The remaining portion of her narrative confirms this doubt.
It's really rather funny, I guess, if you have a cosmic sense of humor. Some people seem to lead charmed lives, and no matter how much shit they wallow in, they always come up smelling like roses. And mine is the reverse. Good background, good education, money, beauty, the whole ball of wax – and no matter what I do, I foul it up somehow. There could be two hundred people in a restaurant, and I would get the only bent fork, or the splinter in the bleacher, or the chair with one leg short, or the table that wobbles… and guess who the drink gets spilled on.
I married the boy most likely to succeed in college, and we had two children. He walked out on me ten years ago… said he couldn't stand living in constant darkness. I still don't really know what he meant by that. My children went to private schools, and vacations were split between my ex and me. When they were with me, it was like a houseful of strangers. They'd whisper a great deal, excluding me totally. Although they're well-mannered and polite to me, you'd never know I was their mother. I tried to show them love and affection, I'd hug and praise them. But when I would, they'd howl that I was hurting them, or that I didn't really mean it. No matter what I'd do, it seemed to be wrong.
As it is, women are suspicious of me and resent me, and men either want to fuck me or are worried that they might want to fuck me eventually, so they stay away from me. I'm a walking disruption, a human upset of the balance of things – and only because of my face and figure. It's hell, I tell you! I didn't ask to be beautiful. Knowing now what I know about the frigging burden of it all, I'd never want to be beautiful if I had to live my life over again. Humans seem to be terrified, of extremes – extreme deformity or extreme beauty seem to create a threat. I don't know why. And, Goddammit, when I let a guy fuck me, when I really want to get laid by someone in particular, he takes my body and then hates me for it. Then you ask why I drink.
I'll give you a classic example. Frank was a big wheel with an advertising agency, a vice president or something. We'd met at several parties, and I liked him. He was soft-spoken, nice-looking, well-traveled and assured. He asked me out for a date, and I accepted. We went to the theater, then out for a light supper. It was a charming, cordial evening, and I was very relaxed with Frank. He didn't drool over me as so many men had, their lascivious eyes glinting in the candlelight. So when he suggested that we go back to his place for our cognac, I smiled and agreed. He lived on Sutton Place South. Neither of us said much as the taxi wormed its way across town to the plush condominiums overlooking the East River. Frank took my elbow and guided me past the doorman to the silent elevator, and preceded me into his lovely apartment. He turned on a few low-watt lamps, started the hi-fi, and poured us both generous ponys of Remy. We toasted one another silently, witnessed only by the mute blinking lights of Queens across the river.
It was simply understood that we'd make love. I excused myself to repair to the bathroom. When I came out, Frank was already in his king-size bed waiting for me. My brandy was on the night table, along with my cigarettes and lighter. I took my cue, and I began to undress for him. And I mean "for him". Nothing so vulgar as a bump-and-grind strip, rather the slow, deliberate movements of a woman who looks forward to getting laid by someone new, and who wants him to see just what it is she has to offer.
I slinked into the bed next to him, my firm breasts arching away from my rib cage, and I didn't bother to cover them with the sheet. Frank handed me my cognac. As I took a sip, he leaned over and took one of my breasts in his mouth, tonguing the nipple gently. Frank turned me on – plain and simple. His whole approach to me was perfect… he knew all my buttons and when to push them. Impishy, I put my drink down, then slowly slid the sheet away from our bodies so I could get a good look at Frank's equipment. He was, tanned all over and nicely built, as I'd hoped. And I was especially pleased to note that he didn't have a hard on yet. He had a nice cock and big balls, and he looked very clean. Some men don't, you know. There were curly, white hairs mixed with the dark hairs on his chest and around his cock, and I wondered briefly if Frank was older than I had thought.
Frank continued to fondle my tits, first one then the other, and I reached over and touched his cock softly. I felt Frank's body tense at the touch. I leaned forward, letting my red hair cascade across his abdomen, and planted a small kiss on the tip of his penis. It twitched slightly, and I smiled to myself. Then I began to kiss along the sides of his shaft, letting my tongue trail along, wrapping it on the underside of his prick and licking in long, educated strokes. I could feel his cock reacting to my kisses, and nothing gives me a bigger thrill than to be rewarded for my efforts.
Frank brought my hand down to his balls, his face nuzzled between my full breasts. He kept his hand on mine as I cupped his balls with my palm, bouncing first one, then the other as if I were trying to guess their weight. Then he removed his hand, and began to run it lightly along the length of my body. There's something wonderfully sensuous about being touched like that, something that makes your whole body feel alive and hot and desirable.
And while we touched each other that way, I studied his cock, marveling anew at how smooth the male glans is. There was something especially innocent about Frank's prick. Some men have very ugly cocks, veined to the point of deformity, dry-skinned and wrinkled. But Frank's was smooth and young – looking, vigorously resilient. The little hole at the tip of his penis had filled up with his advance lubrication, and like a child, I watched his prick in fascination. I wanted to taste it, to languorously make love to Frank even as he was doing to me. So with my free hand, I took his shaft and brought the big knob right into my mouth. I ran my hot tongue across it, and the fluid's slightly salty flavor blended well with the taste of cognac in my mouth. I savored the taste of him, the size of his cock in my mouth, the feeling of that big head rubbing against my cheeks, growing bigger and bigger within me. By then, Frank was licking and kissing my torso, especially my waist – and I love to have my waist kissed. I closed my eyes, and imagined what the two of us would look like to an onlooker, and the whole vision really turned me on. When Frank began to take little nibbles with his teeth, I could barely control myself, and I changed my position so that I could straddle his legs and rub my creaming cunt against his knee.
By then, I was really wet down there, and I just seemed to slide against him. He held very still so I could rub myself on him wherever it felt best to me. It was delicious to be in bed with a man who wasn't in a hurry. Rubbing my clitoris all over his knee was sending wild tingles all through me… I even began to perspire – which I rarely do – at the hollow of my back, behind my own knees and between my breasts. God, I was hot!
Frank had propped himself up against the headboard so he could watch me – that, too, stimulated me. Knowing that Frank could see my body entirely naked, rubbing myself against him and sucking on his cock all at the same time… it made me feel so perfectly wanton, I loved it! I wished to hell I could have gotten something up inside of me while I was licking his hot dick and rubbing against him, but I was also worried that I'd come too soon and destroy the illusion of our first fuck together. But Frank had expertise, and when I felt his hands gently taking my hips and guiding me around so that my ass was sticking in front of his face, I knew that I wasn't with a phony. Frank enjoyed making love, obviously, and a man who prefers making love over plain fucking is always a better lover.