By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
I was in my mid thirties, a New Yorker recently separated after 13 years of marriage and four kids, and I'd been awarded a three-month Ford Foundation fellowship for education writers, which involved traveling around the country, doing research on sex education in the schools.
Once a month, we convened in a designated city to discuss our respective projects. I flew to Washington, D.C. (my kids stayed in the city with relatives). At a "let's get to know each other" mixer for fellows, I met one brother, a journalist from North Carolina, and shamelessly sexed him the very next day. My new lover and I subsequently, and secretly, shared hotel beds (surely against some foundation rule) in Chicago, Dallas, and San Francisco. Fucking him was all the more titillating because by day we had to conceal our new knowledge of each other from the sponsors and other journalists.
I'd had little premarital sexual experience, so this liaison was a real departure for me, but I gave myself over with little guilt. The fellowship would eventually take me to nine cities. Midway through the program I found myself almost 1000 miles from home, dragging two suitcases along an unpeopled local highway in Racine, Wisconsin, searching for a mythical bus stop my travel agent had assured me would be "right near the airport."
I was weary and wondering how the hell I would get to my motel when a tall, lanky, brown-skinned young man stopped his car to ask where I was headed.
We had to conceal our new knowledge of each other from the sponsors and other journalists.
"I work at the army base nearby," he said, "and you seem lost. Can I give you a lift?" Desperate for help, I sized him up, and judged him a nonsociopath.
"Sure," I said, and told him where I was staying. He offered to drive me; once there, he carried my bags to the room. I invited him to sit down. We got acquainted.
Eventually, I told him I was ready to crash. He asked if he could stay the night. I said, "OK, as long as you sleep on the other bed." He smiled and nodded. We settled down for the night.
Sometime before dawn, I felt him crawl into my bed. I could feel the hardness of his big dick pressing against my big ass. I whispered, "No, don't." But I wanted this stranger inside me. I enjoyed every juicy minute of it.
The next morning, he encouraged me to check out of the motel and stay at his place. Caught up in this spontaneous adventure, I agreed. We spent the next few nights touching and tasting each other. One night, in his candle-lit bathroom, I lay in the tub, relaxing. With soap-lathered long brown fingers, he began massaging my body, slowly fondling my too-sensitive breastsgiving a light squeeze to each tingling nipplethen sliding them slowly down my ticklish stomach, and into my wet pussy, all the while kissing me and sucking on my tongue.
For the rest of that weekend we wined, dined, danced, and made love. I floated along in the fantasy, all personal connections back in New York forgotten. I think I fell in love with him.
Soon it was time to return home. I promised I would keep in touch. I didn't.
A few weeks later, he called. He said he wanted to move here to be with me. By then I knew that wasn't what I wanted; there was no way I could fit him into my life. He seemed hurt. But that luscious weekend lingers in my mind, reinforcing the power of learning by doing.
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