Confessions of a Slut

I am well aware of the conventional wisdom that a woman, to demonstrate that she's not a slut, shouldn't fuck a man until the third date. I never follow that rule and, to the contrary, I believe it is a good idea to have sex with a man as early in the relationship as possible. Sex before your first date will relieve mutual sexual tension and, afterwards, you can get to know and enjoy each other and decide whether you want to continue the relationship with sex after the first date. If there is no first date after the first fuck, well, it wouldn't have been worth it anyway.

I recall one date that went from shaking hands to a union of harmonious conjugation in half an hour. I was living in an African country and a friend made a blind date for me with an American visiting on business. She told me that he was fifty years old, handsome, and married but with a roving eye. I have nothing against sex with married men -- provided their wives are not in the same country as I am.

At the time I was 43 years old and had worked at American embassies and lived abroad in Thailand and remote countries in Africa for eight years. Romantic relationships with local Africans and American co-workers were discouraged by my employer, so my possibilities for sex were mostly with visitors to the country. Unfortunately, African countries have few visitors and for several months I had been an underutilized slut.

My date, who we'll call Slick, was to pick me up at my apartment to go to a party. I fixed myself up nicely. I'm no glamour girl, but I have a healthy, wholesome appearance. I wore a scoop neck dress that revealed a goodly expanse of cleavage and a loose flowery skirt. Slick was as advertised: Hollywood handsome, perfectly coiffed, casual, and elegant. I hated him at first sight; he had the oily charm of a car salesman, but hate is not always antithetical to desire. I served him a gin and tonic and had a weak one myself, trying to keep myself sober and stylish. We sat down together on the couch. He complimented me on my dress, which was in fact rather well-tailored and expensive, and felt the fabric, allowing his hand to brush lightly over my breasts -- which may have already been heaving.

About two minutes after we sat down on the couch he made his move. I suspect that the girl friend who arranged the date had told him that (1) I was easy; and, (2) I was desperate. Both statements were true. His hand found its way expertly to my waist and he pulled me closer to touch his lips gently against my forehead and cheek. I was taken aback. I had anticipated sex at the end of the evening. But he was coming on to me before the date!

I both admired and despised his forwardness -- and I also knew that he was going to rumple my pretty dress if I didn't stop him -- or take off the dress. So, I said to him, "You have to stop. I don't want to wrinkle my dress."

"I'll fix that," he said. He turned me so that he could unzip it from the back. I stood and he eased it over my head. It was time to stop him, my reason screamed. "I just met this man -- and I don't even like him." Fortunately, emotion prevailed over reason. I helped him pull the dress over my head and carefully laid it over the couch so it wouldn't wrinkle. We had a quick embrace and then I led him into my bedroom. He took off his clothes, being similarly careful to hang them up.

What followed was a good, albeit brief and mechanical encounter with a man who knew a lot about making love. He worked his way with hands and mouth up from my feet to my lips while I explored him with my hands. His pubic area was as carefully groomed and sweet-smelling as his hair. I opened a drawer on my bedside chest and took out a condom. Some men I trust. Slick? Never. I slid it onto him. He rolled over on top of me and I met him with my legs parted.

Slick paced himself expertly and we climaxed simultaneously. On my rating scale he was four firecrackers out of five. We allowed ourselves a scant couple of minutes of afterplay and then agreed that we would be late to the party if we didn't rise, shower, dress, and get moving. I looked at the clock. Thirty minutes from handshake to consummation. Pretty quick -- even for me. We showered together. The night was young, with promise of more sex with oily Slick.

At the party, however, Slick became inattentive and I ascertained that I was of no further interest to him in light of several other women there. That was not a tragedy although I was insulted. While Slick was trying to decide which of two sweet young things he was going to seduce, I found myself another man. We'll call him Clod.

I had known Clod -- in the biblical sense -- a couple of times. He was pleasant, a fumbler and bumbler in life and bed, not much to look at, and hardly prized as a catch by the Embassy's fishing fleet of lonely women. But, he was a man and I asked him to take me home.

"I thought you came to the party with Slick," he said.

"I did, but I'm going home with you." As we walked out the door I had the satisfying pleasure of seeing a surprised look on Slick's face. I waved goodbye to him and smiled.

Well, I owed Clod big-time for rescuing me from being humiliated by Slick and I paid him back with a night that I put my soul into. Slick had aroused me, I had to admit, and I was more than ready for a second go round.

I love ears. A man who greets me with a brush of the lips on my cheek and a gentle caress of one of my ears arouses me instantly. During an orgasm my hands usually find their way to a man's head and hair and ears. A favorite pleasure is to hold a man's head between my legs while he drinks the nectar at my fountain of love. I quiver at the feel of his face and hair and ears against the soft skin of my inner thigh.

With a bit of subtle guidance, Clod performed beyond all expectations. Head buried in my thighs he gave me a thrilling orgasm and then I proceeded to pull him down on top of me, locked onto his penis with the equivalent of a vaginal death grip, and led him on a wild and impassioned ride. In the passion of the moment, his penis thrusting and sperm spilling out of him, Clod blurted out, "I love you. Will you marry me?"

I kept on grinding hard to reach my own climax and answered, "I never accept a proposal of marriage from a man with an erection." Fortunately, he didn't bring up the subject of marriage again.