GIRL 34
SOUTHERN VETERINARIAN GIRL
It was the picture of her in the Daisy Dukes, the willowy thin gorgeous
body. She had this fascinating youthful yet gracefully aged look. I
think the signs of a woman's age can be incredibly sexy. I always liked
laugh lines. The things that females hate about themselves are so often
not mirrored in male sentiment. Another thing is gray hair. This woman
had a head of streaked blonde and gray hair, and while some men would
want it dyed, I liked it. I liked her exactly the way she was.
I found her days after I first signed onto Match in spring, 2004. I hit
on her, to no avail. I sent her an erotic poem. Works every time. She
wrote back. She worked as a vet at a large animal clinic at Penn, and
was from Charleston, South Carolina. I have a lot in common with the
non-Jersey natives, having arrived her from Colorado and Kentucky, and
I've always loved the Southern girls. There's nothing like a sweet
molasses accent and the Southern female adoration of men that just
makes life complete. For no reason, I gave her a nickname - Sugarplum.
Somehow, calling her Southern Veterinarian Girl was too much of a
mouthful. She liked the nickname, for a week writing me, signing only
"Always, Sugarplum." Of course, the large animal doctor career allowed
for crude jokes about horse penises, but she had a good sense of humor,
surprising me with her own horse cock joke. Cute, Southern and
comfortable with sexuality, I thought. Perfect.
At the time, the one profile lie I had was that I was divorced instead
of separated. Okay, two lies, I still had some divorce trauma fat to
lose yet listed myself as athletic. Within a few months, both profile
lies stopped being lies, but Southern Veterinarian Girl freaked out in
our second email volley when I said I was recently separated. She told
me she didn't play with separated men, and typed "Good-bye, Sugarplum."
I didn't like the rejection, but if you're a male and play on Match dot
com, searching for eligible bachelorettes is like searching the sky for
airplanes - and the sky itself is rejection. I quickly got used to it,
realized that love is a numbers game, and that if I were to be
presented to a hundred women, ninety-eight would find a reason not to
like me. One of the remaining two would keep searching. I wanted the
one who stopped, stunned, and said, this is the guy.
Time passed. Girl 6 roared into my life, causing massive internal
bleeding and leaving me for dead. Emotionally, anyway. It took months,
perhaps even a year, to pick myself up off the pavement, all the while
wondering about the truck that hit me. Eventually my traitorous penis,
Tyrannosaurus Rex, won the battle over who would select the candidates
for The Girl, but the more females I auditioned, the more my
ill-at-ease soul kept me from connecting to any of them. Girl 29
arrived on-scene, and for the moment it appeared that all was well, but
almost immediately we fought and came apart. In grief, I was doing a
search, beginning to lose heart that there was someone out there. And
then there she was. Sugarplum. All slender and gorgeous in her Daisy
Dukes, the added photo of her against the red background in a stunning
dress, pointing playfully at the camera. I was captivated.
I wrote her the predictable email. "Dear Sugarplum, I am now officially
divorced. I will email you the decree if you wish. So, are you in love
with me now?"
She arrived at the Princeton Triumph Brew Pub looking as glamorous as she had in the Match photos, but there was something missing. Our only phone conversation was brief - "Brew Pub's on Nassau Street, and I'll meet you at the lower bar." In person, there was no Southern accent. Not a trace of it. What's up with that, I asked. In careful, slow, flat New Jersey cadence, she replied that her speech had been so thick with a South Carolina accent that she had gone to speech therapy for years to get rid of it. Oh dear God, I thought, speech therapy to rid oneself of a Southern accent is like a woman getting breast reduction surgery. The second thing that seemed to be missing was that sexuality I thought I'd sensed in all the joking we'd done about animal genitals. Sugarplum, in person, was as upstanding as an eighty year old church lady. There was not a hint of sexuality there.
I was polite to her and shook her hand at the door. She wanted to walk herself to her car. She probably had had a bad experience with men, I thought. The prohibition on walking her to the car I'd seen once before, in a rape victim. That and her feelings about dating separated men seemed to add up to a woman who felt threatened by men. I shrugged it off and mentally dismissed her. She ceased to exist in my mind as a viable candidate for any kind of dalliance.
It didn't even occur to me to call her, write her or think about her. I'd auditioned her. She'd failed.
Then she started pursuing me. Instant messages. Emails. Phone calls, most of which I refused to answer, but then she'd leave sweet voice mails. I made a decision. Find out if there were a slut underneath that church lady exterior. If so, give her a horizontal audition. If not, let her go.
This was the woman who changed my view about sluts. I always thought that slut-detection would be easy. Something would give them away. With Sugarplum, other than the animal penis jokes, there was not a hint of sexuality. I had formed the opinion that I was wrong, that the horse cock jokes were just part of her world, and meant nothing sexually. I wasn't sure whether to be tactful or crude. I waited till her next phonecall. This one I answered.
"Sugarplum, I have a theory about you," I began.
"What is it?" That same flat, accentless, vanilla speech. She could have been speaking as the spokeswoman for Penn Large Animal Hospital.
"I believe you're a slut. I believe you like being tied up and fucked hard. I also believe you enjoy tying the man up and doing unmentionable things to him."
