Calliope
03-06-2007, 11:14 PM
Well, well - wasn't he a nice sort!
I surprised myself finding so quickly how utterly acceptable to me he was. (Been 20 years!) Taller, bigger, hairy, handsome in a 51-but-hardly-really-grown-up sorta way. And, jeez, what a flirt; I shoulda been jealous seeing him work the charm on our waitress but, no, I admired his boyish style. As I told him, two Black Russians later, I liked his mix of sweetness and assertiveness.
He assessed me, conspicuously and physically, the second we met, him stroking my hair and shoulders. Pretty swoony, that. I guess he liked what he saw, off we went to the restaurant. 90 minutes of anecdotes - he had a lot of rock stories - and I decide to invite him over (4 block walk, no driving me, at my request; I'm keeping control of the pace and he understands that - a big character plus for him).
Incense, "romantic" playlist, apprehension. I break the ice by saying a hummer is his for the taking. He's offended!
"Where's the change-into-something-more-comfortable," he asks, "where's the kissing and cuddling?" Whoa - it hadn't occurred to me he'd be wanting some mush; oh dear my bad, reverse sexism - I just presumed all guys are wham-bam-on their way home. (Guess I've been reading too much feminist literature. And, I certainly don't have any lingerie; been married twice and never once saw an actual woman wear that jazz.)
But cuddling and kissing ... sure. Purr. He's such a sensitive man, asking me what do I want? Truth is, I don't want an orgasm, I prefer keeping my cool, my control over the fun. I do want his blast of ecstasy, though, and it's mine.
Done, he's all inside-out panting, "you smell so good, you're so pretty without your glasses." So I am validated. I am desirable and ... capable of pleasing, of making the magic happen.
The sailor who stands against a wall, looking down at the bobbing head of the gobbling queen, regards himself the master of the situation; yet it is the queen (does not that derisive epithet suggest primacy and dominion?) who has won the day, extracting from the flesh of the sailor his posterity, the one element in every man which is eternal.
(Myra Breckinridge)
To my mellow astonishment, he reclines, sighs and relates more rock stories, better rock stories. All fuzzy passive he cradles me, enjoys me. Stayed an hour, then I announced it was bedtime. Off he goes, with a hug. What a gent!
Not that I expect to ever hear from him again!
But, y'know, if he does email me, well, I'm a size 5, so go out and buy me some lingerie and we'll do it again.
Funny, really, I "should" feel totally "exploited" or something - but I don't, I feel strong. And I must be glowing - just in the 2 blocks to this library computer, some dude on a motorcycle waves to me from the street and some old coot on the sidewalk gushed over the "pretty colors" I'm wearing.
Mmmmm.
I surprised myself finding so quickly how utterly acceptable to me he was. (Been 20 years!) Taller, bigger, hairy, handsome in a 51-but-hardly-really-grown-up sorta way. And, jeez, what a flirt; I shoulda been jealous seeing him work the charm on our waitress but, no, I admired his boyish style. As I told him, two Black Russians later, I liked his mix of sweetness and assertiveness.
He assessed me, conspicuously and physically, the second we met, him stroking my hair and shoulders. Pretty swoony, that. I guess he liked what he saw, off we went to the restaurant. 90 minutes of anecdotes - he had a lot of rock stories - and I decide to invite him over (4 block walk, no driving me, at my request; I'm keeping control of the pace and he understands that - a big character plus for him).
Incense, "romantic" playlist, apprehension. I break the ice by saying a hummer is his for the taking. He's offended!
"Where's the change-into-something-more-comfortable," he asks, "where's the kissing and cuddling?" Whoa - it hadn't occurred to me he'd be wanting some mush; oh dear my bad, reverse sexism - I just presumed all guys are wham-bam-on their way home. (Guess I've been reading too much feminist literature. And, I certainly don't have any lingerie; been married twice and never once saw an actual woman wear that jazz.)
But cuddling and kissing ... sure. Purr. He's such a sensitive man, asking me what do I want? Truth is, I don't want an orgasm, I prefer keeping my cool, my control over the fun. I do want his blast of ecstasy, though, and it's mine.
Done, he's all inside-out panting, "you smell so good, you're so pretty without your glasses." So I am validated. I am desirable and ... capable of pleasing, of making the magic happen.
The sailor who stands against a wall, looking down at the bobbing head of the gobbling queen, regards himself the master of the situation; yet it is the queen (does not that derisive epithet suggest primacy and dominion?) who has won the day, extracting from the flesh of the sailor his posterity, the one element in every man which is eternal.
(Myra Breckinridge)
To my mellow astonishment, he reclines, sighs and relates more rock stories, better rock stories. All fuzzy passive he cradles me, enjoys me. Stayed an hour, then I announced it was bedtime. Off he goes, with a hug. What a gent!
Not that I expect to ever hear from him again!
But, y'know, if he does email me, well, I'm a size 5, so go out and buy me some lingerie and we'll do it again.
Funny, really, I "should" feel totally "exploited" or something - but I don't, I feel strong. And I must be glowing - just in the 2 blocks to this library computer, some dude on a motorcycle waves to me from the street and some old coot on the sidewalk gushed over the "pretty colors" I'm wearing.
Mmmmm.