Birdboy

In years past, I used to occasionally post a special story right around Christmastime. They're only vaguely seasonal, but the one thing that they've all had in common is that they particularly reflect the warmth of the season, despite the cold weather. It's been a while since my last story and I've written a new one, just in time to resurrect my old custom. Enjoy, my dear readers. --bb -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Spooning afterwards is the best. We're warm and sweaty but we're basking in the afterglow. Our bodies fit together so perfectly, my arms wrapped around her, my nose nuzzling her fragrant hair. Her breathing has become heavy and deep. I think she's fallen asleep. That's okay. She's had some late nights recently. I know she doesn't have to go anywhere after this, and neither do I. So I'll let her doze on for just a little while. I looked at the room around me. She's decorated it with a gentle touch. She'd painted it a delicate pink, all by herself. Every detail is perfect, every knick-knack just so. I've spent a lot of time here with her. She's made this room feel like my home away from home. Here, my problems just fall away. In this room, my terrible boss and my dead-end job are just distant memories. In this room, my parents are still in good health, still in possession of all their faculties. In this room, only good things happen and time stands still. I'm not the only one who feels this way. Oh, I know there are other men. I just don't think about that. What I mean is that when we're together, the world falls away for her too. She forgets about all the grief her ex gives her. In this room, her children are angels and she never gets calls to come in because her daughter is acting out. In this room, her credit card balance is always in the black, her checks are never overdrawn. In this room, our world is just the two of us on this bed. It reduces to my lips on hers, my fingers tracing the soft skin in the small of her back, the taut skin between her shoulder blades, the delicate skin on the nape of her neck. I kiss her neck, her perfect breasts, her flat belly and I just keep going right on. When I reach my goal, her eyes close and a fragile smile settles on her face. She is truly home now. She has an impish grin afterwards. "My turn." She rolls me onto my back, and takes me into her mouth, looking up at me the whole time. She's oh... so... diligent. I always mean to let her finish me off this way but it always seems like I end up inside her, in any one of a number of our favorite positions. I could say I'm in my happy place here. But honestly, I was in my happy place as soon as I walked through her door. It's hard not to think about a life lived a little differently. About that happy place expanding outside of these four walls and filling the whole world. I let myself dream that dream when I'm here. But I know that if we were together, truly together, life would be different and not quite so rosy. My trials and tribulations would still be there. They would enter this world too. And as for her, she doesn't even need to say it. I know she dreams about my taking her away from all this. Having my strong arms around her, protecting her from the world around us. And we both have that tiny flicker in the deepest recesses of our hearts, that we would be forever together. That I would be hers and her alone, that she would be mine and mine alone. But I think we both know that these are just fantasies. My world comes flooding back the moment I cross her threshold to the street outside, and I look at my phone. And as for her, the world doesn't wait that long. It only takes as long as it does for her to pick up her phone, sometimes before she's even left my embrace. Sometimes I think to tell her to wait a moment, to savor our time together full measure. That text will still be there. The world will still loom out there, whether we want it or not. But I don't say anything. Some lessons can only be learned, not taught. As for me, I'm happy to let my fantasy linger a little longer. My problems will still be there, as soon as I walk away. I look at the snow falling gently out her window. I reach down to gently kiss the back of her neck and pull her closer. And then I doze off too.

