As she finished she was crying. Not sobbing or bawling, kind of weeping.
I held her, kissed her forehead and then kissed the tears away, and said, "Thank you for letting me in like that."
She pulled me to her, a desperate energy in the way she was squeezing, and kissed me, slick snotty kisses, all over my face. "Thank you for not hating me."
I held her like that, just a loving embrace, the sex between us done for the night, well, for a while anyway, my left arm a pillow for her cheek, my right very lightly caressing her back, looking at my beautiful bride as a thought that had been slowly germinating deep in my mind broke the surface.
"I want to know what it's like," I said, the thought still formulating, "To feel the experience."
Her eyes went wide.
"You want to suck a stranger's dick?" she asked.
I chuckled at that.
"No," I said, "Well, unless
you
think you'd like that. I'm still getting my thought straight, Millie, but I have this sort of image of you, well, I guess 'giving' me to some woman for," and I wound down.
Many years ago I worked with a guy, a Harvard MBA holder who was living proof that you can obtain an Ivy League education and still be a complete idiot. But he said something once that stuck with me. "If you can't reduce your thoughts to writing they're still pretty muddy." That thought was running through my mind as I tried to tell her what I meant.
"Millie," I started again, still laying beside her, my hand still light on her waist while her cheek lay against my other arm.
"I understand your URGE," I started, putting the same emphasis on the word "urge" she did when she talked about it, "in here," and I tapped my forehead.
I kissed her, partly because I like kissing her but partly to gain a few more seconds to get my thoughts in order.
"But in order to understand it in here," and I tapped my chest, "you know, viscerally, down below the level of intellect, I need to, well, do it. Or at least," I went on, talking over whatever she was starting to say, "the male equivalent of it."
She lifted herself so she could prop her chin on her palm and look down at me.
"What, exactly, do you have in mind, pervert?" she asked.
"Millie," I said, laying back and looking up at the ceiling, thinking, "I'm not sure. I mean, look at you and look at me. You walk into a bar, hop up on a stool, and in seconds you'll have men thinking and in minutes they'll be hitting on you."
She giggled.
"But that doesn't happen to a man. Even an Adonis like me," I said, stopping to brush my fingers through my hair and quickly striking a pose, "has to make the first move. And I'm not sure how that would go over."
She smiled then, a real smile but a hint of the wolf, or maybe the coyote in it.
"You want me to set you up on a date or something?" she asked.
