GIRL 6
ALAYNA
Her name was Alayna. She winked at me on the famous internet dating site on April 8, the
day before my birthday. Her pictures showed a gorgeous, slender woman
who seemed very sexual, a live wire. Right, I thought, those were taken
twenty years ago.
Our emails got intimate and hot almost immediately. But when I called
her, I thought her voice sounded somehow older than her claimed age of
44, which meant those beautiful athletic photos of here were dusty. She
was probably older than me, I thought, beginning to lose interest. I
was on the cell phone while driving my truck through Virginia Beach
traffic, since I was there to see the kids over my birthday. "So, how
recent are your pictures?" I asked. She replied in her Chicago accent
-- odd that she claimed she was from Los Angeles, California. "About
two months, I suppose." I had to swerve suddenly, because I had somehow
gone into a romantic, erotic fantasy, my mind racing to see how I could
get this woman on a date.
I was too new to adult dating, and I made a cardinal mistake. We both
poured our loneliness and sexual desires into our emails and phone
calls as we waited to get together, and we overheated. We only had two
possible futures: A disaster in which one or both of us didn't like the
other, or a deep love affair. I arranged our first date at a Central
Park hotel suite, not because I wanted to impress her, but because she
was staying at her ex’s apartment, where he stayed during the week in
the city. On weekends, he would camp out at the marital residence and
visit the children while she hung in Manhattan.
I
was nervous before she showed up. I had done everything in my power to
look good for the woman – working out like a prize fighter for weeks,
and shoring up my insecurities with a new prescription for Viagra. I
tossed down a shot of bourbon as I waited for her, and made sure the
wine I’d brought was ready to open. I paced the room as the hour
approached. The door was slightly ajar. When I heard a double knock my
stomach flipped, and I heard her voice for the first time in real life,
not through a cell phone connection, and unlike the scratchiness of her
phone voice, in person she sounded musical.
She wore a black pantsuit that revealed her tanned, toned stomach. Her
hair blew in the breeze of her passage. She walked right up to me and
kissed me. I didn't know whether to kiss her back or push her far away
enough that I could just drink in her looks.
I poured her a glass of wine but we barely drank it. I couldn’t keep my
hands off her. On impulse I opened her belt, unzipped her tight pants
and pulled them off. She laughed and chided me for not taking her top
off first, then pulled it off herself and revealed the most perfect
boobs I had seen since submarine school, over twenty years ago.
I lay her body on the bed, put one knee by her inner thigh, and touched
her gently with my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, who was so hard
he was practically a periscope. I moved him toward the hot, wet opening
of her gorgeous shaved pussy. I felt her moan, and slowly, sensuously,
I plunged deeply into her and felt her body clench around me.
I cradled her head in my hands, her blonde hair falling on the bed like
a halo, and I kissed her, her mouth responding softly and wetly to
mine. I fucked her slowly, then fast and deep, then slowly again, until
she threw me to my back and got on top. She grabbed my raging hard cock
and put it in herself, her eyes shut, an intense expression of ecstasy
on her face, and she rocked back and forth until she came. She
collapsed, but just for a moment, looked at me with mischief in her
eye, and stared rocking again, and as she began building toward a
second orgasm, her cell phone rang with a Sponge Bob Squarepants tune.
I sat half up as she extended her palm to me, then put a finger to her
lips to shush me as she answered the call. I wasn’t sure which was more
astonishing – that she answered her phone during sex, or that her
ringtone was a kids’ cartoon character’s theme music.
"Yes, Dylan," she said, as if she were a lieutenant answering the call
of an admiral. She ran one hand through her tousled but still gorgeous
blonde hair. "Okay. Right. Got it. Bye."
Who was that? I asked. "My ex," she said. "To hell with him. Keep fucking me."
She touched my face and kissed me and made me forget.
