I'm Glad I'm Not a Virgin

I'm glad I'm not a virgin.

How do I explain to a man, what a man cannot understand?

My question is rhetorical.

I could tell by the way he held me he wanted to

nail

me, he thought he was going to nail me. I admit, stepping close, my foot between his may have helped in that perception. I wanted to feel how much he wanted me, one hand between my shoulder blades, the other on the small of my back, lifting me, my forearms on his shoulders.

Oh, he wanted me, there at our first kiss, my lips working like a fish's mouth, inviting his tongue to penetrate me. He hesitated. I like that, careful, not wanting to scare me off, wondering whether I was Eve or Lilith, maybe wishing for both. His tongue came, I took his face in both hands, teasing back.

Subtly, he road my hip. "You going to invite me up?"

You already are.

"Not tonight, I mean it's late, ah, I have work in the morning."

No one nails me on the first date.

It's not that I'm a prude. If I want casual sex, I have a latex friend for that. It's quicker, cleaner and I can toss my friend in the drawer afterwards.

Victor had to impress me, he had to reveal his humanity, demonstrate compassion, empathy. He had to be a fully fleshed out human being, aware of his environment, able to give me

good mind

, on demand. I

could

give men a fighting chance by handing out a syllabus, but that wouldn't be any fun. By the time a man-child is old enough to drive, he'd have better figured out he's set up to fail and nothing about life is fair.

By Wednesday, he'd left three messages. I returned his call.

"Been busy, great to hear from you." Not that it's accurate. I like to leave them hanging. If they just want to get laid, they move on to a girl with better social skills or at least a girl who answers the phone.

"Not a problem, been a nightmare week for me, too."

Good

, meaning: with all that, he still takes the time to call. We made plans to see a movie Saturday night, something he's wanted to see. I couldn't tell you what movie. I wasn't playing attention.

The sky threatened rain, mist hanging around us, still warm for April. Victor, taking me by surprise, looked dapper in his steel blue pinstripe pants, white button down, black suspenders and brown fedora. Bold and sharp, unafraid of what people think. I liked that. I wore a flower print sleeveless pleated dress with high waist, leather sandals.

I hooked his arm on the street in front of the theater. "Tell me a story."

"What?"

I swung to face him, a subtle nod, coy grin. "A story. Tell me a story."

His seedless grape irises fixed on my tarnished copper eyes. His pupils danced like a photographer's lens searching for the proper aperture. "What kinda of story?"

"A story. A

big

story."

He struggled around me to see his watch. "The movie starts in --"

"Are your desires more important than my needs?"

"Since you put it that way!"

I can tell much about a man by how he answers this question. If the story is about how either parent was unfair, and how he bested the parent, I back slowly toward the door. Let's replace

parent

with

any authority

being unfair, and how he bested it. Yep, run for the door. I don't wish to be a player in his family dramas.

I appreciate a man who can tell a joke, but not as the answer to this question.

"Hmm, a big story?"

"The bigger, the better."

"Oh, you girls are fixated on big things."

"Watch yourself, Sailor. You guys are fixated on what you think us girls are fixated on."

"A sailor story it is!"

"Don't tell me to call you Ishmael."

"I'm more an Odysseus man, myself. What better, bigger sailor story than that?"

I stepped back, arms spread, left knee bent, right leg back, bowing. "Then, noble king of Ithaca, tell me your tale!"

Which he did as we walked in the almost-rain on the city streets, an hour and a half later, standing on my steps in front of my walkup, me on the first step, rising to his level, my forearms resting on his shoulders.

"So, am I Circe or a Siren?"

"Why not Penelope?"

"Because I'm not your wife?" I ran my tongue over my lower lip, holding his eyes, his hands on my waist, my face drifting toward his. "Coming up?"

"If you were Circe, you'd turn my men into pigs."

We kissed, softly, hungerlessly.

"Men are pigs already. No trick in that." Again, I initiated a kiss, my tongue outlining his lower lip. "Siren, I sing you to your destruction."

"You know, metaphorically, destruction is the wrong or misleading word. If to answer your song transforms me, then maybe that destruction is not a bad thing."

I broke free, taking three steps up. "Then, follow me."

How do I explain to a man, what a man cannot understand?

My question is rhetorical.

I like the touch of a rich burgundy on my tongue, room temperature, the heat of my mouth bringing the wine alive. Victor, sitting on the sofa, tasted the wine.

"I have beer."

"What kind?"

"Does it matter? It's OK if you don't care for wine. We are what we are, we like what we like. You tried the wine, that's more than I would've done if you handed me a beer."

"The wine is fine."

"Good." Like palming a basketball, I plucked his fedora, placing it on my head. Palms to the ceiling, I smiled. "Hot?"