There's this old song that's been running through my mind lately. It's one that I first heard as a very young man, so many years ago, on the crackly push-button AM radio in my first old beat-up car. Does he love me I want to know How can I tell if he loves me so Is it in his eyes? Oh no! You'll be deceived Is it in his sighs? Oh no! He'll make believe If you want to know if he loves you so It's in his kiss That's where it is I smile a wry smile when I hear it. I can sing all the verses by memory, though it's just not cool in my peer group to sing Arethra. At least out loud, in public. So I hum it under my breath, tap my toes just a tiny bit, not so anyone can notice. It's not just nostalgia for my misspent youth that's made me think of this song these days. It's something I read, about my favorite lady. He wrote that he had a grand old time, and he went on and on about what a wonderful kisser she was. Reading that halted me in my virtual tracks. I've never been one to be jealous about something someone else has gotten that I hadn't. There's no point, you know. Because I have been that guy too every once in a long while, getting something that I know others don't usually get. So no harm, no foul. He's a lucky man. It was nostalgia of another kind that tweaked this particular earworm. It was remembering that she was a great kisser once, at least for me. We'd spend what seemed like hours in these kisses, and I loved every single second of them. That feels like a long time ago. The last time I saw her, she pulled away from my kiss, and I just stopped trying. The first time it happened, I wondered if I hadn't brushed my teeth properly, or perhaps had a little reminder of something I'd eaten. She did it again the next time, after I took pains to make myself fresh. It happened again and again, and I was finally left with the inescapable conclusion that it was just me. I don't think that her kiss means she doesn't love me. I smile to type that. I know of the man she loves, and I'm definitely not him. But it was a reasonable facsimile for a time. I saw her eyes widen when we would meet. I saw her smile broaden, as we embraced and our tongues danced delicately. It was a sublime delight. But hasn't been like that in a while. Perhaps that's the lifeblood of this hobby. To sample the best that these ladies have to offer, to leave starstruck. But more importantly, to move on, to sample the sweet nectar of the next flower. I have been a longtime client, but only very rarely. More often these things so often too soon fade away to a pale shadow of the excitement that we once felt. Because to be otherwise, means that the fantasy that I've purchased and that she's worked so hard to create has become something else. Something more real, something more ethereal. And definitely something much more rare, in this business of ours. I know it's time to move on. I'll only let myself have this moment of that sense of loss before I find that next object of my anticipation and excitement. I'll search for that kiss that stops time, makes me forget that there's anything except the two of us. It's what I yearn for. Because that's where it is.

Thanks, guys. It was a very good birthday this year.

I closed my eyes in reverie. I remember that twinkle in her eyes, that impish grin. I remember her smooth skin, so soft to the touch. I remember her straddling my hips, a blissful look on her face as she panted, and I drew ragged breaths as we rode on into the night. And I remembered her laughing afterwards, the most natural laughter as I said something witty. Our meeting was only mere days ago. Yet my memories of her are so vivid. But I'm not the type to live in the past. I yearn to make new memories, memories as powerful as the night we met. So I contacted her. I looked down at my phone. It's been two days now since I texted her last. She hadn't responded to my last text, or the one before that. Perhaps she'll get back to me soon. Perhaps she won't. Perhaps I'll never see her again. It used to really bother me when I would meet someone, have a wonderful time, then never get to see her again. Was it me? Did I do something wrong? But that's silly. It's not all about me. Sure, I suppose that she might have had to force a smile at the touch of my homely carcass. Maybe she thought I was boorish, perhaps I was too rough. But maybe she decided that doing this just wasn't for her. Perhaps she got a better offer than mine. Perhaps her real life got in the way. In any case, there might be so many reasons. One thing's for certain, I might never know why. What I do know, though, is that we had that one wonderful night. One time, one meeting. Never to be repeated again, because the stars would be aligned differently. Hey, you never know. Maybe on another day, our meeting might well have been... ordinary. But knowing her, probably not. No, I'm not the type to live in the past. But I'm trying to strive to live in the present, to savor every moment as I live it. To suck the marrow out of every feast, because life is the most sumptuous repast, if you choose to see it. And I try to cultivate sweet hope, for the future. Because I have those memories. And I always hope to make more.

I've been nominated a few times for the 'Topic of the Fortnight' before, but this is the first time I've ever won. Many thanks to my nominators for making this possible!

I'm delighted that this tale has sparked a lively discussion here. I think that there is no contradiction between the apparent extremes in view as presented by Summer and Stevemcqueen. Because I've experienced both sides at different times, with different ladies, and at times even at different times with the same lady. Perhaps you're new to me and my tales, Summer. But I definitely don't see the ladies I meet in person as a commodity, as you seem to have read into my use of the word hobby. I have had the pleasure of having the kind of relationship that you have described in your first post, many times. It doesn't happen with every lady and not even most ladies, as I'm sure you don't make that connection with every client. But it has happened, and frequently. In particular, since I've started to participated in boards with national coverage, I've virtually met many ladies that by dint of geography I'm unlikely to ever meet in person. This still has not prevented us from corresponding and forming friendships. These friendships are blissfully uncomplicated, as there are no expectations on either side, save intellectual stimulation and perhaps a few laughs. It's a little more complicated in person. I'm quite aware these relationships have their boundaries. Sure, we text, we message, we keep in touch in between my trysts and this contact definitely enhances our experiences. Still, it's hard not to feel the subtle weight of expectations, that I should be coming back, that we should be continuing our business relationship. And as well, Stevemcqueen, there have been ladies with whom I suspect that we would never have developed and kept up that correspondence, had there not been a business component in the first place. To be fair, I'm sure that there have been ladies who have wondered whether our correspondence would never have developed had there not been an offer of physical intimacy.

