Last hurrah?

I sat in a swanky bar, waiting for Rose. I was wearing jeans and a pink/white candy-striped shirt. (“You look good in pink” is something I hear often enough when wearing this shirt to feel good wearing this shirt.)

I was early. Like, half an hour or so early. And I was hungry. And I was thirsty.

I ordered the arctic char carpaccio, sort of a chopped patty of arctic char with some scallions and lemon and stuff. It was delicious. I ordered an Oban 14-year-old with an ice cube. I ordered the large (2 oz.) glass, but they only had about an ounce left. So that’s what I drank. A tall, attractive brunette sat to my right, and busied herself with her phone. The bar was filled with self-satisfied 20- and 30-something men. Men who make too much money and confuse “being paid” with “earning.” Who think somehow that the good fortune that’s befallen them is deserved, that they’re better than the people who aren’t in/of their world.

It’s a world I know well, but whose confidence, even though I once was of it, never quite permeated me in the way it does them. It nauseates me, I have to say. Not confidence, but a confidence that’s born of a confusion, of a lack of perspective.

So the hottie to my right and I start talking. I learn that she’s being met by friends from out of town. Well, truth be told, she’s from out of town, but she lives here now. We trade basic biographical facts. I learn roughly what she does. I tell her I write about sex. We chat for ten minutes about that. I fully and completely blow her mind. An activity I always enjoy. And her friends arrive.

It’s still a few minutes before Rose is scheduled to arrive. I order another whisk(e)y. This time, an Auchentoshan Three Wood. I’ve never had it before – I don’t know how to pronounce it, and I don’t really care. Truth be told, I’m in a Black Label kinda mood, but this place doesn’t tolerate my boorish tastes.

Rose texts: “Five minutes.” She’s five minutes late.

She walks in. She’s looking hot. Her hair – it’s changeable – is curly, not frizzy. It looks different than it has any previous time I’ve seen her. “Is that what I asked you to wear?” I ask. She had given me three choices. I had selected outfit #2. What she had on didn’t look familiar. She told me it was, indeed, what I had asked.

Thus proving that it’s more the choosing than the selection that I enjoy.

She has a drink. I finish mine. She’s moving, away from New York. This will be the last time she sucks my cock for a while (though she assures me she’ll be back to visit). I’m eager to get started.

We walk a short block and a half to the hotel. I had christened the room by napping, showering, before we met. I give her ass – round, full, delicious – a few gentle smacks. I wrap my belt around her neck, but I never really put the leash/collar to use this go-round. I unzip her very fancy skirt, her very fancy top. I direct her to remove them. (I don’t want to tear them. I’ve done that before. She’s not wearing her tearing clothes.)

She kneels for me. She teases my cock. Not too long. I’m impatient.

She sucks my cock. I smack her around a little. Only a little. I always have the sense she wants a lot more smacking than I deliver. It’s rarely my thing. And she is, as she says, a “turbo-slut,” and I have the distinct sense she has an appetite for more. Much more.

I feed her my cock some more. And then, I do what I most enjoy with her: I go to town on her pussy. I don’t discriminate. I love pussy. I love the pussies of women who come easily and those of women who don’t come. So what I’m about to say is in no way a negative reflection of the experience of going down on some other woman whose orgasms are so much more hard-fought-for. But what’s really really fun about going down on Rose is that it quickly starts to feel like a wrestling match. She, writhing in ecstasy, making lots of noise, trying to get free, me pinning her thighs, pressing down hard, pulling her cunt against my face by her ass. It’s very physical. And it goes on forever. Well, not forever. It goes on until she begs me to stop. I fucking love that shit.

So we did that. She rode my cock a bit. She rode my face. She sucked my cock more. I came down her throat, hard, quicker than usual. I was tired. There was something less… intense… about this encounter. Was it her imminent departure? The sort of last-hurrah-ness of it? I’m not sure. But it was quicker, less varied, than our previous encounters had been.

We spent a long, lovely, time talking after I came. We talked about her imminent move, her family, the Supreme Court – decisions, members, likely vacancies. It was a good conversation. We dressed. We left.

I had a drag of her cigarette as we walked down the street.


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