GIRL 69
ROCKET SCIENTIST GIRL
Sometimes the stars and planets line up. Perhaps for your general good. Or for your education. Sometimes you feel the universe’s hands touching you, guiding you, or even pushing you toward or away from something. There is a line from my favorite movie in which George Clooney says, “I followed the currents.” Abandon the rugged American misguided philosophy of “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,” because when you bang your head against a brick wall, you fail to listen to what the universe is telling you. If the door shuts in your face, continue on, because your door is further down the hall. In my life, there are times when I am deliberately more of a hockey puck than a vehicle, and I slide in the direction that the universe’s hockey stick has thrust me.
This time, I was thrust into the arms of a woman I will never forget.
I admit to being sensitive to numerology and symbolism. This woman would be a double symbol. The next number up was 69. This numeral has come to symbolize sex in general, since it was first used to describe mutual and simultaneous oral sex. By the way, this is the only way a particular bitch from my past would suck cock, and she always called it “six nine,” which makes my stomach tense in annoyance whenever I think of it. I no longer sixty-nine anyone. When I’m blown, I want to shut my eyes and enjoy. When I sucking pussy, I want to do it so skillfully that the woman leaves her body and floats in the ether. That said, Girl 69 would have to be a slut, or else there was something wrong with the structure of the universe itself. I trusted the universe. And well I should. So pour yourself a scotch, settle into the club chair, and listen to this tale.
Not only was Girl 69 the next one up, it was coming up on the anniversary of my first date with Girl 6, Alayna. I’d worried about that day. Would I be okay? Would I have found The Girl by then? Obviously not, as the dawn of the day was upon me.
But as I sat at the monitor that Saturday night searching for sluts, the slut hit on me. And she hit hard.
She wasn’t what I would call gorgeous, but she had an elegance about her. That elegance extended to her writing. I threaded into her profile. She was a smarty pants, that was for sure. She was a PhD and an MD. Later I found out that she had two doctorates, one in molecular biology and the other in physics. She was a pathology resident at Penn, and was out to cure cancer. She worked hours that would have put even me in the grave. And, perhaps best of all, she wasn’t American. I say that with mixed emotions. I am a patriot, perhaps a super-patriot, but I am extremely fed up with American culture – or the lack of it. Our strip malls, our McDonalds, our bulging waistlines, our additions to bad television, and our frigid, lying female subculture all make me want to move to Paris. Don’t get me started on New York, LA or Chicago or even Denver or St. Louis. I shake my head at them all and wonder what we’re doing to ourselves. So having a sexual, smart female who wasn’t trained her to keep her knees together and lie her ass off to get a house with a white picket fence – that was a jackpot. She was from somewhere around London, and when I finally spoke to her, her accent was lilting and beautiful.
We had our first fight on the first phone call. I called her the dumbest smart person I know. I also confronted her for dishonesty, since she said she was nonjudgmental, but she was perhaps the biggest snob I’d ever encountered. Neither argument mattered much, except that she wasn’t used to having a guy call her out, nor even try to compete with her mind. She seemed to like that she couldn’t steam roll me with intellect, yet it frustrated her that I was some sort of unconquered cave man.
On our first date, she stood up from her car and I have to say she was lovely and sexual all at once. If you can imagine the overt sexuality of Marilyn Monroe with the brain of Madam Curie, you have a picture of Rocket Scientist Girl. I put my arms around her and gave her the most sexual kiss I was capable of, and her mouth kissed me with equal fervor.
I learned something sexually from our first five minutes. When I kissed Rocket Scientist Girl, her hands were caressing me, each of ten fingers doing something to me. I’d never experienced that before. The most a female would do is run her hand on my back when she kissed me, but Rocket Scientist Girl had one hand on the back of my neck, another on my chest, and as the kiss went on, one hand had moved to my shoulder, the other to the front of my thigh. She even teased at my crotch, just a bit, and a raging hardon formed, as if I wanted to lunge out at her.
We went into the restaurant, Panorama, an Italian place at the foot of Philadelphia’s Ben Franklin Bridge. It was elegant and beautiful, and without doubt the best date I’d had in months. I stared into her eyes as our conversation roved just as her hands had. All to quickly it was late, and I kissed her at her car.
I was dying to fuck her. My traitorous Penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, had taken over the management of the girl and the process. The first thing he did was make a reservation at Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse hotel. A suite. I picked her up that Saturday, in the shark car, an absurdly red Saleen Mustang, which is another story, and took her to the hotel. Once in the suite, I peeled off her clothes. But already there were two alarm bells ringing in my mind. The first was, she didn’t say a word about the car except that when she established her practice, she would be getting a Mercedes convertible. The second was that she didn’t comment on the suite. There was a sort of expectation she had that things would be this perfect.
I guess I was trying to prove things to her. I fault myself for it. But this was already a bad dynamic. I was trying to impress her, and she was trying to seem unimpressed.
