Smart, Attractive, Discerning Woman Needs Distraction in the Rain

Smart, attractive, discerning woman needs distraction in the rain (Casual Encounters w4m)

Visiting the city for a couple of months, don’t know much of anyone and not sure what to do with myself on this rainy day.  Who’s got a good idea?  What do you people do for fun here?  I’m in the mission and don’t have a car, but would venture out in the rain for something – or someone – good.  I’ve got pics if you do.

I had been in San Francisco about three weeks when I posted this, on a typical winter day, the kind the San Franciscans call cold and nasty, but which to this New Englander seemed like a gently showery spring day.  The softies out here really don’t know from rough weather.  Too long living in paradise. 

Two days later I met up with Cory.  We arranged to meet at The Attic, which was becoming my favorite hookup bar, a dark and musty place almost invisibly tucked between a bustling café and a busy convenience store, and just a couple of blocks from my funky studio sublet.  It had stopped raining that evening around 8, when I ventured out umbrella-free, uncharacteristically dressed in a short flowery skirt, stockings and my soft, black leather boots.  Not high heeled boots – I really can’t go there – but nice ones, not too high, that showed off my calves.  I’m really a jeans and leather sort of girl, but felt different tonight, like trying on another persona.  I did feel kind of sexier walking the two blocks to the bar in this outfit, my thighs brushing together, encased in tight nylon – not exactly like myself, whoever she was. 

A day or two of back and forth emails and a short phone call, and Cory and I had established some facts and ground rules.  He was 40 years old, white, 5’8” tall and around 170.  And he was married, which kind of shocked me at first.  Naïve as I was, I guess I’d thought everyone looking to ‘date’ was single (I was still pretty new at this).  I paused a little at that, but somehow rationalized the encounter by confirming that he had no kids.  I’m not exactly sure why that made things feel less illicit, but it did.  We were both healthy.  We’d use condoms.  On the phone I’d told him that I was a smoker with an oral fixation.  “This is going to work out really well,” was his comfortable reply. 

I got to the bar first; he was of course coming from somewhere far away.  Seemed like most of the guys answering me on CL lived in the ‘burbs, and I had been puzzling on that.  I chose a table tucked in a corner behind the front entrance, where I could sit on a tall stool and show off my legs.  I was enjoying running my hands up and down their silky tightness.  My legs are one of my best features.  Long and slim, well muscled and strong, with shapely calves and what my grandmother called well-turned ankles.  Packing for this trip, I had found this unopened package of silky sheer black stockings, purchased for the aforementioned grandmother’s funeral in 1999 and never worn.  (It was freezing that day at the cemetery and I wore pants.)

Cory showed up not long after me.  He had an easy smile and a relaxed gait, and I liked him immediately.  He asked if he could get me a drink, and the skirt and stockings ordered a margarita.  I’m pretty much a Hefeweizen girl most of the time, with the occasional tequila shooter, but a big old pint glass didn’t seem like the right accessory for my outfit. 

Our conversation was easy.  I told him a bit about my situation, that I had come to San Francisco for a couple of months to escape the New England winter and ‘get something out of my system’.  So far I’d been getting a lot more into my system than out of it, but I didn’t say that.  He told me some about his job in sales, which he liked, and his house on the Peninsula, which he didn’t.  I knew I was probably stepping outside the bounds of NSA casual hookup territory when I asked him about his wife – where she was tonight, whether she knew he was here.  He said his wife was great, he loved her, they had great sex, but she was traveling and he had a very high libido.  He guessed that she was probably doing something similar on her business trip, and he wasn’t feeling too guilty about being here.  While his body language and overall demeanor would seem to confirm that, in retrospect I wonder how much of that was true.  But hey, I was horny and I’d come this far.

He reprimanded me a bit for lying about my age – I’d posted 40 but told him I’d tell him my actual age when we met.  I was learning that if I stated my real age in my posts – 46 at the time – old guys answered.  Old guys who looked like my ex-husband, with graying hair, spectacles, collapsing chests and paunches, and I was SO not interested in them.  Fit and slim, strong and athletic, I felt I looked 40 if a day, and was proud to ‘fess up to my real age in person.  Many people were surprised – I still look pretty damn good.  Years of healthy country living will do that for you.

We must have had a second round of drinks, which I hope I bought but frankly don’t remember.  I’m always more comfortable buying at least some of the drinks.  I hate feeling like I’m the one doing a guy a favor by fucking him.  He’s doing the same for me, and it seems only right to share the expenses.  I’m just that kind of feminist, I guess.  I was pretty buzzed when we got up to head back to my ‘place’ two blocks away.  I was very glad my boots had flat heels, because I would have definitely been wobbly in high ones. 