My, all these birthday greetings! Thank you, everyone.

I have a friend, who is really into cars. It's so much more than just a passing avocation for him. His life is wrapped around them. It's his escape from the dry tedium of his day job, his world of spreadsheets, forecasts, and endless emails. I can always count on him to have something new that's he's either driving or fixing up. His tastes run to German sports coupes and every once in a while he's kind enough to let me drive one of his cars. He's a good person to know. But I've noticed a change in my friend, lately. He doesn't seem to talk about his cars as much as he used to. That's okay, we've always talked about our other shared interests too. I razz him about the Jays, in a long running ritual for us. We endlessly debate the merits of craft beers. He helps me when I struggle with my phone, and I help him with his renovations. I asked him about his cars one day. He said he hadn't driven or worked on one of them in weeks. I did notice he was driving his Toyota today, the truck that he used to haul his parts around in. The one that was always running and could be counted on to be reliable, no matter how much abuse he piled on to it. I asked him what was the matter. He just shook his head, took a sip of his pale ale. They just weren't interesting him right now. He was tired of coming home to a dark house, with greasy parts soaking in a black pool of parts cleaner. He was tired of his needy 'children', who always seemed to be needing something, and in some cases, many things. Baby always needs new shoes, don't you know. He said that he was getting tired of spending more money to go a little faster, to go around corners a little quicker. I listened as he talked on and I soon realized why he felt this ennui. The cars filled a hole in his life. But it was a bottomless hole that could never be filled by them, no matter how rare, how powerful, how exotic they were. They were great fun and a marvelous distraction, but there was one huge shortcoming to even the best of them. They could never love him back. He and I are great friends, and have been for years. But I've never told him about this one particular hobby of mine. One that ranged to collecting experiences with the beautiful, the witty, the utterly charming. I enjoy those sorties greatly. But like him, I too had stepped back a little bit. He lived for the ripping-silk snarl of the exhaust, the shove in the small of his back as the cars launched themselves from a standing start. I long for a skilled tongue in my mouth, a gentle touch, smooth taut skin under my fingers as we pant, eyes closed. But if there's one thing our hobbies have in common, it's that once he steps out of the car, once I leave her bed to get dressed, our times are over. All we're left with is the memories. One last look back, and we're out the door. The garage door for him, the bed room door for me. At one time, too, I tried to fill a hole in my life with my hobby. And like he will come to discover, I found that that hole couldn't be filled that way. I came to learn that you can buy someone's attention, you can pay someone to do things with you and to you. But you can't buy someone's respect. You can't pay anyone to truly love you, and for that reason, those things are truly priceless. I've found that the emptiness was best filled with friends, with family. With new experiences. With travel. Because the life that is lived best is the one that is lived well. I listened as he talked about his car fatigue. I changed the subject, or so he thought. The Vikings were going to be playing the Bears in Minneapolis. Why don't we take a road trip? We could pay too much for scalped tickets. We could eat some wonderful, awful greasy food. And afterwards, we could either celebrate or drown our sorrows at our favorite bar on Nicollet Mall. His eyes lit up. He thought he could take the time off of work. We made plans. The road waits for us, sinuously, black, stretching off to the horizon. The road, like life, is best traveled when you're on it, fence posts whizzing past. It's such a cliche, but it's so true. Life is most enjoyed when it's seen as journey, not a destination.

Thanks, everyone. I had a very very nice day, with lots of time with my favorite lady. It was a very good birthday indeed.

Thanks, guys. It felt good to write this story. It felt like home.

My, I see what passes for acceptable comportment has changed around here.

