I just received a text message that reads, "I'm horny. Why can't I bang you?"
I need to stop giving my phone number out to young boys I meet.
Last night I went to dinner with an older gentleman who responded to an ad I posted on craigslist seeking a "Daddy type." He is nearly twenty years my senior, which is about as opposite as you can get with my type (I have a penchant for younger men). With this age difference comes success, a family and a paunch. I could do with the two former, but the latter, oh, I don't know. Granted, I'm no tight bodied gym rat myself but I'm still slender and firm. Am I being a picky slut? Well, yes.
He took me to dinner at a lovely restaurant that I'd selected. I was fifteen minutes late and when I arrived, he was perched at the bar, sipping an old fashioned (yes, I realize the humor in that). I ordered a cocktail, settled onto a bar stool beside him and kissed him politely on the cheek. He looked considerably older than the photographs he'd sent me via email: fine lines radiated around his bright blue eyes. I wondered if perhaps he'd subtracted a decade from the age he gave me.
The conversation was easy and pleasant; laughter came easily. The host eventually seated us in the back of the restaurant, where we tucked into a comfortable corner banquette. A couple seated in our sight line gave us a curious look, perhaps amused by the age difference between us, or the fact that a business suited man was dining with a younger woman dressed like a teenager, and I was most obviously not his daughter.
Loosened by my drink, I found myself drawn to him despite his age and physique. He was, after all, intelligent, kind and sweet. Who was I to be judgmental? Wasn't I seeking exactly just that in someone?
In between courses, he would lean closer and tell me just how beautiful I was, and that I smelled wonderful. I did catch him peering down the neckline of my dress, but since I'd purposely worn something low cut, his action wasn't unwarranted. "Daddy, you are so good to me," I sighed when he put his arm around me to draw him closer. I could feel my dress riding up, exposing my bare thighs. His hand slipped up between my legs to burrow beneath my black cotton panties.
"You're dripping wet," he observed, retrieving a finger to suckle on it while smiling at me.
My body was betraying my mind! I excused myself to the restroom where I attempted to regain my composure. A brief glance in the mirror revealed I was flushed from the alcohol. Or was it excitement? I'm not sure what possessed me to do this, but I quickly slid off my underwear, bunching it into my fist, and returned to the table.
"This is for you," I smiled, pressing the black swatch of fabric into his hand.
His eyes widened in surprise.
Isn't that something women's magazines instruct their readers to do in all those "How to Sex up Your Life" articles? Well, it seemed ultimately kind of corny, at least to me, but his expression was one of pure joy, especially after he sniffed them. Oh my god. He sniffed my panties at the dinner table. I looked around, convinced that the couple who had recently been seated with their crying baby in a stroller were aware of what just transpired.
He politely escorted me home, kissed me genteelly on the cheek and asked if he could see me again. I didn't demur but I did not readily agree. An email from him this morning asked to see me tomorrow. I haven't responded because I'm not sure if I can do this. "Do what?" you might ask. "Surely you can fuck him. It's not like you haven't fucked guys you're not attracted to in the past." And yes, while this might be true, those couplings were brief, usually the result of some drunken encounter. I'm trying to maintain some semblance of sobriety and decency before I turn myself out into some depraved little girl whore. Also, he seems to actually like me, and had in passing referenced me meeting his teenage daughter. That is both sweet and scary to me. More scary than anything, though.
What would you do were you in my position?
