Yet another conference.
A long one – six full days of uninterrupted rapid-fire presentations: his idea of hell, since most speakers wouldn't be worth listening to, yet he always felt compelled to pay attention and give them a hearing.
Over the top of his coffee-cup, the man studied the early-arrivals at the reception area: twenty minutes to go until the kick-off speaker, about a hundred people milling about. The roster listed almost three hundred attendees. He had looked casually at the list of speakers: he knew a couple of them, but didn't recognize name one in the list of attendees. And of course not all attendees would be listed yet – many would arrive and register late.
To him, scanning a crowd was an art-form, a subspecies of 'prospecting'. His eyes were rewarded with an occasional treat in the form of an attractive woman. He didn't let himself be obtrusive, but he was very aware. A tall, leggy blond with a nice figure and good smile, far too young to be here professionally, but a nice decoration. Probably some sort of very-junior staff at the convention center, and distinctly too young to be very interesting. Funny, he thought, how over the past few years his own perception of attractiveness and sexiness had shifted away from the purely physical. Fluff was not enough... at least, not usually.
He shifted his gaze. A little gaggle of attractive young-professional ladies deeply engrossed in some female exchange of information or opinion. A busty middle-aged black woman, about his own height, good looking, exquisitely dressed, listening to a tall old white-haired Caucasian man in a bow tie and ill-fitting suit: she looked just short of terminally bored. The tall man, male-normal, was oblivious to her lack of interest, nattering on.
He smiled to himself, pitying the poor lady. Nearby, two women his own age, one in tight slacks, one in a near mini, both glancing his way: he nodded to them, and Ms Mini blushed, they nodded back and immediately returned to their privacy. The blush intrigued him: it was a good omen, perhaps? He studied them long enough to be sure to remember them both, put them into his mental inventory. Plenty of time later to check things out.
The bell rang for attention. In the auditorium, the front few rows were, as usual, un-populated. He strode down the aisle and took a near-center seat, about three rows from the front. The room did fill, and the program began.
He put his attention on the speakers, held it there. They provided some information, but it was mostly old hat – a common problem with conferences. Then came the fourth presenter, just before the midmorning break. She was awful. Not just a bad presentation, but the information was plainly wrong in many particulars. He scanned the audience to see if others had the same feelings of disquiet as himself.
The tall blond was over at the side of the room, doing something with piles of folders: she was obliviato, convention staff, for sure. Behind and to his right, he caught the eye of the black woman he'd seen in the coffee crowd: she had an interesting, low-key look of disgust or upset on her face. He studied her for a second, and then blushed as she caught his glance firmly with her own. He gave a tiny shrug, and made a little "nutty!" circle with his fingertip near his temple. She grinned at him, nodded in agreement, then turned back to attend to the unfortunate speaker.
Luckily, the talk was short, but at its end he wasn't amused – most of the audience seemed to think she had done a good job. He gave one or two perfunctory claps, and shook himself, both mentally and physically ready for the break. The break was short, just a coffee-stampede and bathroom rally intermingled.
When he got back to his seat, the black woman was already in her place. They nodded across the intervening sea of heaving, moving bodies, grinned at one another as if co-conspirators. The rest of the morning went quickly and was worthwhile, thank heavens. The most interesting talk was by another woman, who finished off the morning's presentations. Her talk was titled "Carpe your own Diem", and she discussed, with humor and finesse, the need for everyone to be prepared to seize every opportunity, and to push to open opportunities where none seem to exist, within one's own professional life.
At lunch, his randomly-assigned table included nobody of real interest, but the black lady was at the next table, sitting almost squarely facing him. He studied her covertly. She was a big woman. More than his own height and, probably, more than his weight also. Busty was an understatement, but she carried the twin masses well, and they looked as if they were holding their own against gravity. He could tell because there was no 'cast-iron-bra' effect, they moved naturally, complete with all the little wiggles that should be there. Their height was a bit odd, he thought, since big boobs even on a much younger woman usually have a good deal of hang to them.
He contemplated her out of the corner of his eye: big breasts usually have big nipples, but he couldn't detect them through the heavy suit-fabric. Too bad – he liked big nipples – big boobs themselves were okay, not his personal major erotic turn-on, but nipples were an entirely different thing. It was their sensitivity that intrigued him and made him a student of nipples. Actually, of nipples and clits, a lifelong fascination – much more interesting than curves of leg and hang of boob.