It's been a really long time. I wasn't really sure that I had any more of these left in me, for it seemed like I'd already said everything that I could say over the years. But recently I found new inspiration and the rest was history. I hope you enjoy it. bb --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The hotel doors open with a whoosh, and I step outside. The air is crisp, this late summer evening. It's going to be dark soon. But in the twilight I can still see the leaves, starting to turn yellow. It'll be winter all too soon, I'm afraid. But the thought of another frigid Winnipeg winter is the last thing on my mind this evening. For you see, I've just left her hotel room. I have a spring in my step and a smile on my face. I'm almost about to bust out and whistle a tune. Maybe it's a dark cool almost fall evening all around me, but in my mind it's a sunny and warm spring day, full of promise. She makes me happy. Really, really happy. Sometimes it feels like my heart is going to burst. But I know feeling this wonderful is a little bit wrong, in this crazy hobby I have. I have to rein my feelings in. I have to keep my perspective. I have to not obsess over her. I need to keep things light when I'm with her. Or, at least I tell myself that every time I go see her. But as soon as I enter her door, she always draws me close enough for me to smell her faint perfume. She kisses me as if I haven't seen her in months, although it's never been long. She asks how I've been and listens carefully. I know she remembers our talks and it seems like she remembers everything we say. She acts like an old friend, a dear friend, which I guess is what she's become to me. But wait. There's more, as they say in the commercials. She then brings me even closer. Finally we're skin to skin, and our tongues do their familiar slow tango. She brings me inside her. Words fall away then for both of us. Her eyes are half closed and unseeing. Her breath becomes shallow and rapid. Her face flushes, her pulse quickens. She's enjoying this as much as I am. I've always hated it when the ladies fake those last frenzied few minutes. I wish that they all could be honest about this. My ego is not so fragile that it would be shattered by knowing that I didn't make the lady cum. But I know why they do this. It's just another little stroke of the ego, another little part of the business, a little flourish to make your time a little more enjoyable. She never fakes it with me. I can tell. Or perhaps I'm a willing participant in my delusion. But I don't think so. Still, I might well be the second, or third, or more man to cross her doorstep today. I don't really want to know. But it seems so hard to believe that this happens with all of them. Well, perhaps not quite all, but you know what I mean. Afterwards, we curl up together. We catch our breath. Our skin cools and we whisper our little secrets to each other, as we punctuate our words with little kisses and touches. I know she's well loved, in every sense of the word. The merest mention of her name on the review boards always draws an enthusiastic response. So many of them say the things that I could, and have, said about her. How truly wonderful she is. How she has so much love to give. I truly don't know how she does it. Because this is a business transaction. This is a service, albeit a very personal one. Yet it is much more than that with her, for me. She truly cares. I bask in her warmth every time I see her, which is not nearly as much as I would like to. She gives so much more than she has to. It's not just her body, but her attention, her compassion, her kindness. It seems like she has limitless amounts of love, for me and for all the others. It would be way too easy to fall, and fall hard. But I'm sure that so many others have felt the same way about her that I do. I have to presume she's done many of the same things with them. And knowing that I'm not so special that way helps keep me on the side of the angels. Still, feeling loved is addictive. I completely get that from her. I can get luv any old place, or so it seems. She offers so much more. And knowing that I'm not the only one, not by a long shot, doesn't diminish the feelings I have when I'm with her. She's truly special to me. I get to my car, unlock it and get in. I turn to look up at her room window, and see the light dim. She's back at work already. I grin, and start the car.

Thanks again for the birthday wishes, everyone. It was a quiet birthday this year, but I'm sure I'll make up for it soon.

Thanks for the birthday wishes!