"Very." His eyes drank me, head to toe.

The almost-rain, our walk, your company, oh, the story, the story, the story all gave me so much pleasure, I'm ready for a beer and a cigarette. Almost.

"I want you to relax."

He forced another sip. "I am relaxed."

"Allow me to rephrase: I want you to

sit back

and relax." I raised an eyebrow, dropped my attention to his lap, then returned to hold his eyes.

I think he gulped. "OK."

2

My wine safely on the end table and the lights dimmed, I bent to the waist, placing my lips on his again. His free hand came to my face. "Shh, relax." I removed the hand. He relaxed. I popped the suspenders free and unhooked his pants. Folding to the floor, I untied each shoe and slipped them off in turn. I caught him watching me. "What?"

"I'm not used to someone undressing me."

"I lived a deprived childhood, no dress-up dolls. Cat after cat ran away from home." His socks came free.

"I'm glad I wore clean underwear."

Oh, how trite.

I giggled anyway, shimmying his pants free, revealing his

Superman

boxers. No matter how causal and sensual I want the pants to come off, it's always awkward. Dresses, on the other hand, fall to the earth as naturally as snow on a December day. "In case I had any doubt?"

"Oh, the underwear, yeah. I'm proud of the little guy."

"Hubris." I ran a palm over his boxers, up his erection.

"I call him

Willy

, but Hubris will do."

As awkwardly as the pants, Superman found a home on the floor behind me. Victor's penis was a good penis, rigid, straight, about six inches from the top of the scrotum to tip, circumcised, which I like, a well-defined head, like a plump little heart. I've seen some gnarly penises making vaginas more appealing. Victor's pleased me.

I came to my knees straightening my back between Victor's legs, taking his penis comfortably in both fists, Cowper's fluid oozing on my hand. The six inches was perfect. I've seen some horse dicks graphed on guys, proud tree stumps of no use to me but maybe to dislocate my jaw or make me walk funny for a day or two. In the venue of reproduction, better to have a good flow of Cowper's fluid than be hung like a horse.

Victor cooed.

I watched his eyes from under the brim of the fedora as I descended, licking the tasteless Cowper's fluid like dripping ice-cream from a cone, drawing another coo and a shudder. I released a soft

hmmmm

because guys like to think their dicks taste like something and women like the taste.

I dropped my right hand to his scrotum, dancing my fingers like counting marbles in a bag, watched his eyes, held the shaft firmly with my left hand and placed my lips just over his penis, sucking gently, my hair brooming his flesh.

He shuddered. He shook. I bounced down, taking the length, which is why I liked his size. I could take the length without gagging, my hand following my mouth up and then back down. Closing my eyes, I worked a steady pace for about two minutes. When I sensed he approached the edge, I slowed.

The saliva-coated penis dropped from my mouth, my left hand sliding up and down the length easily, Victor breathing hard, watching me watching him. He smiled, I giggled, releasing his scrotum, keeping the rhythm, pushing up for a kiss.

Victor hesitated, not a good sign, then kissed me, not deeply.

I stood, letting his penis fall free, taking his wine, draining half the glass. "Get comfortable."

"Huh?"

"Lay on the sofa."

He did as instructed. I have no idea what he expected.

"I want you to close your eyes, think of anything you wish, imagine anything you wish."

"Huh?"

"Close your eyes, Victor."

He did.

I dropped to my knees again, laying my cheek on his stomach, his penis teasing my mouth, taking the shaft in my right hand, working down across his scrotum, up to the head and back down. As needed for lubrication, I slipped my mouth over the head. This position is great for the guy who insists on a blowjob and you don't want to. You can give him the

wet hand

. He won't know the difference.

I wondered whether he was a dribbler or squirter, taking the length in my mouth again. Most guys are dribblers, though they like to think they're squirters. The moment I'm glad I'm not a virgin came, his heightened excitement, the tightening of his leg muscles, pumping back at my hand and mouth. A gentleman at least says something the first time, a warning, just to be polite.

He didn't need to say anything. I dropped my hand to this scrotum and held firmly, clenching my mouth on his penis, bobbing decisively. He screamed through his teeth like a loud grunt, I'm sure for my benefit. So few men are actual screamers. He dribbled, I sucked, the penis jumped, semen oozing in my mouth. I sucked, playing with his scrotum again, more ooze.

I withdrew, swallowed, and retook his penis, stroking calming. I like the feel of a penis in my mouth as it shrinks away, the subtle sting in the back of my mouth.

He sighed, patting my shoulder blade as if to say

thank you

. I almost forgot the penis was attached to someone.

Didn't matter. I wouldn't be seeing him again. He gave me all he had to give.