How Serious Are We?
by Adam Gunn
My chest was heaving, I could still feel the tingly in my balls as my girlfriend stroked me down there. I reached over and caressed the exposed breasts and belly, slick with sweat.
It had been a marvelous fuck, I'd been surprised when Anita dragged me into her bedroom not ten minutes after I'd arrived. I quickly understood our intended activity - dinner and a movie - would be abandoned. And that evening, she'd been on fire, offering herself to me orally and in several positions. I'd had to work hard not to come too early, I realized she was needy (although I didn't know why,) and several times I brought myself back from the brink until finally she told me it was okay.
So, there we were, lying on the rumpled sheets, a wet spot developing where our groins had linked. I knew we'd be changing the bedding.
After we were done wheezing and our blood flow was beginning to slow, she gazed into my face and asked, "How serious are we?"
It was one of those questions that stops you and makes you ask, 'where is this coming from?' We'd been dating a little over four months, the relationship - at least so far - had been torrid. Even though we were both eligible for medicare, neither of our libidos had diminished. And we got along, pretty well, outside the bedroom. We both liked movies, particularly those of our youths; we had the same favorite toppings on Detroit style pizza; pickleball had become our go-to exercise. In fact, it was on adjoining pickleball courts where we met.
Another shared pleasure we had was porn. The photoplay we liked was a little straight around the edges. Usually, there was one man and one woman, and although Anita relished the reveal of a raging hard on entering a silky passage, we stayed away from bondage or humiliation. And, yes, we screwed like rodents when we played that hobby.
But the item being discussed was, 'How serious are we?' In true male fashion, I dodged, "I think it's been going pretty well, so far. What do you think?"
"Oh, you're getting pretty meaningful to me. But..." She hesitated, and I could tell by the way her eyes fluttered that there was something else on her mind.
"What?"
"Well, are you seeing any other women?"
Was that it? Was she reaching for monogamy? It called, I thought, for a straight forward answer. "Not since a couple weeks before we met. I told you about Julie, that it was pretty much over between us. And after that first night with you, I never called her again. So..."
It was nothing close to a marriage proposal, it wasn't even an offer to go steady, but I thought she'd be satisfied with that. I could tell by her skittish glance she wasn't.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"I like you... I like you a lot," she admitted. I waited for her next sentence through a heavy sigh, then she just came out with it. "I'm sorry, I haven't told you this, but there was a guy I was seeing about the time we met, Eddie. Well, he texted me and asked if we could get together."
This was startlingly similar to a situation I'd been in a decade previously. I'd enjoyed that state of affairs, and always wondered if, maybe, I could get back to that - I only needed a willing woman with a bent for exotic behavior. Before this night, I'd never considered Anita someone who would go for that - but I've been wrong before!
"Would you like to get together with him?" I asked in as nonthreatening a tone as I could muster.
"Oh, I don't know," she replied, although I noticed her eyes didn't meet mine.
"Did you guys get along well?" I'd never heard of Eddie before.
"He wasn't my cup of tea in many ways - we didn't like the same things, but..."
"But you had pretty good sex with him, huh?"
"Yeah," she admitted. "That was pretty much everything we had. And when you came along, and we were so good together right off the bat, well..."
"Okay." I turned on my side towards her, sucked on her nipple to bring it to attention and rubbed the entrance to her pussy. She moved her groin, letting me know she liked it. "Okay. So he was good in bed. Have you been in bed with him since we met?"
This time she did meet my eyes, and the look was one of remorse. "Once, a couple weeks after our first date."
"And not since then?"
"No. I put him off for a couple weeks, and then he stopped texting. Until just yesterday."
"So he wants to take you out on a date." She shook her head up and down. "And if you went on a date with him, what would happen?"
"I don't know," she hesitated. "Probably drinks or something."
"Or something... you mean sex?"
Again I got the "I don't know."
"Well, why not?" I pressed.
Her response was almost shrill. "I wouldn't want to hurt you, of course!"
"And you're afraid that if you slept with someone else, that would hurt me. I'll tell you something, I'm not sure it would. It might, might not. I haven't thought about it. Do you mind if I consider it for a little while?" Then I kissed her, one that brought with it erotic undertones, and we proceeded to drop that subject, and recede back to our previous endeavors. I wasn't surprised when she climaxed again.
Over the next couple of days, I thought about it, I assumed she did too. I felt I was on the cusp of finding something I'd had once, and lost. And in those eight years that I didn't have it, I oftentimes missed it. If there was a chance of getting something similar back, I wanted to give it every chance.
I knew that although this was my desire, it had to be Anita's as well. She couldn't just go along with it, particularly if it was simply for my sake, she had to welcome it, lust after it as much as I did. Otherwise, I didn't think it wasn't worth doing it at all.
And I had to be subtle. We'd never confessed our sins to each other, but I thought Anita felt she was inexperienced. She'd told me her husband was her first lover, and the only one until they wed. In the four-plus years since she'd been widowed, I got the sense there were a few men in her life, but nothing that lasted.
I considered how I might bring out the beast in her. We didn't see each other for three days, but I texted her often, sending her emojis of smiles and affection. She sent the same back, I felt sure she wasn't worried that she'd offended me.
I remembered a foreign film I once watched that could lead to a discussion, found it on one of those streaming sites that no one would ever pay for. On the third night, she came over to my place and we made a meal of Alfredo and mushrooms. I complimented her looks more than enough (I thought), concentrating on her legs which are her best feature, slim and long. Then she cuddled to me as the actors spoke French (with subtitles, of course.) It was a plot where a woman is trying to balance two men, both her lovers, both knowing the other exists. Plenty of nudity sparkled through the movie, writhing bodies were viewed. Only some cautious editing kept it from being x-rated. By the third act, the activity on the couch was as torrid as that on the screen.
Without rehashing the movie, we fell into my bed, cuddled, slept. We'd gotten into a routine where we often spent the weekend together, and long after noon we headed for the Rusty Bucket. It being one of those places where the noise level is just a little too high, that let us talk to each other frankly while sitting on the same side of a booth.