I know her secrets. Oh, not all of them, to be sure. But I know some of her little ones. I know what book she's reading right now, because I saw it on her night table. I know what size clothes she wears and the brands she prefers, because I've glimpsed the labels on her clothes as I've softly, slowly undressed her. I know a few of her bigger secrets. I know where she grew up. I know about the tomboy parts of her life and also the girly girl parts. I know who her idols are. I know about some of the moments that have given her the greatest joy in her life, and I know what are her greatest achievements. But I also know a very few secrets that are bigger yet. I also know about her lowest moments. I know about the most horrible, terrible things in her life. The mistakes that she has made, that will haunt her until her last breath. I know about the horrors she has faced, not only from the evil that she has come across in her life but also from the carelessness and thoughtlessness of others. I know of the things that are never far from her mind, though they she only very rarely speaks of them. She has told her deepest secrets to me, of her own free will. She's whispered them to me as we lay in her bed, in each others' arms. She's told them to me without my even asking. I like that when she's with me, she gives me her all. And I know she likes that I give back, and that I give as good as I get. For you see, she knows my secrets too. And I love that in telling her my greatest triumphs and my deepest secrets, far from driving her to a distance, it's made her want to bring me nearer. I'm not going to tell you what her secrets are. You see, I tell you this, and it's not because I want to tell you that I know something that you probably don't. It's because I want to tell you about my own secret joy that she has trusted me as much as she has. I love that she has treated me as a true lover, and not just as a business acquaintance. Although I know all too well that I'm neither, but I'm at a place in that shadowy no-man's land somewhere in between. You see, even though I know all these secrets, I don't know the most public thing of all about her. I don't even know her name. Her real name. And she doesn't know mine. But I do know that there's truly only room for one man in her life. And I've tasted the bitter-sweetness of knowing that I'm not him. He's a lucky man, although perhaps he doesn't truly realize it. Or so I've gathered. Or perhaps I'd just hoped. The world outside is lost to us, when we're together. But the world comes flooding back, and then some, once I step out her door. So we'll go on, she and I. We'll go on in this hopeless semi-romance. Our hearts blossom when we're with each other. We're lovers, truly, for an all too short time. And that is our one shared secret. And it's the only one I'll tell you today, my friends. Additional Comments: Well, that was quick. Thanks, Midnite!

Most years I write a tale for the holiday season, and this year is no exception. I hope you folks enjoy it. Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, and all my best wishes for your holidays no matter what beliefs you hold. bb ........................................................................................................................-- The snow crunched underneath my boots and my breath trailed behind me as I walked away from my car. It's only a short walk over to her place. The time will give me a few minutes to relax and burn off a little nervous energy before I see her. I pull my gloves on and turn my collar up against the cold. It's always an occasion to see her. It's almost like the first time, every time. I chuckled to myself. I guess it is the first time, every time, for her. I got my first inkling of that, that very first time I saw her. She asked me what I'd like to wear, and I'd asked for an outfit out of the few that she suggested. I got there and she was running a little late, the time had gotten away from her. When I walked through her door, she wore a sexy outfit that I definitely appreciated, but it wasn't what we talked about. But no matter, clothes are just the wrapping on the present. I kissed her then. Softly, sensually. I slipped my fingers behind her and caressed the back of her neck. She breathed deeply and luxuriated in our kiss before pulling away and looking at me in wonder. She does this every time. I kiss her and she always looks at me with surprise, that I know exactly how she likes to be kissed. Why, I should know by now. She always asks me how I am, how my day went, in the light conversation of strangers. And though I actually know quite a bit about her by now, I don't let on because I don't want to make her feel uneasy. She never recalls that she's told me about her life, her mother, her little dog from when she was 12. No, I'm a stranger to her every time. But I like to think I'm a wonderful stranger every time. I guess it's true that she never really remembers what I like most, and that's too bad. But I know just what she likes, and I serve it up wrapped in the mystery that only a complete stranger can provide. We are reborn every time I cross her threshold. She gives her all to me every time. She truly lives in the moment, and lives and loves like there's no tomorrow. That's what keeps me coming back. Yet she always looks up at me in amazement and wonder, that I can satisfy her like I know just what she wants. We'll talk about the outfit she'll wear for me next time, the naughty things we'll do when I come by next. I just smile and nod. Because, you never know. These things just might happen, if only by chance. I'll leave her bed today, and she'll ask me misty-eyed if I would come by again. And I always say yes, and for only a moment I'll give myself the luxury of hoping that she'll remember me. I guess maybe she does remember me, just a little, on some level. Because she's always there, ready and on time. She never passes up a chance to have me come by and she never forgets our dates, even if I know she doesn't really know why she does. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise to her. She'll never remember the rude, the cruel. She'll never remember the smelly, the unpleasant. But unfortunately, it also means she never really remembers me. I reach into my coat pocket, and feel the small box wrapped in red and green sparkly paper. It's just a little something for her, from one of those trendy shops in the Village. It's a necklace with a little bird pendant. It's just a little bauble in my namesake. The bird holds a tiny gem in its beak, and the gem is in her favorite color. I know she'll ask me how I know it's exactly what she likes, and I'll just shrug and smile. I'll let her unwrap my gift, and then I'll put the necklace on her. Perhaps she'll touch it or see it in the mirror later, and remember me. Perhaps. I'm almost at her door. I see children playing, and I glance over to listen to their laughter. They're making snow angels. I smile at the sight, and keep walking. I'm going to meet a snow angel of my own, soon. We'll frolic, laugh, have fun. In our spirits, we'll make our mark in the snow, echoes of the heaven that we glimpse. And I'll get up and leave, and our figurative angels will fill in and drift over. Our impressions in time and memory will be quickly lost, under a blank slate of pure white. I'll be forgotten all too soon, not long after I leave. But she'll remember me just enough to make it to our date, the next time. And knowing that is her gift to me. My footsteps crunch as I walk up to her door and knock.

