Sex-Date Surprise

I rarely read about a person's private life before I go to bed with him or her, but with Eric Wilkinson, I've been briefed on his sexual m.o. before we've even met. I know he's the twentysomething boyfriend of "Mother of Masturbation" septuagenarian Betty Dodson (

When I meet them at a party in October, their May-December relationship (he's 28, my age, and she's 75) is still going strong after five years. Eric is bold, and when he learns I've read Dodson's book Orgasms for Two, peppers me with questions about my opinions on the G-spot, clitoral stimulation, vibrators, and sexual attraction. With his slow Southern drawl, keen interest, and easygoing manner, he puts me at ease, and before I know it I'm telling him exactly how I do and don't like to come and which kinds of girls and guys turn my head. He reveals little of his own fantasy life, but does make a point of telling me that he and Dodson have an open relationship. I'm not sure if he's flirting with me, but when I realize he's the only person I've spoken to for the past hour and a half, I jolt in surprise. I leave the party and send him a "nice to meet you" e-mail. He replies that he was checking out my cleavage and fishnets and asks if I want to "play" with him.

We make plans for a sex date. Believe it or not, for all the flings I've had, I've never rented a hotel room with someone just for sex. I've had sex in hotel rooms, but on vacation. Renting a room with someone already in a committed relationship feels like the ultimate in sexual decadence. My friends are aghast when I tell them we're splitting the cost. "He should pay for it!" several of them insist. I'm shocked that they're shocked. The idea that the guy should pay is ludicrous, not to mention sexist, as if by granting him access to my pussy I'm bestowing on him some huge favor, like I don't crave pure, carnal sex just as much as he does. If anyone's doing anyone a favor here, he's doing me one, helping revitalize my body after six celibate months. Even more than that, his overwhelming lust for me—our date happens within a week of meeting each other, at his insistence—does wonders for my self-esteem.

Before the big day, we trade a few dirty e-mails. I send him a story I wrote about a girl giving a guy a blowjob in a bathroom; he tells me to bring my favorite vibrator and that he can't wait to give me my first orgasm. Already, that's a huge switch from almost every guy I've been with. I believe guys want to please their women, but they assume that in the usual course of events, their dick will do the job more than amply.

Upcoming Events

I plan to reread Dodson's book but run out of time, perhaps because subconsciously I want to be swept away by the novelty of a new lover. There comes a point where I don't want to know what will happen; I want to be surprised, to see how my body will react in the moment. There's a great line that rings true for me in Karen Finley's play George and Martha about Jews being "too busy thinking while they're fucking." I spend enough time thinking about sex; when I'm finally doing it, I don't want to let my brain rule the show.

When we get to the hotel, he is as charming and gallant as if this were a normal date. He's brought everything I could have wanted and more—condoms, lube, vibrators, along with bananas, Power Bars, vanilla-scented shampoo, and candles. There are a few moments of slight awkwardness, but they quickly fade. It's a relief to focus solely on our bodily pleasure without any dating drama. It's amazing how easily I'm able to adjust to his transition from relative stranger to new sex partner. Even though I know he wouldn't be a suitable boyfriend, once I accept that this is casual sex, nothing more and nothing less, I can focus solely on my physical pleasure. I'm fixated on his long, soft fingers, and suckle them each one by one until he makes me stop so he can undress me. I'm already wet and don't protest. "Welcome home," he says, referring to my six sex-free months, as his hands stroke my pussy until it feels like a continuous round of palms caressing me.

He's brought a Hitachi Magic Wand, as befits Betty Dodson's boy toy, and shows me various positions I've never heard of—one leg straight and one leg raised up on a pillow, one with me on my hands and knees while he stands behind me—all interesting, but also distracting. I'm used to using my Magic Wand at home, alone, in a very precise way. We try these out and then go back to more familiar positions.

I've had to pee since I arrived, but forget about it in the midst of my arousal. When we're done with round one, I can't wait anymore and get up to use the bathroom. As I'm sitting naked on the toilet, poised with my legs spread, he comes in without asking. I'm all set to tell him to go away but he shushes me and I let him stay. Then his hand reaches between my legs. I'm not prepared for the immense shock waves of arousal his touch brings me. I've only been in this situation once before, and I couldn't pee at all. But Eric stares at me as he strokes my oversensitive clit, and the more he does, the more I tremble. I still have to pee, but now that desire battles with my need to come. My toes are pointed and my legs shake so hard I have to hold onto the bathtub's edge. I shudder for several very long moments as I pee over his fingers. It's hotter than anything I could've planned, perhaps because I'm part horrified, part turned on.

After we're done fucking, I tell him he's adorable. "Dashing," he corrects me. As he rubs baby powder onto my back and massages my legs, I sink into the bed in blissful exhaustion. He tells me about the other women—about three a month—he shares similar trysts with. "Girls often call me their Oasis Cock. It's like you've been in the desert for so long and then here I am, waiting for you." It's such a sweet image, slightly at odds with his pee fetish, yet it fits. He's thought of things many guys never would, and is willing to try almost anything. Full of lust and pheromones, I walk him back to his apartment, not sure if I'll see him again.

To be continued.

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