Gary smiles and opens his arms. I walk in, curl my arms around his waist and enjoy a long embrace and the hands that muss my hair and rub my back.

It feels safe. But we both know the rules have changed.

My flat would not be ready for a week and I'd accepted Gary's to stay two nights before flying off to visit relatives. We review the situation. He's married; an open relationship. His wife is bisexual, also an Asian. It's an alternative lifestyle. They switch though sex, he says, has dwindled to at a weekly compulsory bonding. She has lovers - femmes, he says with a smile.

I laugh. Lizzie is Vietnamese, with the classic long hair, the Miss Saigon stereotype.

"She's safe with me," I tease back.

The rest of the drive we listen to John Coltraine. I do not let on that inner muscles clench when Gary rubs my thighs. I let a finger trace his jaw but stop when he closes his eyes.

I eye the steering wheel.

"Your hands..."

We erupt into laughter. Gary's always been amused by my fascination for hands. At a stoplight, he takes mine. It is dwarfed in his. We curl fingers together. He draws mine to his lips. I close my eyes. I fall asleep for the rest of the drive to Pescadero.

Lizzie gives me a hug before Gary can do the intros. Then she draws my face for a quick kiss on the lips.

"You're prettier than your photos," she gushes in pure California twang.

She is tall, 5'4", and with more curves than her normally sylph-like compatriots.

Lizzie presses me to relax on their sofa as Gary carries my bag to the guest bedroom. She opens the curtains and I gasp. I was asleep till Gary parked in the garage and had never noticed the view.

My friends own a guesthouse with six rooms on the ground floor and lower levels. Their part, on the topmost floor, has three bedrooms. Both of them were Silicon valley bright people and cashed in before the crash. Gary still consults with investment banks and private holding companies but Lizzie now takes charge of the guesthouse, a restaurant in the town center, and another place in Marin County, across the strait.

In front of me is a deck that overlooks the ocean. Dusk has fallen but the surf still stands out beneath the sky's violet light. The sound of crashing waves are muted by the door's double glass.

Lizzie doesn't pry into my relationship with Gary as I sip the wine she hands over. She curls up on the opposite sofa. Seeing her draw her legs up sideways, I kick off my sandals and lean back, legs crossed like an Indian brave. I see her openly check me out but don't feel much interest.

She gets up to serve early dinner as Gary comes back. He calls me over to the baby grand and we start singing the slower standards. Lizzie comes back and waits smiling, her hands clasped and eyes shining as we finish, "Funny Valentine."

She bobs up and down her heels as she claps.

"I'm so glad there's someone to sign with Gary!" She makes a grimace. "I can't sing at all. But I love music."

We don't discuss their lifestyle over dinner. Instead, we talk of Presidents and rogues and what cultural acts to see in the next three months. My garage flat is in the middle of San Francisco, not too far from Castro St. Turns out Lizzie knows my landlady, a musician and a professor at the state university. Gary looks up from the vegetable pasta. She gives him a smile best described as conspiratorial but I am too sleepy with wine and travel to probe.

I don't know what services Lizzie offers her guests. But she insists on filling the huge tub in the bathroom, shaking out lavender salt and pouring in a deeper-scented bubble bath.

Zombie-like, I allow her to help in the undressing and groan as the hot water laps at tired muscles. I drink the second glass of wine in silence and sit up so she can sponge my back. The glass shakes as she sweeps across my breasts. I put it down on the wide wooden plank beside the picture window. My eyes are closed the whole time.

Lizzie does not push, her touch all function with no tease. She draws me up for a rinse and rubs me down with a fluffy yellow towel almost my length.

I haven't unpacked and accept the flimsy Indian cotton wraparound. Lizzie steps out as I brush my teeth and apply night moisturizer.

Gary is also waiting in the bedroom.

"Relax now and sleep," Lizzie croons as she pulls back the comforter and dims the light. Me and notions of private space... I do not resist as she pries open my sari. She settles me on my stomach and starts a massage. Gary strokes my head. I hear the a sitar, gently wailing, and the rhythm of waves.

It is a sensual massage, the hands feather like as they tap on back nerves and slide around to the sides of my breasts. I am totally docile, pliant, and increasingly wanting as Lizzie's hands dance down my flanks.

She makes a "shhhhh" as I groan when briefly her fingers dig into ass muscles. She runs hands down my thighs and I groan once more as she presses on the soles of my feet.

My juices start pooling as her hands climb back. Gary is toying with my earlobes. Lizzie spreads my thighs and glides up and down the inner sides.

A high sweep ends with a gentle press and the other hand does the same. Higher. Higher. Now she is almost at my cunt. This is done all in silence. Only my breath is heavy. I cannot hear them. I do not want to hear them. I am focused only on the hands, on the heat that fills my groin. I tilt my ass back. She brings it back down. My eyes fill with tears of shame but then I feel her hand cup my cunt. I shudder and cry out. Gary rubs my lips with his thumb and as I open, slides it into my mouth.

Gently, Lizzie props up my hips and a warm towel slides underneath. I start to flood as she rubs with greater pressure. My legs spread and saliva covers Gary's thumb. I sob against the thick, stubby digit as Lizzie enters me with a finger, pumping slowly and then sawing at my nether lips. One finger becomes two and my hands clutch at the pillow as her thumb strokes my clit.

"Baby. Baby. Baby." Gary's whisper is a counterpoint to Lizzie's thrusts. I withdraw from his thumb to sound my wail and his lips settle near my ear. "That's it baby. Baby. Feel, baby."

When Lizzie starts tonguing my butt slit, the pressure builds and my cries compete with the sitar. I shake my head, desperate to latch onto something with my lips and Gary kisses me, drawing in my keening.

Lizzie's tongue penetrates my asshole as a third finger slides into my pussy. I am clamping against her, squirting, and I am suckling hard at Gary's tongue. At the fourth thrust of her tongue I come and come and come as sparks dance inside between back and front, her fingers brushing my secret sponge and a thumb flicking the clit. I scream into Gary's mouth as my dam splits open, spilling a torrent on the towel and Lizzie's jaw. The universe implodes. There is only my ragged breath, the sitar now whispering its last sounds. Gary is silent. Lizzie is silent.

She draws out the soaked towel, brings a new one and runs her hands over me one final time. Then they kiss on the cheek and the last thing I hear is Gary. "Goodnight, baby."