You're a different person out of town than when you're home. During my visit to Bangkok, I had been scandalous -- having sex with two married men, one of them the husband of a very good friend. Back home in Kansas City, I was Ms. Prim and Proper again, serious, studious, career-oriented, and judged by most men to be much too uptight to be a good lay.
Moreover, I had medical problems that necessitated a hysterectomy, putting me out of action mentally and physically speaking for a good long while -- and ended my already fading hopes of becoming a mother and wife. With the trauma of the operation, and my natural reticence, I reverted to my normal condition: dull.
Thus, I went through several months of sexual abstinence while shopping for the long term relationship -- and marriage -- that I so craved. That's when I ran into Jack. He was a decent fellow, thirty-eight years old, five years older than me, and he had never been married. Like most unmarried men approaching middle age, Jack was old-maidish in his methodical habits and all too attentive to his mother but I had modest expectations.
Jack and I followed the script for conventional romances. We got to know each other on our first two dates and on our third date, I invited him to my apartment "for a drink." He didn't set off any sparks in bed that night, but we became a couple and I was happy to have a man and the security of a relationship. We went out a couple of nights a week. I stayed over at his place once, but in the morning he was in a hurry to see his mother, it being Sunday -- and he always, always spent Sunday with his mother.
Our first few encounters were missionary sex after a pleasant warm-up. We found ourselves in the same climatic zone -- which was warm and pleasant rather than burning hot. The clouds appeared after several weeks. One night, as I was lying on my back, my legs spread and waiting for him to mount up and ride, he asked, "Would you masturbate me?" He added, "For a little variety."
I said, "Sure." I was a bit disappointed that he wasn't taking advantage of my spread thighs, but I am all too compliant. He lay back on the bed. I made a feint at his penis with my mouth, but he didn't respond. A hand job was what Jack wanted. I gave it to him. After ten years of marriage to Doggy Don and his nightly demands jacking off a man wasn't anything new to me. We had enough light in the room for me to enjoy Jack's response to my hand and to see cum spurting out and pooling up on his chest. I stuck my finger in the pool and tasted it. I got the impression, however, that Jack didn't like me tasting his cum. Maybe his mother wouldn't have approved.
Jack got up quickly and said he had to go home and I was left laying there wishing that at least he had finger-fucked me. Well, sex isn't always great, I told myself, and, in fact, the next time we went out he missionaried me adequately. But, then, next time he again asked for a hand job (you get the idea why I am calling him Jack, don't you?). After that, the pattern of our relationship was established. We rarely fucked. Our dates often began and always ended with a hand job for him and nothing for me.
