***
Entering his home is intimidating. It’s a beautifully restored mansion in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago, and it’s expensive. Far more so than my renovated old turn-of-the-century house that’s been broken up into a fourplex. Where my apartment has old, lumpy, plaster lattice walls, his house has perfectly leveled, pristine ones with an impossibly flat finish. Where mine has old, worn hardwood with dinks and grooves aplenty, his are as pristine as the walls—smooth, satin finish, unblemished, and shimmering. His fixtures are restored to perfect original working order, as is nearly every other aspect of his home. Mine are original as well and haven’t been touched since the home was built … a gazillion years ago. His home smells of him—clean, warm, enticing, and my intimidation may be just as much for the impressive surroundings I’m standing in than what I’m getting into.
The ride over was just as erotic as our time in the corridor. His hand remained on my leg, stroking, caressing as he maneuvered his equally expensive car through the streets of downtown. I tried my best to act normal, but my stomach was fluttering in anticipation. I’m not immune to sexual desire, even if I’ve managed to avoid it for the most part. My virginity, if you’re wondering, is not something I have a particular attachment to. I never have. I didn’t set out to avoid relationships, but my introversion certainly didn’t attract them. I’ve wanted to be done with it for a while now, but where every other man I came across simply failed to catch my attention, this one for some reason did not. Was it his looks? Perhaps his smell, or more than likely his maturity. There’s something so very arousing about a calm, controlled, confident man—qualities most often found in an older man. He’s hardly old, but when you’re twenty-two, it doesn’t take much for your age to be dwarfed.
When his hand catches the strap of my purse and eases it off my shoulder and to the floor of the entryway, I pause. He steps closer to my back as I hear the strap of my bag gently fall to the floor. And I wait in pathetic excitement for his next touch. I do not care what this man does to my body; I just want it to be him. I have no excuse for my want. I have no cause for my sudden uncontrollable urge to give myself to this stranger. I have no purpose but my long overdue need for this. I’ve set this part of my life aside for so very long. I’ve denied and refused to pay it any attention, and now it yearns, begs to get out. Was it the celebration, the culmination of my years of hard work that have unleashed this part of my soul? Do I care? My skin is on fire. My body is suddenly hypersensitive to every touch, every wisp of air, every glance raking over my skin. I will take my needs from him. He will serve my purpose and release me from my want.
His hand meets my shoulder with a gentle unexpected touch, and his words follow. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he warns.
“You needn’t tell me I’m a booty call. I’m not stupid.” Aren’t I?
“I’m a little old for the term ‘booty call…’”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be having a booty call,” I challenge.
“Perhaps… Call it what you wish. I want to fuck you … very much … but I don’t want a relationship with you. If that’s going to be a problem, I’m happy to drop you off wherever you’d like.”
“Oh, another relationship-challenged man.” I sarcastically feign exasperation. I’m actually making shit up at this point. What the hell do I know of relationships after all?
“I see you know this story…”
“Who doesn’t?” Again, totally full of shit. But I’m in this for the fun. Isn’t that what I’m telling myself? Isn’t it the truth? Can I really make this separation? Can I really be the woman who fucks and then forgets?
When he leans his mouth to my neck for the second time this evening, I resolve I’m exactly the woman who can do this. It’s high time to be done with this virginity nonsense. How many women can be so lucky as to give themselves to a man such as this? The touch of his mouth on the skin of my shoulder sends stabs of pleasure coursing through my body. And as his hands meet my waist and with slow, deliberate movements travel around my hips to my lower abdomen, I hold my breath waiting for his next touch. I don’t have to wait long.
His hands travel with that same slow, deliberate, and incredible intention to the button and zipper of my pants, undoing both with ease. And as his fingers sweep the sides of my waist on their way to my lower back, my breath leaves my lungs in a deep and slow exhalation. His fingers slip below the waist of my pants and underwear, easing both over the cheeks of my bottom as his palms massage their way over the round cheeks of my backside. If that weren’t enough, his tongue trails across the back of my neck as the fabric of my pants and underwear are dropped to the floor around my ankles. I’m left standing there with my ankles restrained in the fabric of my pants, naked from the waist down aside from my knee-high boots.
He works his fingers with infinite slowness to unbutton my blouse from the bottom up, ending at my neck. His hands work with a light touch as they pull my shirt off my shoulders and allow it to drop to the floor with my pants. The clasp of my bra is undone, freeing my breasts as he lets my bra slide from my arms to drop again to the floor. Next, I feel his hands. The same long, overtly male fingers move over my shoulders and down my arms to my elbows before clutching, grabbing, and all out squeezing the small roundness of my breasts. When his fingers pluck the tight nipples and pull them away from my body, I cry out. It hurts … and yet, it floods my core with warmth and a sudden surge of wetness.
I thank God for my anonymity once again. This man will never know my fears, my desires, my embarrassments, my insecurities. He will never know me. There is a comfort to that … and yet a sadness as well. I need him to remain unknown to me, but it’s not the whole of what I want from this life. I want a man to give this to me without the shadow of mystery. Some day… Perhaps when my career is secure, my education finished, my life on some discernible path. But not tonight. Tonight, he is just a man—incredible and beautiful as he may be—that I will use to give me what I want. And so far, he has not failed to deliver.
“You can’t imagine how incredible the view is from back here.” He’s purring again, and the sound of his warm and silken voice alone has me trilling with excitement. I should be nervous of what’s to come. I should fear the loss of that most treasured gift I hold, but I don’t. He’ll have it freely from me.
My nipples ache from the pinch he’s still inflicting on them. But even as I note the pleasure this pinch incites, he lets loose my nipples, and his hands run down to my waist, gripping my hips and pulling my bottom to his groin. Holy shit, he’s hard. More than hard, he’s large, rigid, and his hands clasp me with a vigor that holds so much desire. Why this desire for me? Who the hell knows, but it belongs to me and only me for this moment. And beyond this moment is not a concern of mine on this evening.
He grinds his pelvis against my bottom with my hips held firm in his grip as his mouth nuzzles and purrs against my neck. And when he pulls me around to face him, his eyes flash with unrestrained need. His brow flinches as he takes me in, and he pulls me along after him through his incredible home. His bedroom is large, and his bed likewise. The large picture window faces a valley of thick trees this neighborhood is built in to. I can’t imagine ever being able to own a home such as this, but this is my fantasy—to restore every last interior detail to original beauty. This man has everything I ever hope to have one day.