'Kinky Queen Seeking Her Kinky King.'
That's what her Tinder bio concluded with. A provocative last sentence in a world of often disappointing finales.
Laney Walker. That was her name.
We met in 2018 when I was 22 and she was 21.
We went to the same fancy, east coast liberal arts school, and we took similarly over-ambitious classes. Our majors would have nothing to do with our future careers, but that's what being 21 and 22 was like at that time. We were happily drifting like everyone else.
Thankfully, drifting allowed for lots of partying and sex and drugs, and all the things you finally do when you are living far from home for the first time, which both of us were.
There were seven, gloriously adorable pictures on her profile that seemed to imply that she was fun. Smart. Kinky. Cute. Tomboyish. Feminine. And predominantly up to no good.
She was a dead ringer for Aubrey Plaza, right down to the mischievous eyes; with her hair cut short and teased out. Her body looked incredible. There was the perfect, heart shaped ass that was always evident because everything she seemed to wear clung to her body without letting go. Yoga pants and jeans and sweats and even skirts. It all just hugged her tight and put her on display, and she clearly knew how sexy she was. There was a power in a younger girl who already knew they were that hot. It was a different caliber of woman.
We had a very quick rapport over our chat that week, with lots of flirting that led to even more obvious jokes and even more suggestive flirting. There was a zippy challenge to our dialogue. I never once felt like I was skipping ahead in the text with her. If anything, she outpaced me, and so far, I had loved trying to keep up.
We immediately decided we needed to get together for some drinks at a bar that Friday night.
I told her that I wasn't looking for anything serious.
"Neither am I," came the reply.
So it was craft cocktails at Barlow's, which was this downtown speakeasy in an underground 1950's bomb shelter motif that everyone just loved. The drinks have Green Chartreuse and Dubonnet and Lillet Blanc. The drinks have egg white and fire and smoke. It's thematic joy splashed on every wall and attention to detail ingrained in the cherrywood of the bar, which is perfectly polished with the appropriate amount of era-accurate varnish. That's how I was hoping to come off, wearing jeans and a short-sleeve, button up, which I felt highlighted my muscles well enough. Then from there, some workmanlike boots. Not formal. Just enough pulled together to make a point about how well I can handle things.
We set our rendezvous for 9:00 and I snagged us a spot at the actual bar-top when I got there to make sure we had good seats. Hunting for a bar-spot is one of the most romantic things about dating in the modern era. A lot has been taken from us...but finding a partner who knows how to stake out a bar spot is a genuine trait I look for in a girl.
I got incredibly lucky. Nothing was available right away, but an older couple got called away by some babysitter drama at home, and there it was...just to the right of the middle of the bar, centrally positioned to have a million, possible interesting things to talk about at once.
The bartender greets me and I order a couple of waters. Then I tell him I'll need a minute.
I'm browsing the cocktail list when I see a very cute girl bounce down the stairs at the other side of the room, her figure illuminated by the nearby row of Edison lightbulbs and vintage boxing posters that theme the nearby hallway.
Her short, dark hair is messy-teased and she's wearing a flared brown, plaided skirt, with a low-cut dark red cotton top that she buttons only up until her breasts come into view. Her top buttons are left undone and I can see her beautiful curves poking out all over. She is effortlessly sexy with every step she takes and I'm already very into her entire vibe before she's even made it to my outstretched hand and dumb smile at the bar.
I hold out my hand but she pushes it away with a smirk and leans in to give me a very tight hug.
What? This girl is fucking cool.
"There, now that's done...we've hugged each other and we don't have to spend the first thirty minutes of our date being weird about whether or not our legs touch at the bar." She pops up on the seat next to me, and leans over to grab another menu. As she does this I can see the way her ass lifts off the bar stool and shows off her soft, upper legs and my eyes follow those legs down to her dark brown heels which lift her amazingly perfect calves. She has an athletic sexiness with a dressed up swagger.
"Hi! You must be Tommy?" She reaches her hand out now to me and we shake.
"Yes, and that makes you Laney," I say, and she is already nodding and smiling at me.
"The one and only."
We hit it off immediately.
She orders a Mezcal Negroni and I order a Rob Roy, and then we both get another one. We talk for the next hour about all sorts of things.
We stop to take a bathroom break each. My skin is starting to feel that familiar kind of alcohol warm mixed with connective buzz.
When I get back to the bar, she's waiting for me with two shots and two beers.
