Amongst the anecdotes told following the suicide of the late, great Hunter S Thompson, was that he once remarked if he had actually consumed the quantities of drugs and alcohol his writings intimated, he would be long dead. Rather, he experiences a little so he can make up stories.
So here's a test for you lovely ladies. I will tell you a tale. The test is for you to decide if it is a tall tale or a true tale. I assure you I tell the truth but, of course, that, too, could just be a tall tale.
One night stand
I woke slowly, gradually becoming aware of the cold dawn light seeping through the glass of the uncovered bedroom ranch slider. I had fallen asleep on my right side, facing that glass, while she had attached herself to my back, her left arm over my belly, and we were still in exactly the same position: oblivious to the world for about three hours. But now my body clock had drawn me from my slumber. Her body was warm and still, her breathing regular and soft. I was in a strange bedroom with a strange woman whom I had fucked furiously a short time ago. Now what?
I remembered her rules for our impromptu encounter: I had to leave in the morning, but I could fuck her again first, if I liked, she had said. I liked. I've always been a horny bugger for morning sex! But she's dead to the world, so there's no hurry. So I just lay there for a while, waking up, allowing my erection to build nicely. Ah, the power of thought!
There's a particular skill to waking a woman for morning sex, for willing sex, not grudging sex. Grudging sex is better than no sex, I agree, but a little time, a little care, a gentle wakening with subtle stimulation, can pay substantial dividends in pure enjoyment. Sometimes.
So I carefully turned to face her. She didn't stir. Her face was in the repose of a deep, deep sleep. I remained like that for a minute or so then dropped my right hand to her belly and rubbed, in circular motion, occasionally slipping over her pubic mound, occasionally a little further down. Then she stirred.
She opened her eyes and stared directly into mine. She seemed to be thinking. I left my hand touching her labia, exerting no pressure, just touching, waiting. Then she inclined her head towards mine and we kissed. Just a light touching of our lips. Next, she rolled onto her back and opened her legs. I stroked between her pussy lips and discovered fresh wetness-success again! She was easily wet enough to fuck with comfort, so I moved on top and went to enter her, again. But she stopped me.
"I don't need to be worried, do I?" She asked. "Do I need to be worried?"
"No, sweetheart," I replied, sincerely, "I told you I'm clean; it's true."
Her resistance dissipated and I pushed into her pussy. I wasn't so much under the influence of drink, this time, and I knew immediately I was going to come quite easily. I didn't resist my ejaculation. I didn't want to. I fucked her firmly, repetitively, and without regard for her gratification. Probably five minutes of this and I came. I stayed inside her for a while so she could catch all I could deliver, then I withdrew.
Had she come this time? I don't know. I didn't ask. I wandered off to the loo and had a long, long, well overdue piddle. Then I returned to the bedroom, dressed, kissed her one last time and let myself out.
It all began last night, about 8pm. I was at the bar of a local Italian restaurant, one I frequent well enough to be known by name, minding my own business, sipping a Heineken and waiting for my takeaway pizza. It had been a particularly long day at work and it was quite late. I was tired.
And then into the bar swept a very cheerful lady who immediately greeted the staff by name as she breezily plonked her shapely butt on the stool next to mine and ordered a Pinot Noir. It was promptly delivered amid much banter with the proprietor, which I, being in such close proximity, inevitably joined.
Normal friendly, light-hearted conversation soon established that we were both in the same boat as regards marital status, and we traded christian names although, for the rest of out time together, we never actually referred to each other by name: quite appropriate, really, in hindsight.
Briefly, the conversation turned to politics as election fever was just starting to take hold of the country, and, after a mild remark by me on an employment law issue, she cheerily said, "You're a lefty, aren't you? A lefty!"
Well, I am a little, and I could not deny it. So I told her, smiling, that I could straighten out her thinking if she allowed me some time. "You can come for dinner," she boomed, "but," conspiratorially, "you can't shag me."
I may have been tired, but not that tired to miss an opening a mile wide: "If I can't shag you," I said calmly, "I'm not coming to dinner." She looked at me directly, searchingly, but did not reply to that and our conversation moved on.
Out of the blue, she said, "I'm 42. How old are you?. I said 45. She absorbed that information silently, perhaps pondering her next question. When it came, it was a beauty: "So if you have been single for two years, why haven't you got a girlfriend?" I shrugged and said that obviously I'm not good-looking enough; it seemed easier than saying I preferred to just fuck as often and with as many women I could find or buy. Quantity, not quality, has been my priority since separating.
"Well," she replied with a directness I was now accustomed to, "you should know that if I'm talking to you, you are." I'm really quite shy, and I didn't know where to look, so I looked at the floor.