As our passion rose, I did something that surprised me. Perhaps it was
because she seemed extraordinarily responsive to me. She gave me every
signal that she thought that anything I wanted from her, anything at
all, she would be thrilled to give me. I swept my mind through my past,
and though I knew women who had done that before, I had never liked the
ones who did. Not like her. Not like Alayna.
She waited with her cheek on the sheet, her knees drawn up to her
breasts, her long fingers lightly stroking her own buttocks. I licked
my index finger, slowly circled the asterisk of her anus, then slowly
plunged it into her ass. Part of me waited for her to protest, but she
tilted her ass up even higher. I put one hand on my cock, one on her
ass, spread her ass cheeks, put the head of my cock on her puckered
anus, and listened. She made a happy sound, a sort "ummmmmmm" and
smiled. She'd just invited me to take her anally.
I pushed my cock slowly, carefully into her, but I could have just
rammed her. She opened up for me completely, and I started fucking her
ass, and within two minutes she came in the hardest, most frantic
orgasm I had ever witnessed in my life. When I pulled out, I cleaned
off my cock and asked her to put her head in my lap.
At that point I couldn't seem to cum inside her. I didn't want to make
the encounter uncomfortable for her, so I lay on my back and touched
myself. I could see the back of her head and I felt her hot breath on
my cock, and then her tongue, and just a bare sensation of her lips,
and then I exploded all over her face. She licked me slowly, and lapped
up every drop of me, and when she was done, she did something no one
had ever done. She kissed me. I could taste myself in her mouth, and it
was so erotic it got me going again. I flipped her onto her back and
sucked her pussy until she came, and then I did something I'd never
done before -- I gave it to her with my mouth a second time. That, I
thought, is what you do when you love a woman.
I fell into a deep sleep, and when I woke, it was dark. She lay asleep,
breathing softly beside me. For almost half an hour I sat up and just
watched her sleep.
* * *
Three years later I rang the doorbell of the massive house she’d won
from her husband in the divorce. She came to the door and kissed me on
the cheek and invited me in. The ice cold beer landed in front of me at
the bar of her kitchen. I smiled at her and we laughed about old times,
old hurts, old pleasures.
It’s a strange feeling to see an ex-girlfriend again, especially if she
is one of the ones who mattered in your life. She looked good and she
was happy, and perhaps most importantly, I could tell that my affair
with her hadn’t led to any permanent damage, and while I thought that
my heart would never heal from having lost her, in point of fact, I was
far better after having moved on from her than I was when I was with
her.
She told me about how she still grieved the man whom she’d loved after
me. I tried to give her some advice, but the lovelorn never really
listen, just as I hadn’t listened to those who tried to help me forget
Alayna.
The course of our affair and its destructive ending – destructive to
both of us – isn’t important to anyone but me, and it has few lessons,
except this one:
No matter how much a love affair hurts you, even if its ending makes
you put a loaded gun in your mouth, three years later you’re right as
rain. You’re different. Scarred, still aching even, but over it. The
human animal is designed to fall deeply in love, but it is also
designed to recover from being in love.
Does that somehow cheapen it? That a man can write love poetry and
nearly drink himself to death over a lost love and then three years
later it is as if she never even kissed him?
Or is it a survival mechanism for the human race, without which we’d all slit our wrists the instant someone we love rejects us?
All I know is, I survived Alayna. Am I the better for having loved her?
At least she proved that after my divorce, I could love a woman and be
loved by one again, and that I could experience the highest highs and
the lowest lows of romance.
I survived Alayna. I’m over Alayna.
But in my bedroom, there is an oil painting I commissioned of her. In the painting, she stands naked, her fabulous breasts exposed, her arms bound by the silk ribbons of her ties to her world, unable or unwilling to come into mine. Her face is serene, and her eyes stare into mine.
The funny thing about that painting? I never look at it. I try to avoid looking at it. Other women have tried to make me take it down. But I won’t. That painting is a monument not to my past or to my pain, but to being over both.
A toast, bartender. To survival. To moving on.
And maybe one last one. To the immortal Alayna.
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