A few months ago after one of our mutual masturbation video chats, I remember asking Lover for a favor. Specifically, I asked for a weekend together. Getting four hours together at one time was a stretch for us, so I knew I was reaching. I wanted quality time. I wanted to spend hours lying naked with him having orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. The idea of overdosing on Lover for 48 hours drove me mad. I was so mad that I didn't follow my one rule: Don't get your hopes up.
After I asked my favor, he broke eye contact and looked down at his desk and started fidgeting. I wanted to reach through the screen and shake him. I tried to play my disappointment off by appearing unflustered and moving on with the conversation, but I'm not a sufficient actor or liar. And just as I read his face without issue, he most definitely read mine.
And then a miracle happened. I was working on my computer a few weeks later when he IMed me. He always apologizes for his absences, promises to do better and then falls off the face of the earth and resurfaces in a couple months with some crazy work story. I've got the routine down. About every 6-8 weeks, he manages to make contact of his own free will. No amount of mail in his inbox or sexually provocative stationery from me will ever alter the amount of communication he sends me. He'd hate for me to say it, but he's very much a creature of habit and fascinatingly predictable.
The job horror story turned out that he was going to be stuck in Toronto for two weeks for work. He was complaining about how there was no point in flying home that weekend because by the time he got out of meetings at 5 p.m. on Friday and flew home, he'd have to be back on Sunday night for another week of crap on Monday morning. As he voiced his dismay, my heart leapt from my chest and was doing cartwheels around the room.
"Why are you so quiet?" he finally wrote.
"I'm flying to Toronto this Wednesday afternoon to see a girlfriend," I responded.
There was a moment of silence.
"Are you staying with her?"
"Wednesday and Thursday, yes. Friday and Saturday, no. I booked a B&B on Ward's Island."
More silence. I held my breath.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
For whatever reason, Lover is never the one to make the first move. I'm not sure if it's because he doesn't want to pressure me into something I'm not ready for, so he waits for me to make the plan. Or maybe, even though he denies it, he has a guilty conscious and somehow thinks if he says, "yes," he's just being polite and not having premeditated thoughts of lust. Regardless, I'm pretty sure he just prefers me to do the inviting. So I exhale and ask, "Lover, would you like to stay with me for the weekend?"
"Yes." The answer is immediate and unfaltering. My stomach fills with butterflies and my panties are suddenly very wet.
The next week, I find myself in the bedroom of the Bed and Breakfast slipping on my favorite pretty panties and his favorite black plunge bra. I put on a pair of pinstripe black capris knowing they can't possibly do enough to slim the hips or thighs that hold the extra 30 lbs my body refuses to allow me to lose years after giving birth, no matter how many calories I count or miles I walk, swim, bike or run. I tuck in my cleavage revealing, button-down shirt and unbutton the top three buttons before slipping my house and room key into my pocket with my cellphone and venturing out the door. I almost skip my way to the ferry landing like some kind of idiot schoolgirl hoping to catch a glimpse of her latest crush. When I get to the dock, I see the ferry and decide to sit on top of a picnic table near the water, under a shady tree waiting to see if he'll be on time for once, or if he'll show up one, two or three ferries later.
My cellphone rings.
"I'm here. Where are you?" he asks.
I spot his profile among the small crowd. He's easy to spot, as he's 6-12 inches taller than every one else. He's wearing Friday business casual clothing: a dark navy polo shirt, jeans and a pair of tennis shoes. He's recently gotten his graying curly hair cut short.
"I'm watching folks get off the ferry. There's this amazingly gorgeous guy in a blue polo that I just can't take my eyes off," I tease as he starts turning around in a circle scanning the area for me. "He's clearly just come from work because he still has that crinkled forehead look of annoyance about him, but you should see him, Lover. He's absolutely perfect. Maybe he'll see me, become possessed and take me right here on the picnic table." He turns again and his eyes lock onto mine. His face relaxes immediately, and he walks toward me pulling his suitcase in my direction.
"Shit, he's coming over here," I say. "What do I do? What do I say? I'll have to call you back. I think he's going to talk to me. I'll let you know how it goes."
Lover rolls his eyes and closes his phone. All indications of annoyance have left his facial features and are replaced by pure amusement. I stand on the bench of the picnic table, which makes me slightly taller than him.
He leans in for a quick, public kiss.
"Hi. Can I help you with your bags?" I offer.
"No, No, No. I've got it." The refusal is more of a small admonishment. In Lover's mind, men carry bags and do the hard labor. Women sit on pedestals and are enjoyed for their complicated neuroses, vast senses of humor and amazing designs.
I'm often fascinated by this dance he and I do regarding social gender roles. It's very clear that we aren't from the same generation. When we walk down a crowded sidewalk and someone approaches, my first instinct is to make way by ducking behind him. His first instinct is to make way by allowing the lady to go first. In this aspect, I'm completely disadvantaged because I don't think of myself as a lady. Hence, there are a few times we've ended up in awkward collisions.