"Ah? So we're switching it up?" I ask, laughing, and she gives me my poison with a "Well?" sort of look, and I know I have zero choice. As if I didn't want to follow her anyway.
We down the whiskey shots and both of us do our best stoic faces. It's a high proof whiskey I can tell. She is definitely not fucking around.
"So you trying to get me wasted, Laney?" I ask, laughing.
"Well...I'm definitely getting you to the fun conversation portion of the night," she parried.
"Oh, well that sounds great. You should know this is a category I am VERY well-practiced in." I say to her, and I noticed we're now both turned in our bar seats, legs towards each other, intertwined on the stool steps below us.
"Well...okay, let's see, where to begin. So...you're clearly a very sexy guy...but I want to know what turns you on," she says, as she takes a very cute swig of her beer. I could tell she was starting to feel the increased friendliness of the booze.
"Okay...let's see...turn-ons. We should probably do these first, yeah?" I say, as I reach for the whiskey shots she's ordered."
"Ah, yes, right," she grabs her shot glass which is just one of those bar tumblers that always seems to have way more than just one shot inside of it. "To the honesty that alcohol brings," she says, without having to think.
"Cheers to that!" I agree, and we down our liquid courage. I try my best not to make a little sound, but I definitely twitch a little at the high-proof enabler of our ever-increasing words.
"Okay...where were we?" I ask, wondering if she's still on board. She doesn't miss a beat, as she sets down her beer from a chaser sip.
"Turn-ons. What are you into?" She puts one of her knees against the inside of my leg and smiles at me a little with the challenge of the question.
"Well..." I almost laugh a little because I'm so into this girl. "I dig confidence. I think confidence is my absolute biggest turn-on. Honestly..."
"Really?" She says surprised. "I never meet guys like that...they always want some meek sex kitten, which is so boring, ya know?"
"No...I love it. Honestly. I think it's sexy as fuck. I don't always want to lead." I say, and I'm so into her level of interest in every word I say.
"I love it, what else?" She asks.
I gulp another gulp of tasty beer, and after the fizz has fizzed, I launch into my list: "Well, I dig a lot of obvious guy stuff...besides, ya know, fucking and oral sex; lots of positions...etcetera, etcetera...I like lots of talking during sex. I'm VERY verbal. I think it's very hot to talk a lot during sex and bring up sexual fantasies and make the other person cum just from the sexy things you can say in bed." She's nodding with me as I say this, as if she is a fellow acolyte of verbose eroticism.
"So...let me guess, you like lots of: "Fuckkkk, Daddddy, Yuuussss...cummm in my asssshole, Daddddy...I neeeeed your cum deeeep inside me...pleasssse," she says to me, and she touches my knee through my jeans when she says this which drives me insane. I'm already hard from having this conversation, and my boner is straining against the front of my pants. Thankfully it's dark enough that no one can see under the bar in this place.
"Yes. Fuck. AbsoLUTELY like that. But like...I dig it all, I dig talking about fantasies during sex, ya know? Talking about kinky things you want to do together or..." I grab her hand in mine on the outside of her leg and she links fingers with me loosely, "...things you want your partner to do. I like the idea of being with someone who is sexually adventurous and that has a completely insatiable sex drive. That's my type." I say it like I want her to know it. Like fuck it, what do I have to lose?
"I have an insanely high sex drive," she says, as she puts her legs on either side of mine now so we're basically me-her-me-her on the barstool. This allows us to get even closer as we trade off flirtatious touches now.
"Well yeah...me too. Like really high," I say.
"Okay so, what's your number?" She asks me, immediately forgetting that I hadn't even come close to finishing my list of turn-ons, but we're tipsy and the conversation is in that place where it bobs and weaves with each new exciting idea that zooms up the synapse of connection.
"My number is..." I stop to pretend not to know for a second, but of course I know. I'm 22 and all I think about is sex and what I've done sexually. "Mine is 10," and I think that's impressive for my age. She can probably even sense my presumed swagger.
"Oooh, very nice," she says, sweetly. And I know immediately she's messing with me.
"Okay...so...what's yours?" I ask, and she's already wearing a guilty grin.
"Well...mine is 22," she says. And her eyes are wide and honest, and she is cute as fuck as she blinks back at me like an even-minded cat.
"Wow, 22?? And you're only 21?? That's an impressive number. How'd you pull that off...were you an early bloomer or...?"
"Nooo! I actually was a LATE bloomer...only lost it at the end of high school...but then..." she started to trail off, as if thinking about her first time.
