GIRL 71
GROUPIE GIRL
I was at my partner’s office in Morris Plains, where the conference room windows overlook a broad view of eastern New Jersey. For those of you who don’t live here, don’t take your impressions of Jersey from the Sopranos. It’s a gigantic forest. West of the city, there are rolling hills, and though it’s heavily populated, it mixes rural and suburban for a beautiful effect. I’m no fan of the traffic, but this isn’t L.A. traffic. As I once told my pal Ashley, New Jersey is just as beautiful as Connecticut. In fact, we’re three neutron bombs away from being Connecticut (Trenton, Camden and Newark). Although, since I first said that, Trenton is no longer the bombed-out inner city it once was. The regentrification has taken over. Real estate is too expensive to let rot. So we could actually save the other two nuclear weapons and wait for demolition and rebuilding in Camden and Newark, and viola, Connecticut.
Anyway, as I checked my email before packing the briefcase, the email from my chief of staff for my author website wrote in. Tim’s an old fan of all the books, and he and my webmaster put up a fan club for me as a location in the website.
So when I got a personal email to my author website email address, Tim shipped it over to my personal email address.
She said she remembered me from a previous correspondence, but we’d lost touch (translation – she’d “flaked” or disappeared in the middle of an email flirtation). Now she wanted to reestablish communication (translation – the guy I blew you off to and that she and I had corresponded. That’s what the words said. The translation was, I’m a slut.
I replied, and remembered that this was a woman I’d given the essay version of the slut quiz to. In this test, you have to answer questions like, “describe the last thing you inserted into your vagina,” and “what’s the wildest fantasy you’ve ever had” and “how many of your own fingers have you been able to get into your asshole?” There’s no doubt that a woman can make a man’s cock quiver with an imaginative answer to questions like that. Groupie Girl – who hated her nickname – made me go beyond a quiver, she practically put me into a fever.
The first night she came over, I was of two minds. She was slutty, blonde, tall, thin and cute, but she was still not my type. It’s difficult to describe, but the science of attraction is a strange thing. There were little things that disqualified her. I once tried to analyze this, and the best I could come up with is that I discerned three flavors of chemistry.
Romantic chemistry. You get the visual part first, and it’s based on conventional beauty. Vogue magazine type looks. Further in, you get the feel for personality and the woman’s heart.
Sexual chemistry. Again, visual comes first, and it’s based on raw sexiness. Big tits, long legs and curvy ass are only part of it. The hair and face are important, and one thing that fascinates me is that a woman can be ugly measured by conventional beauty but intensely sexually attractive. Sometimes a woman can be too pretty (romantic chemistry) to be sexy (sexual chemistry). Sometimes a woman is too blantantly sexual (sexual chemistry) to be beautiful (romantic chemistry).
You seek the intersection of romantic and sexual chemistry. My example is Girl 6, the lovely Alayna. She was tall, blonde, thin with gorgeous fake boobs. She had lovely facial bone structure. She had movie star teeth and thousand watt smiles. But she was far from a runway model. There were no beauty defects visible to my eyes – which are fatal for the long term – but her face departed from conventional beauty. Girl 6 had a nose that looked straight out of a cheap nose job plastic surgeon’s residency period, and at first I put up with it and considered it “cute” rather than beautiful, until I saw the exact same nose on two of her daughters. She also had eyes that had a funny shape, they sort of drooped as if she needed a lift. Later, I came to love her so much that I adored those eyes and their drooping shape, and again I saw those same eyes in her daughter’s face. Further on, I learned that Girl 6 was a plastic surgery maven, and had every flaw fixed, so that the two I’d identified she saw as a trademark. When she told me that they were taking fat out of her butt to inject in the lines of either side of her nose, I’d been disappointed. She laughed, because the doctors couldn’t find any fat on her ass. They had to go to one place on her inner thigh. Overall, there was a certain sexual roughness to Girl 6, and I loved that. She was gorgeous to me, but she also seemed just a bit, I don’t know, slutty, the kind of woman who would tell your mother in the kitchen that she loved to swallow cum.