A big thank you Meaghan, all the way from the Prairies to the Maritimes. :)

Why thank you, Vitto. I'm glad you enjoyed it....

Thanks again for the birthday wishes, everyone. It was a quiet night, but I do have a very special lady in my sights for not too long away. The joys are oh so much sweeter when you have something them to look forward to.

Thanks for the birthday wishes, everyone! I don't have any sexy fun planned, but the night is young.... I know it's my birthday, but I have a present for all of you. I hope you enjoy it.

I'm appreciative of all the praise I receive, but your post especially delights and tickles me, Ksenia. This is high praise indeed, and posts like this makes all the effort worthwhile. Thank you, most humbly, most sincerely.

Thanks for all the very kind words, everyone. I'm very definitely looking forward to!

To hear them tell it, this hobby is a simple exchange for services. Nothing more, and most certainly nothing less. It's a hard old world out there. The old timers tell me, there will be some who are just out to take your money. Try and bleed you dry at the slightest sign of weakness or vulnerability, and try and return as little as possible. I listen to the locker room bravado, a slight smile on my face. I guess I can consider myself an old timer too, after all these years. I think, not so much of their words, but of what path in this life has gotten them to this place. I wonder if they have been hurt. I wonder why their words are so bitter. Because to believe that that's all that makes up this world is to deny the existence of the magic that surrounds us every single moment. Yes, I believe that there are ladies who as the song says, will "steal your money and break your heart". But that's not the whole story, any more than saying that my little city is cold and snow covered perpetually and year-round, an overcast sky blocking the sun, heat and light from my little corner of the Canadian prairie. You see, I've often been the grateful recipient of unspeakable kindness and generosity. Ladies who have given their all to me, given much more than they had to. They gave their bodies to be sure, because that's the bargain. But they also cared more than they had to, shared a little more of their souls than was absolutely necessary. I can only wonder why when I get told that I'm so nice to them, because all I do is treat the ladies I see with respect. I just treat them like the human beings that they are. I try and keep that sense of wonder in this world. I try not to get frustrated, I try not to get bitter. I must confess, I don't always succeed the odd dark day. But for the most part, I still do. I still see the magic, the little miracles that are easy to overlook. Here is a case in point. I will soon meet a lady who is almost legendary. I've been following her for a long time, wondering what it would be like to meet her, what would happen once the doors closed behind us and we were all alone. I feel elated by the anticipation I feel, the excitement, the tingle every time I imagine her touch. I want to scream from the rooftops that we are meeting, I want to write and tell her how thrilled I am. But I don't. I don't want to brag that I'm going to be seeing her, because there's no point. Anyone else who is reasonably civil can get to meet her, and I know that there's been a long, long line before me who already have. And I'm not going to contact her, for no good reason. It's mostly because I don't want to distract her from her busy life, and also because I don't want her to think that I'm needy before we even are face to face. But it's also because I want to sustain that wonder just a little longer, hold that sweet anticipation. I close my eyes and imagine that first moment when we touch, of my lips brushing against hers. I can feel the delicate skin of the nape of her neck underneath my fingertips as the tip of my tongue touches hers. I dream of taking my time, my lips and fingers telegraphing their own wordless welcome as I slowly, deliberately undress her. I want to savor every moment, explore every little out of the way place on that exquisite body of hers. I want to make her gasp, as I stroke and kiss the parts that many others have overlooked in their haste to their own happy endings. I want to give. I long to see the delight in her eyes when she has her own release, because I know that there comes a point when my pleasure and her pleasure become indistinguishable. I know I'll see the gratitude in her eyes, and that makes me happy. Why do I bother? It's because I know what she knows, that all guys aren't out to get as much as they can. To get off, get out, leave nothing behind but their envelopes and a deflated glove. To have shared nothing of themselves. To slip out silently, without so much as a goodbye. I could do this, of course. But I won't. To deny that human contact, that gentle and caring touch, is to deny that there is anything more than those frantic moments before, during, and after that final release. It's to deny that there is any emotion in this odd little hobby of mine. It's to deny that there are other sensual pleasures that are out there, to be savored, other than that most obvious one. But ultimately, it's denying our humanity itself. And I don't want to do that.