At the time, I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about that body of hers and how she kissed me. A woman who kissed that good had to be a dynamite cocksucker. I had to find out, and soon enough I did. She licked the cock from my balls to the mushroom cap, then surrounded me with soft, wet, warm lips and sucked me into her face all the way to the bottom of the shaft. Then back up she went, deep throating me until I wanted to cum in her mouth so hard I’d rupture her eardrums.
I pulled out of her mouth and threw her to the bed and teased her hot, wet opening with my cock, then slowly but firmly plunged deep into her and watched her back arch while her mouth opened into a small “O.” I started fucking her, and once she came on her back, I flipped her onto her knees and fucked her from behind, her perfect puckered asshole begging to be touched, so I plunged first one, then two fingers into her, and her moans grew louder.
I wanted to finish in her mouth. A woman who sucked cock that beautifully had to swallow, I thought, and as if she had read my mind she took over, put me on my back, got between my legs and sucked me in the same exciting way, and I could no longer hold back. I started cumming and cumming and cumming into her eager mouth, and she delightedly sucked down every drop. It was without doubt the best blowjob I’d had since Corvette Girl, and Corvette Girl was born to suck cock.
We had an amazing dinner and returned the suite for more fucking, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms. The next morning, we had another sex fest, after which I took her to brunch and brought her back to her apartment near the campus. In delight we made plans to go away for an entire weekend.
As I drove the car north, back home, I whistled happily. Girl 69 had proved out. The search was over.
She called me then, and I put on my headset. I remember where on I-95 the conversation happened. Her voice was somehow flat. The lilt in her accent was gone.
Did you not have fun? I asked.
“It was fine. It was wonderful,” she lied.
What is it? I pressed her. Was the sex okay?
“I have…” She paused. “Reservations about you.”
Reservations. About me. What are they?
“I don’t know if we should talk about this on the phone.”
Somehow I convinced her.
“I don’t think you like pussy very much,” she finally said.
What?
“You liked my mouth, and you loved my ass, but you just seemed, I don’t know, somehow restless and unsatisfied by my pussy. You never came in it. Just in my mouth. I have to tell you. I don’t think you’re straight.”
There was a long silence on my end. I hadn’t been able to climax in a pussy since the divorce. In fact, the only females I’d actually cum inside had been my wives. It was probably a trust issue. Or perhaps more. It had never bothered Alayna, Girl 6, though she’d loved that one time I came in her asshole, but when I asked if it bothered her she had put her arms around me and said she adored how I was sexually. Girl 29, Separated Mom Girl, had complained. I want you to cum INSIDE me, she’d pouted. You love to wet my face with cum, or spunk down my throat, but you never cum in my pussy. Why is that?
But what the hell would I say to Girl 69?
Wow, I finally said. A bad review. Okay. Listen, you’re probably right. I’m sorry I wasted your time.
I hung up on her and refused to take any more of her calls.
She sent me three and four page emails. She left voice messages that I didn’t listen to. She became a stalker. I shrugged and continued to ignore her. Months later, after finally quieting her pursuit, she returned and asked me to call her. I took the call.
She confessed that she not been truthful about the pussy complaint. She’d just been uncertain and insecure that I hadn’t climaxed with her. Then she said it.
“I wasn’t being truthful with you about you supposedly not liking my pussy. You were so confident and so sure of yourself. I guess I was trying to gain the upper hand. I thought it would work.”
You mean, I said, you were dishonest and tried to manipulate me?
She paused. “Yes, I guess I did. I’m sorry. You were amazing. I’d give my right arm to be with you. I really made a mistake.”
Yes, I said. You did.
I hung up on her one last time.
It doesn’t matter how smart and beautiful and sexy you are if you lack integrity. You can suck cock like a porn star but if you lie to a man, you can’t expect a return phone call.
It had been close. Girl 69 could have gone all the way. But I lived in a life in which I’d been lied to one too many times. I’d rather be alone than with someone like Rocket Scientist Girl. It occurred to me also that a relationship should never be a power struggle.
After Girl 69, I became cynical. What was the use? Women were lying bitches, scratching and clawing for what they wanted, regardless of what damage it did to men, and it didn’t matter what side of the Atlantic they came from, they were a class of organism founded on lies and deceit and manipulation.
I wanted to hope for someone different than her sisters, but I didn’t know how to search for her. I vowed that from that moment on, I would be absolutely honest with every woman who sat down at the table with me, every female who kissed me, every single woman who emailed or instant-messaged me. To every woman, I would be as truthful as I knew how to be, and to hell with consequences. Never again would I try to impress them falsely with flashy cars or expensive hotel suites or $400 dinners. I would be my truest self and try for the best.
When you approach the universe and ask for something, with all your heart laid bare, the universe answers. You either get what you want, or you get an answer that tells you that you must look for something else. But in the case of being granted your wishes, often the answer takes its time arriving.
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