I'm not sure why I went the bondage route. With Girl 5, I had accused her of orgy sex, accurately as it turned out. With Sugarplum, I dived into bondage. I just had this flash of an image in my mind of her tied up, duct tape on her mouth, an angelic look of ecstasy on her face.
There was a long pause. Then she coughed. When she spoke, her voice was quieter.
"How did you know?"
That kicked off phase 2 of Sugarplum. Our second date was supposed to be a quick, light dinner and then a race to the Snake Ranch (official U.S. Navy term for bachelor pad, probably from all the lonely "snakes" in the inhabitants' boxer shorts) for a good, hard, long fucking session.
But dinner went bad. She began to tell a story that shocked and disgusted me. It went like this:
· She cheated on her husband.
· He was gay and couldn't satisfy her.
· She had a child.
· It wasn't her husband's.
· She sued him for divorce and child support.
· When the child was 3, she told him the boy wasn't his.
· He had an opportunity to disown the child and prove the boy wasn't his.
· He chose to remain a father to the child.
· He remarried a lesbian. Their relationship is one of convenience. The new wife sees women. He sees men. He has visitation. The boy likes the new wife and the wife's girlfriend and his father's boyfriend.
· Sugarplum was suing him for his being behind on child support.
· He didn't earn much, so child support was pennies.
· He was out of work, behind in child support, and Sugarplum was trying to get a bench warrant for his arrest.
· All for a child that was not his.
I was appalled. Having been sued my share of times for child support, I pointed my fork at Sugarplum and said, "rather than suing him, you should be writing him a check for every penny he paid in support, plus interest. It's not even his child. And you fucking cheated on him, you bitch!"
She got righteously indignant. "He could have ordered the DNA test. He had his chance to deny paternity. He chose not to! He has to pay!"
I shook my head and took a bite of steak, washed it down with scotch and said, "so, here's a guy who is so decent that he decides to remain a father to a child that isn't his, and you punish him by suing him for his miserable child support?"
That was correct, she said, her chin in the air.
You're an asshole, I said. You're a woman with, by your own admission, nearly a half-million in the bank from skillful investments and an inheritance, and you're torturing this man who stepped up and volunteered to be a father to a child you had as a result of a relationship crime, and you have the gall to sue him for support? Women like you should burn in the eighth level of hell with divorce attorneys and marriage counselors.
I shut my mouth and looked at her. For endless seconds she stared back at me. Her eyes were furious at first, but I held her gaze. This was a woman who liked being tied up,I reminded myself. She'd eventually yield to a dominant male. And she did. Her eyes softened, her expression softened, and her eyes shone with the start of tears.
"Does this mean you won't fuck me tonight?" she asked in a little girl's voice.
"Check please!" I said to the waitress.
I should have gone ahead with my original plan. I should have paid up and left without a word. I was going to do just that, but when I stood up from the table, something inside me broke.
"Follow me," I said, a husky arousal in my voice
.
I removed her clothes roughly, nearly ripping the buttons off her blouse. I threw her on the bed and fucked her as hard as I could remember fucking anyone. Her feet were behind her ears as I thrust deeply into her shaved pussy. She was tight and hot and wet, and I could feel her clenching on my cock. Her eyes were shut, her mouth open, slick with saliva, her breathing heavy.
"Have you ever had it up your ass?" I asked her.
Between her gasping breaths, she said, "No."
I didn't request permission. I pulled my wet cock out of her pussy, positioned the head of it at her warm anus, and gently but insistently, relentlessly pressed inward, not stopping until I felt her outer sphincter give way, then her inner, and I kept going until I was in her asshole all the way to my balls. Her eyes were shut in pain or pleasure, I couldn't be sure. I started fucking her, slowly at first, then harder. Her gasps became much louder.
"You like that cock up your ass, bitch?" I asked.
"Oh, God, yes," she said.
I thought I heard the slightest trace of a Southern accent in her voice.
When it was time, I pulled out of her ass, put my cock in front of her face, and furiously stroked myself until I came all over her mouth. She opened her mouth wide, her eyes staring up at me as the cum spurted out all over her face and lips and teeth and tongue. I'd just been in her ass, but I couldn't resist squeezing the last drop of cum into her mouth, then plunging my cock into her mouth all the way to the back of her throat. I kept it there until it got soft, all the while her long fingernails gently stroking my balls and the shaft of my cock. I pulled out and collapsed next to her.
She held my gaze in an intense stare as she slowly, sensuously took her elegant finger and wiped the sticky cum off her face and put it in her mouth, then sucked the cum off it. For two full minutes she ate the cum from her face.
Without a word, she got up from the bed and got dressed. She came over to me, leaned over, and kissed me with a long, slow, wet kiss. I could taste myself in her mouth. It was perhaps the first cummy kiss I'd had with a woman, and I have to admit, it was extremely erotic. I liked it. Against my intentions, my hand rose to stroke her hair, then her face. She looked into my eyes, kissed me one last time, and left.
Over the next days and weeks, she called me dozens of times, always thanking me, then asking if she could see me again.
I never answered the phone.
No comments:
Post a Comment