On the way we walked past Carlos’s Bar, whose huge painted sign greets those exiting the BART station at 24^th and Mission.  Loud music, the sound of pool balls bumping together, exuberant male voices, the bar had never seemed like one I’d be comfortable walking into alone.  “Here’s a place I’ve never tried,” I said sarcastically as we passed.  He immediately grabbed my arm and steered me inside before I knew what was happening.  “Then it’s time you did.” 

We ordered Tecate in cans, drank them quickly.  We were the only gringos in the place, and I felt pretty exposed and observed under the curious, watchful eyes of the regulars.  The barmaid spoke no English, but it wasn’t a problem –she took our money (his again).  “You know, you could get laid in a second in here,” Cory said.  “Save yourself a lot of time on the internet.”  I couldn’t quite picture it.  To me, it seemed a lot easier and safer to meet and vet people on Craigslist.  And besides, deep down, I was just an innocent suburban white girl, afraid of the swaggering machismo of these Latin men.  And I figured they wouldn’t be into my slim hips and flat gringa ass.

Back in my funky sublet, Cory broke out some beautiful purple-haired weed and a gorgeous glass pipe.  I had purchased a cheap metal one with a travel lid after my divorce, when I started indulging again in what I had eschewed for so many years.  It had been a long time since I’d seen some classy paraphernalia.  The weed was good, and I was feeling the combined buzz of it and the alcohol within minutes.  He was standing backlit by the streetlights when he said firmly, “It’s time to take some clothes off.”

“Indeed it is,” I agreed, and excused myself to the bathroom to rid myself of the stockings. I couldn’t quite think of a graceful way to remove them in his presence.  I may be wanton, but a stripper I wasn’t, not yet anyway.  Returning to the room, where I’d put on some sexy music I liked, I asked, “Guess what I took off?”  Before I knew it his hand was under my short skirt, exploring me with his fingers, getting me so ready so fast I wasn’t sure what was happening.  My head thrown back, mouth open, my legs were failing me. 

The lights were low when I stripped him down and laid him out on the futon.  I was down on him in a moment, his hands still working me to a frenzy.  In the darkness, my mouth found a quaint, oddly shaped testicle, sort of like a big Jordan almond, remarkable in its discreet separation from its mate.  Usually nuts come in pairs that kind of nestle together, at least in my experience so far.  I briefly considered that maybe he only had one – as a kid we’d had a dog with an ‘undescended testicle’, a subject of much giggly embarrassment when I was eight.  But as the almond began to change shape, I realized with a start that this tiny little thing was the guy’s penis. 

I briefly dated a guy back home before coming to San Francisco.  I didn’t really realize it at the time, but he was hung like a stallion.  When we got together, it had been years since I’d been with anyone but my husband, who had what I now know to be a pretty average sized piece of equipment.  Tod’s penis had been magnificent in every way – shape, size and action, and I guess I’d gotten kind of used to that.

Anyway, this teeny tiny little almond of a thing had now swelled to maybe the size of a miniature zucchini, the kind trendy restaurants served in the 80s.  Maybe 3 inches long, with a little head like a button mushroom.  I had to stop what I was doing before I laughed.  I crawled up to his face. 

“I don’t mean to be rude, just real here, ok?”  He looked at me puzzled.  I drew a deep breath before saying, “You have one of the smallest cocks I’ve ever met, did you know that?”

“Oh.  Do you like big ones?” he asked, unruffled. 

“Well, yeah, I do.  Like maybe three or four times bigger than this one.”

“Well, shoot,” he said good-naturedly.  “And I left my big cock at home.”

I started to laugh.  And laugh.  And he laughed.  We laughed so hard we were holding our stomachs and hiccupping.  When I could collect myself enough to speak, I said, “I think I love you.  That’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.” 

The mood broken, we fired up the bowl again, and lay around naked and comfortable, talking, smoking, laughing.  He knew a lot of jokes.  I can’t remember any of them – I never remember jokes – but he was a very funny man.  Eventually I did take his tiny little almond in my mouth for a bit.  It did grow some if I sucked on it hard enough, but I couldn’t get myself – or it – excited enough to come.  We never did get to fucking – what would be the point?  I doubt I’d even know if that little thing was in me. 

I hope Cory remembers our evening as fondly as I do.  My sexy adventures up to that point had been running dangerously close to becoming too serious, and this comfortable, relaxed, easy exchange was a relief. 

What I learned from Cory:  It feels kind of good to dress up once in a while, noisy Latin bars aren’t so scary if you’ve got an escort, and a good belly laugh can be better than a good fuck.