There is this lady who's been on my mind lately. I think about her from time to time, when I'm not preoccupied by the madness that is my life, that crazy maelstrom of events and circumstances. I remember her for that incredible time we shared, and it never fails to bring a smile to my face. I remember that first soft kiss, tentative, gentle, yet gingerly probing. I felt her melt into my arms with my faint kisses on her neck, the tender brush of my lips over her ear. I could feel the tension build beneath her soft skin as I stroked her bare shoulders, kissed her neck, her collarbone, the deep cleave between her breasts as I eased off her light dress. And when I took one of her nipples between my lips, she let out a deep sigh. It was a paradox, that my gentle ways could rouse such passion from her. For unknown to me, she had taken her own hiatus from this life. Her pent-up passion had been unleashed, now that she had a willing playmate. She pushed me onto the nearby bed and pulled frantically at my belt. I reached down to help and she slapped my hands away, almost tearing the zipper of my jeans as she yanked the pull down. She tore at my boxer briefs and I heard the rip as a few threads gave way, but I didn't have long to think about it before she lunged at my cock, thrusting it into her mouth and down her throat. She held me there deeply for a moment, looking up briefly to see my reaction. I could only smile stupidly. She had my full approval. She was gentle again now, pulling my cock deep down her throat. Slowly. Millimeter by millimeter. I felt the warm slippery pink dampness grip firmly but slowly, again and again. I didn't last long. I let loose deep in her throat as her arms pulled me tighter around my hips, just so I wouldn't get away. As if. I lay there panting for a moment, my eyes wide open. I wasn't expecting that, from this intimate stranger. I caught my breath and she nestled beside me, clearly relishing the fruits of a job very well done. Our sweaty bodies stuck slightly as I moved to kiss her, and I tasted my briny muskiness. It was time to get comfortable. We weren't going anywhere for a while. I pulled my shirt over my head, not bothering to unbutton it, and dropped it on the floor. I slipped off my jeans before slipping her dress over her head and those tiny panties down off of her. It was time for quid pro quo. I wordlessly knelt between her knees and brushed my lips up the insides of her thighs. First one, then the other, as I worked my way slowly up. I reached my goal, my Venus on the half-shell, my primordial cradle of all life. I slowly opened my lips and my tongue softly brushed. She was soaked. She was warm. She was briny and tasty and I wanted to dive right in to that blood-warm pool. But I settled for savoring her touch, her tastes, her moans and her writhing. I kept on keeping on, my touches becoming even lighter as she froze in ecstacy, face grimacing again and again and again. I looked up and her eyes were wide open and unseeing, her breath loud and deep. All I could do was smile. I'd been there. I'd been there only moments ago. The night was young. We had the time to take it slow. But I didn't want to wait anymore. My time for being gentle was gone. I moved up and took her wrists into my hands and held them above her head, pinning her down helplessly as I pushed my cock into her red-hot center with one forceful stroke. She twisted, she bucked. But she wasn't struggling to get away. Oh, no. Her legs locked together behind my back, pulling me deeper, keeping me from getting away. As if. I thrust deeply. I thrust hard. I thrust for a good long time as she moaned, she whispered, she begged for mercy. Oh, I would give her mercy. I would give her mercy when I was done. And speaking of, I was nearly there. I felt the explosion within me. I saw stars. I felt pulses pump my essence into her. Ah, were it not for the thinnest of elastic skin my wetness would mix with hers, make our timeless merge of flesh fully complete. Pity. I held her and I was that gentleman again. The man who had knocked on her door, the man who had genteelly sipped at her proffered herbal tea. I held her and we whispered our little secrets to each other and I softly stroked her cooling skin. Yes, I smile to think of that night, not so long ago. But it gives me a bigger smile today, to know that I'm about to write her, ask when I can come by again. I like to think she'll be surprised to hear from me. But somehow I don't think she will be.

Thanks, everyone. It feels good to post this story.