This is what happens when one of you grows up with manners and the other one grows up in an era where it would never occur to men her own age to move out of the way for walkers on the street or to let someone else into the building first when it's raining.
The men I'm used to think everything should be on equal footing, and everyone should look out for one's self. Even in bed, things have to be even — one orgasm for the woman, one orgasm for the man. Then the lights go out and he slumbers, while she lies awake wanting more. It, for some odd reason, would never occur to the younger man that things could be unequal in bed, i.e. one orgasm for him for every four orgasms for her. Men my age never see how giving a lot will get them laid a lot more. They're minds just don't seem built for that kind of logic. It's the downside to drilling the idea of equality into their brains during the 1970's. It allows them to justify being rude and lazy with good math.
I unlock the door to our room at the inn. It is a gorgeous little cottage. The floors are all light-colored wood, and there are lots of windows with white linen curtains letting in the sun.
Lover crosses the room to the luggage rack and places his suitcase next to mine. He lifts his computer bag over his shoulder and sets it on the large, leather chaise lounge in the corner. When he finally turns around to face me, I've shut the door to our room, locked it and am leaning against the white doorframe.
The whole room is between us and in the middle of that space lit up by the late afternoon summer sun is a dark wood, four-post, queen-sized bed, with soft, white Egyptian cotton sheets. The bed is our elephant.
Thankfully, neither one of us says anything. After years of daydreaming, chatting and fantasizing, there isn't anything left to say. Instead, we look each other in the eye waiting to see who will move first.
As always, it's me. I stand up straight and kick off my black leather sandals. Then I untuck my button down shirt from my pants. I hold his gaze, as I reach under the shirt, unbutton and unzip my pants and allow them to fall to the floor. I step out of them and move forward toward the bed. My fingers find the buttons on my shirt, and I slowly undo them one at a time.
Lover is always content watching me disrobe. He likes to watch me, which works fine because of my closeted exhibitionist streak. When I unfasten the last button, I slip the shirt off and hang it on the nearest bedpost. I bend over the bed enough so that he can get a good view of my breasts in the bra that allows them to defy gravity as I crawl to the center of the bed and sit up on my knees. Now, it's his turn.
Lover follows my exact pattern. First he removes his shoes and socks. Then he unbuckles his belt and pulls out his tucked shirt. His pants are pushed down into a wad on the floor. His shirt lifts over his head, but instead of coming to the bed in his underwear. Lover, as always, takes it farther than I do and slides his black briefs down to the floor. I try very hard not to break eye contact as he bends over, erection in full view and crawls onto the bed to face me.
Once he's there, I lean forward and kiss him softly, timidly. It feels like I am asking permission to touch and be touched.
The pads of his fingers rest on the base of my elbows. They slowly slide up the back of my arms and under the bra straps at my shoulders while we kiss. He breaks away from my lips and kisses my collarbone as he pulls the shiny, black straps down my tan arms. The movement is slow and full of intent. I slide my arms out of my bra freeing my breasts, which fit perfectly into the palms of his rough hands.
"Lovely," he whispers gently handling them. "You're extraordinarily soft to touch."
The compliment gives me the confidence I need to continue. I reach behind me and unclasp the three latches. The bra falls to the bed and is tossed onto the floor. I lay my head back against the pillows, while he runs his fingers down my sides to my panties, and carries them off of my hips, over my thighs and down past my feet.
In my life I've only had one sexual partner. I married my high school sweetheart. In his, he's had more than he can remember. He's done everything, been everywhere and the reason he's with me is completely unknown to me. I have no idea what he sees or why he's here. I only know that he keeps coming back for more. So in essence, there's an emotional and physical attachment there.
I can feel his lips at the base of my feet. He's kissing the arch on my right foot, while he runs his thumb over the arch on the left foot. The kisses continue, up the inside of my ankle, calf and thigh. They cross over so his mouth makes contact with my vagina. I close my eyes and my mouth opens as he licks from the beginning of my opening to my clit. It makes my hips shift back and forth.
"I've been waiting years to do this for you," he says. I lift my head and look down my body, where he lays with his face just over my pubic bone looking up at me. He's got his bedroom blue eyes on. I've seen them over the computer. He fixes them on me like he's looking through me. It's like they're the blue part to a flame, and I'm the candle. He keeps staring at me as he laps at my clit again.
I moan at the contact and lie back on the pillow and let him work. Ten minutes later, it's impossible for me to keep my hips still. They follow him in whatever direction his extraordinary tongue moves. I whine and beg and plead for him to fuck me with his penis. He responds simply by putting two fingers inside me but leaves them there.
I move and wiggle and fuck his still fingers, but the more I do, the less he's able to manipulate me with his tongue and the more frustrated I become. Then he withdraws the fingers. They're dripping with my wetness, which acts as lubricant as he gives my clit a hand job. I cum immediately. My chest heaves as I grip onto the pillows making fists. When it's over, I sit up and scamper to him in a rush to put his dick in my mouth (fair play and all that). But he holds me away.
