The First Line

The first line matters most.

You believe or not with that initial utterance. At least that’s what I want to be true.

Perhaps it’s a form of a second sight. But what comes after the handshake is telling. Spoken eye to eye, “nice to meet you” becomes a long conversation on a rainy day filled with giggles and playful teasing. Spoken eye to breast, “mmm . . . a pleasure” suggests someone’s leaving unsatisfied. And when the eyes are already over the shoulder seeking out the next prey, why bother listening?

He looked me in the eye.

I can’t recall if I was surprised most by the strength of his hand in mine or the choice of greetings. His enthusiastic “I’ve been waiting for this” conjured up a flurry of possibilities. While I don’t blush, I do remember the heat rising in my cheeks.

We’d been set up on a blind date. My track record was dismal in this department. One man got a look at what 45 is shaped like on me and determined I was too old before we ever sat down for the first drink. Another didn’t make it to the drink. While rejection is never a feel good affair, I’d rather not waste my time on the impossible. Still there’s enough of a competitor in me that I do love to spend just a few minutes with them, take a couple of quick jabs at their ego (if they are witty enough to catch them) and make a parting suggestion of what they’ll be missing as a result of their rush to judgment. Then I pay the check and leave.

He was different. Did I mention that he looked me in the eye?

Of course, he was also 20-something. He donned the required 2000-something-20-something-facial hair – tufts rather than full beards. Call it a soul patch if you want but my first reaction is “thank God it’s not one of those pubic hair beardlets that they fondle throughout the conversation.”

He did however listen – which made me wonder if soon I would want to fondle something.

I think “blind date” might be a bit over-reaching. In truth, he was a photographer and I am a writer and a mutual friend thought we could collaborate on a project he’d been spec-ing out. I’m in transition at the moment and frankly if it pays, it’s a great idea.

The project was a story on the stories that board a charter boat every time it sails. He’d spent some time as a first mate on a luxury charter and knew the variety of folks that come aboard. He wanted to take his photos and tell the tale. I was short on cash and ready for anything that might translate into funds.

We met for dinner at a bistro that was all about locally grown and minimalist. I was glad he was paying because the cocktails are luscious but not cheap. We started with pomegranate mojitos.

“Is this your regular kind of place?” he asked.

“When someone else is picking up the tab, you betcha,” I offered.

“Lots of organic this and that on the menu.”

“But if you miss taste in any way, you have to tell me. I haven't failed to make a convert yet.”

He was polite about the drink (I’m thinking maybe a bit too pomegranate) but succumbed when it came to the mini burgers with omigod sauces we got as appetizers. By the time we got to the gourmet mac & cheese and scallops with lemon zest, he was a convert.

At some point … maybe the second glass of wine … I noticed he was noticing. He noticed when I paused in recounting what had happened with my last client (he bilked me). He noticed when I nodded as he told the tale of the “new money blonde” who thought “luxury charter” meant the boat was supposed to have gold plated fixtures. He noticed when I reached for a bite of the candied cherries, honey comb, and cheese we’d been served as dessert.

I noticed when he smiled, sighed, and asked for the check.

Since we had driven separate cars, I was torn. I offered him a ride with the top down. He accepted.

The skyline was brilliant on this particular evening. We even had a bit of a harvest moon thing going. I was more familiar with the downtown area so I drove. I only hesitated a moment as to where.

“Ever seen our ‘cement ditch’ at night?” I queried. He acknowledged that he’d missed it.

In the shadow of the theater district, we walked toward the bayou. The city had invested in landscaping and art projects but we all knew it was still a ditch. And yet, it was our ditch. And with the lights … pretty spectacular.

“So this is the part where we pretend that neither of us is thinking about what happens next and whether sheets are involved, right?” he asked.

I considered faking shock but I determined I wasn't going to have to fake a thing with this young man.

I stopped. I looked at the sweetness of his face and I raised my hand to touch the tufts. Soft and yet not without a bristle. I let my fingers rest on the tops of the hairs, not pressing, just waiting.

He waited as well.

And then I leaned in and placed my head on his chest before I looked even closer into his eyes and kissed him.

His kiss started soft and sweet and then as we pressed into each other even tighter his lips seemed to take on strength. I was caught. I wanted his tongue. I wanted to take it in as a preliminary to what else might come later. I was hungry. He noticed.

“Shall we risk indecent exposure?”

“If I put my hand right here . . .,” I demonstrated. “Nothing is exposed.”

I rubbed and smiled, impressed with what I found pressing against his zipper.

“And if I place my hand here . . .,” he cupped my breast. “I get the dessert I wanted a half hour ago. My God, your breasts are noteworthy.”

“Ahhh . . . the visual artist speaks! But I’m afraid that what you may see tonight saw 20-something long ago and far away.”

“And I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone who gives a shit about how a 20-something compares to you,” his smile slipped only for a moment and then he returned to caressing my nipple.

Breathing now becoming a bit more labored, I thought it might be time to relocate. I took his hand away from my D cup and kissed his fingers before locking them in mine and leading him back to the VW Beetle.

As we drove back toward the restaurant, he placed his hand on my thigh. I rested mine on top of his and moved his fingers toward the wetness waiting between my legs. We finger danced in and out and I was glad the ride was not a long one or we would have had to pull to the side.

When he exited the car there was no drama. He opened the door, leaned back, kissed me with more passion than I’d experienced in months and said, “I’ll follow you.”

My place wasn’t far but seemed like a cross town bus ride at rush hour.

I had us in the door in record time.

I don’t know what impressed me most – the casual way I discarded my clothes, totally comfortable in my skin; the small scar I saw on his upper arm and had to kiss lightly; the width of his penis wonderfully erect the moment his pants were at his feet; the speed with which I bent to kiss it or any number of singular instances that constituted this incredible end of an evening/beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I bowed before him and took him in – both salivating at my find and licking in the juices.

He switched positions with me and returned the favor – kissing and sucking the wetness that had been increasing since the car.

When we finally found the bed, I had already enjoyed the first three of the multiple orgasms that I have come to expect in the presence of such a comfortable and experienced lover.

He rose to his knees and looked upon me with such satisfaction that I almost experienced a fourth just because of his gaze.

I reached for him and he grabbed my hand mid air.

“I have all the time in the world, please, don’t rush me,” and again with the smile.

“No rushing required. No rushing. No rushing,” I barely breathed the words and brushed the hair from my forehead.

He started where my hand had just brushed and he kissed with just the barest of connections. He moved to my eyelids, my cheeks, the tip of my nose, my lips and then made his way down to first one breast then the other. His pressure never changed. Butterfly wings had more presence. The anticipation was almost agonizing.

Almost.

He grabbed each foot and massaged in just the right spot. Then he raised them to beside his face. Kissing each, he placed them on each shoulder. Then he put just the tip of that which I had only recently tasted inside me. Gently. In. Then out.

I thought I knew agony before but this . . .

He pressed harder. Then the speed increased and the friction was gloriously tortuous.

He had a rhythm of his own and I could almost hear the inaudible music.

But his voice soon drowned out the beat and the rustling sheets.

“My God, you’re tight. You’re wet. You’re incredible. I … have … to . . .”

And he did.

“Please don’t move,” I whispered as he rested just above me leaning on his forearms. “I can take your weight.”

And then it happened … the waves of the orgasm started somewhere around my thighs and lapped over each other as they pulsated through me. I held him tightly and gasped.

“Impressive.”

“I know.”

“Can’t wait to see more of your creativity.”

“Absolutely.”

And we held on for a moment more before resting, laughing, talking, listening and starting all over again.