Today I rise to sing praise to older women. I want to raise my glass and extend a bow to the wonderful, wise, and experienced sirens who have given me such pleasure over the years.
There are many ways that people understand and define mature sexual women. There are the MILFs, whose maternal warmth and softness translates into inviting, warm sex that feels like you're fucking on your favorite memories of home. Hot sex, mind you, but with familiar and traditional comforts.
One step deeper into the taboo is you mother. Fucking your mom is the pursuit of the ultimate MILF. The topic's vast popularity is quietly hidden behind the dark secret.
But I'm not thinking along those spine tingling fetishes and fantasies. I'm talking about the seemingly vanilla encounters with sexually mature beauty. I'm talking about having sex with beautiful women who were born very lovely from the start and only improved with age. Simple beauty that has shone through four or five decades and still lights up a room with its brilliance. Fine women with smiles that radiate their beauty, that only serves to highlight a physique that often defies laws of nature and gravity. Rounder than tight, bigger than small, but still well within a horn-dog's notion of feminine beauty.
The mature woman who has developed her prowess into that of a sexual artist has come to understand sex and the human body through years of careful, thoughtful research. More than just quick reads of a smattering of Cosmo articles, she's learned from men and women she's known, with whom she has deeply explored the art of passion. She brings physical and emotional intelligence to her craft.
Years of practice build on her knowledge, and have shown her what constitutes great sex and how it differs from, but benefits from raw sexual energy and blind passion. She's spread her legs and spread her lips enough times to know exactly how to deep throat a long, fat cock, or the positions that actually do work for a 69. More importantly, she knows what she likes, and what brings her intense pleasure. She's travelled that path and led others with her. Each new journey to bliss is foundationally familiar and yet wide-open for innovation and improvisation.
She's found a way to define her own sexuality, to be more than a receptacle for someone else's climactic moment. She's a Ginger Rodger's in bed, rocking her own style even as she follows someone's leading dance steps, but often upside down and backwards.
I'm speaking about someone like Jill.
Jill and I recently connected, and I'm motivated to capture a chapter we shared together - a blissful weekend that joyfully reminds me why I love beautiful mature women. Spending three days fulfilling so many wonderful sexual desires and fantasies was just plain fine.
Jill and I connected recently after many years of near acquaintance. Last spring we sat together in Denver at a common friend's party drinking Mint Juleps and melding our barely-shared knowledge of horse racing and the Derby. We both learned we had recently left long-term relationships, and despite their friendly departures, we were both happy to be single. We clearly took notice of each other over the course of our flirtatious fun. For me, I was left with a big, fat hard-on and mental note with an asterisk: Jill is fun.
Then last week Jill sent me an email - in classic old-school communication style - that said she needed to be in Seattle for some business meetings. She expected to be here for about a week, and would love to get together for dinner, perhaps on Wednesday night. I opened my calendar and quickly accepted, and we made arrangements to get together at my favorite oyster bar for early dinner and drinks.
We spent three hours in a delicate dance of shared seduction. It was casual, comfortable, amiable, and fun. But there was a growing intensity to every part of the conversation, verbal and nonverbal. By the end, we were dripping with innuendo and entendre, and we both were aligned for something even more fun. But we both let our mutual admiration simmer a bit longer, and agreed to connect again, perhaps toward the end of her engagement in town early the following week. That worked well for me - I had a big project staring me in the face, and this weekend was the perfect time to clear the plate.
Then mid-morning Friday I got an unexpected text from Jill. "I just finished and won big. I need to play. Hard. Now."
I looked at the message for a long moment. This was not quite what I was expecting. I was hoping to hear something early next week. But this, now.
I had a fairly open afternoon, but some pretty heavy expectations for getting this project out the door by Monday. I had to assess what this commitment might mean.
After a few minutes of careful thought, I returned the message. "Define play hard. Define now."
Instantly her replay came. "Well . . . play is the intentional pursuit of fun. All kinds of fun. Hard depends on the degree of your participation."
And then a moment later I got a final ping. "As for now. . . now is beginning anytime in the next 30 minutes. And let me tell you, when this ship sails, you want to be on board!"
I sent back an immediate reply. "I'm in." I added a second message to heat things up. "All the way in."
"I hoped you'd say that."
"Am I driving or do you have a plan?" I thumbed my reply.
A moment later she sent the reply that defined my next 72 hours. "Baby, you can drive my car." A simple Beatles reference, and a perfect entrée to the beginning of the party. My reply was swift. "Yes, you're gonna be a star."
She replied a moment later. "Did I tell you I won?"
"Big" I texted.
"Big," she said.
I went to work, calling in all my chits and thinking my nastiest possibilities.
Twenty minutes later she was in my office, hair swept back and drunk with success. She had just negotiated a big project, one that was certain to further illuminate her already bright star power. She was instantly richer and more famous. And she was ready to party.
