Jan 072012
 

It was a terrific restaurant in a spectacular location – New York’s Grand Central Terminal, on a terrace overlooking the grand main waiting room. They had delicious shellfish and an ambiance that couldn’t be beat (as compared to their competitor forty feet below, The Oyster Bar, which had – and still has – great shellfish, but the dank, timeless airlessness of a cavern – and waiters who seem to have been there forever). Metrazur also had something rare in New York: floor-to-ceiling doors in the stall in the men’s room. (Don’t be fooled by the link – it’s closed now, soon to be replaced with a controversial Apple store.)

I had met her on OKCupid. She seemed to be playing out a sort of Catherine Millet-like fantasy of not saying no, to anyone. We had a torrid affair that stretched over a couple of months, and provided the first venue for me to examine – mindfully, under close observation – the impact of jealousy on me. Because I liked her, but I didn’t love her, didn’t need her – the stakes were low.
And our relationship incorporated her reports of her dates with others. She would forward me their OKC profiles; she would e-mail me descriptions of the things they had done. And I would simply burn. I would know when she was showering, primping for a date. When she was en route. When they were meeting for a drink. And when, likely, she was being plowed on a rooftop by some guy not me. And it was utterly consistent with our relationship. It was excruciating, but phenomenal. Oh, and the sex was awesome, too. She is multiply orgasmic, and often would cum eight or ten times at a time. There was nothing she wouldn’t do (or at least, nothing I wanted to do that she wouldn’t do).
One morning, just before noon, I e-mailed her: “Is a quickie possible before I head for the airport at 5:45?” I was headed out of town on business that afternoon.
Her reply: “I could meet you at a bar somewhere between you and me at 5ish and we could sneak into the bathroom so I could go down on you and then send you on your way, if that would work?”
It did.
We met for a drink.  With scotch on my breath, gin on hers, I went to the bathroom.  I told her to stand nearby, that I’d text her when the coast was clear.  She came in shortly, and sat on the toilet as I pulled my cock out and fed it to her.  She devoured it hungrily.  Though I’m usually not one to cum quickly, the pressure, the risk, and her insane, urgent enthusiasm, all elicited a torrent of semen in no time – a load she hungrily swallowed.  So I had her stand on the toilet, and lifted her skirt, pulled her thong to the side, and dove into her cunt.  She hadn’t bargained on reciprocation, but she got it.  She came in a flood all over my face moments later.
I emerged from the bathroom first, checking to be sure we wouldn’t be observed, and she followed.  We pecked one another on the cheek and said good-bye.

  2 Responses to “Metrazur, RIP”

  1. Nice post. And hot. And now I'm sorry to have missed the Metrazur. I wonder where the best bathrooms (for our purposes) in the city are…

  2. […] already met her once, in Metrazur.  But this is when I met […]

Say something! (I just did....)