Thick-bodied, she was, but not 'gone-to-fat', rather 'solid-built' thick from belly to spine, like a powerful, mature wrestler in good shape. She stood up momentarily to get something from the service table. He watched her walk, studied her carriage and her clothing. She was bolt upright, her prominent but not overblown bottom swaying nicely – swaying, but not jiggling with her footsteps, solid, in very sexy, attractive motion. She looked flexible, strong, and sported a good, well-defined waist despite her size. Overall, very shapely, just laterally-expanded from the fashion-magazine (or men's magazine) "ideal". Elegant fabric in her clothes, subdued but stylish, perfectly cut and perfectly worn. He knew he didn't do well sartorially, himself, but admired those who do... particularly women.
She returned, bearing a smallish dessert. He studied her taut thighs moving nicely under her skirt fabric, the skirt just above knee-length. No fat knees, either: he was again impressed at how well she carried her heft. Good calves and ankles, and hose with a tiny hint of sparkle to them. Nice! Her roundness of body was short of Rubenesque, and there were plenty of jiggles in her boobs but not elsewhere despite the serious flesh she carried. Altogether quite a sexy woman, he thought.
Genuinely black, too—none of your café-au-lait color due to 'a few black genes accidentally injected long ago'. For all its strong darkness, though, it was a somehow softened black – with an unusual reddish under-cast. Her face was highlighted by gorgeous skin, high cheekbones, full, sensuous lips, and a narrow, aquiline nose. It was an odd nose for such a body-morph - it seemed vaguely anomalous. Not bad, not in any way, just edgily unusual. Her hair had clearly been jet black when she was younger: now it held minor, elegant streaks of grey. It was smooth, shiny, and long, rolled tightly into a French roll and held with a tortoise-shell clasp and a long silver pin. The very edges of the roll, where the bright light caught and backlit it, had a reddish tinge.
"When she was younger?"
An interesting speculation on age was launched by that thought. He tried to guess her age, found it difficult. Distinctly, no question whatever, she was older than he, perhaps by fifteen years or more, but well-preserved in the very best sense of the word. Maybe late forties, early fifties? Possibly even into the mid-fifties. He shrugged mentally: he really couldn't care less—in fact, more age usually meant lots more experience and therefore more mutual enjoyment. "Not to be overly optimistic!" he warned himself silently.
If he had to choose on two seconds notice between this woman and the blond from the folders-desk, it would be the older black woman, hands down, no hesitation. He continued his study: her makeup included all the normal bits, lipstick, eyeliner and such. It was well-done, subdued. She obviously took care, and knew what she was about. Her only jewelry was one strand of pearls and matching single-pearl earrings, setting off the darkness of her skin perfectly above the red of the suit and pale cream of her blouse. Her hands, long-fingered and slim, caught his eye for a moment: she wore no nail polish, and no extended artificial nails, either. He found himself thankful for a total lack of the god-awful claws so many women, particularly Black women, seemed to find essential, but which were a total turnoff to him.
As he studied her, she caught his gaze again. Her face was friendly and direct, her expression completely unembarrassed. Crinkles around the eyes, her glance knowing, intimate yet cool. He flushed at being caught and tried to look away, but she held him, didn't seem inclined either to dismiss his gaze or turn loose of it. She was smiling slightly, knowingly, showing beautiful, straight, white teeth. She locked him in her gaze another moment, wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue.
Her eyes were strange. They had big irises, nearly jet-black, with no pupils visible. The penny dropped: the eyes, hair color and texture, the skin, the high cheekbones, the red highlights in the hair, and especially the nose – she had to be half Amerindian. He was fascinated: she was more and more striking the longer he studied her.
She finally smiled straight at him, nodded once and seemed the tiniest bit amused when he flushed red again, then she returned to her conversation with her tablemates. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to flick his gaze her way every few seconds: if she noticed, she didn't show it. She finished her lunch and left before he was ready, and as she departed, he was engaged in a conversation he couldn't just drop to launch himself into her wake. In the afternoon session, she wasn't sitting in the same place, rather, she was far to the rear. He berated himself for embarrassing her, as he was certain he had: surely that was the reason she had repositioned herself out of eye-reach?