Groupie Girl was all about the sexual chemistry but lacked the romantic. She was too rough in that way. I couldn’t imagine ever giving her flowers. Don’t get the impression that she wasn’t pretty enough for me. She was beautiful, but in a different way that my wiring was set up to perceive.
On our first date, I met her at the bar of City Streets. I laughed with her about the knee test I’d given Girl 37, Banker Sweat Girl. Groupie Girl said, “give me the knee test.” So I ran my hand from her knee a few inches to her inner thigh. She put her hand on mine and shoved it all the way to her crotch and shut her eyes in pleasure when I massaged her pussy. I was two scotches in, and the manager had to come over and tell us to get a room.
So I took her to the Snake Ranch and without even a thought that she’d say no, pulled off her clothes and fucked her.
The difference between a woman with whom you have sexual chemistry and one where you have both sexual and romantic chemistry is that when you just have the sexual, when the fucking is done, you want her to leave. Groupie Girl did the first night.
After that, we used each other for sex. But with her, I didn’t want the conventional. I could get pussy with anyone. I wanted kinky stuff. The stuff I thought idly about but had never acted on. I wanted anal. I wanted handcuffs. I wanted vibrators and toys. I wanted paddles. I wanted an orgy. I wanted to tie her up, and then I wanted to relinquish control and be tied up. There was spanking a-plenty with Groupie Girl. I guess I let it out a bit too much though, when I was tied up face down and she was alternately thwacking me with a leather strap and using a feather duster on me. She was actually on the phone with her mother when she decided to use the other end of the feather duster on me. I’m sure my eyes were popping out when I felt the handle of it shoved slowly, sensuously, eight inches up my ass. And there’s Groupie Girl, chatting away on the phone with her mother while buttfucking me with a feather duster. She left it in me while she went searching for the spatula with the bulbous handle and the long-handled flashlight. She made me stand up in front of her as she sat naked on her leather couch and she deep-throated me as she jammed the spatula into me. I think I came a gallon into her mouth that night, and she sucked it and swallowed it hungrily, sucking hard, then gentle. She kept my cock in her mouth until it shrank, then licked it and kissed it as she pulled the kitchen implement out of me. She looked up at me. There’s no one like you, she said. I love having sex with you.
For the next week, it hurt to shit. But that’s not the reason I let it wither with Groupie Girl. I’d had some of the same kind of playing with Girl 6, Alayna, and a little of it with Girl 51, Export Girl, probably because with those two women, we fucked so much that we got bored with the conventional and went further into the kinky side. But though I’d liked that kinkiness, my liking it freaked me out, and even today I wonder whether that contributed to those relationships ending.
I think I let Groupie Girl go on to greener pastures because with her, the kinkiness was all there was, and I think I was afraid of where it would lead. With her, I felt like I stood on a trap door.
I didn’t want that for myself, to fall into a sexual existence that was all about orgies and handcuffs and leather and chains and sex clubs and a revolving door of weird partners, none of whom offered any connection. I knew that it could be in my future, and all the meaningless sex I’d had was taking me in that direction.
I reviewed in my mind all the playing I’d done. The sex, I told myself, wasn’t just about feeding my lust. It was about healing. Girl 6 had cut me open. The story after that was about trying to stop my bleeding.
One woman I’d progressed from email to phone conversations, but who dumped me before the first date, said in her British accent, “Michael, you’re a Land Rover, going from vagina to vagina.” That was her reason why she wouldn’t see me.
I rebelled at the thought. This wasn’t about piling up as many pussy conquests as possible. It was about finding love. I had loved Alayna. I felt her ripped away from me. I could love a woman again.
There was good news here. I was turning away from the pure sexual play and getting prepared for an actual relationship again.
Girl 69, Rocket Scientist Girl, and Girl 70, Underwater Girl, each proved that I was ready for a girlfriend, but that I wasn’t searching for quite the right thing in one, or that I was searching the wrong way. But with each mini-relationship, I was getting closer.
The Girl was out there, I knew it. I just needed to widen my awareness. I’d find her soon.
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