How to Enjoy Women: Chapter 1, Saturday

It took me years to figure out that when I go out hunting the streets for a woman I never find one, but when I just go out to have fun I can find anything.

Who’d have guessed?

Jesus, the frustrations I used to put myself through. The clumsy trial and error of finding my ways into women’s beds. But you won’t have to endure the same, because you hold in your hands this edifying tale.

I want to tell you about my work trip to Philadelphia last August, partly because I’m just so damn generous but mostly because revisiting the memories will cheer me through this shitty boring horrible no fun covid-19 lockdown.

Might as well start with the punchline. The way to get inside a woman, good and deep and snug inside, is to relax and enjoy.

Weird but true.

My own enjoyment began early as warm nerves in my belly on the flight to a weeklong conference on “machine learning”. The conference itself promised nothing but boredom and profit. I’m no computer nerd. I sell. But this was in PHILLY. Say what you will about Philadelphia, it sure is fucking fun to visit. A shithole, yes, but a beautiful woman’s shithole, occasionally messy but godDAMN it’s fun to play around in there and see what she’ll let you get away with.

My one disclaimer is that back home I’m almost never this reckless. You have to watch your health, among other risks. But life is for living and if you ARE going to let yourself go, where better? Drink in the sights, live up the life, go see everything, try to avoid getting shot.

I was thinking along these lines as I descended into PHL. A mildly terror of heights heightened the sensation. I saw the whole town spread out hungry, panting, urgent. I felt my own fire in deep places and breathed deep, kept calm.

Enjoyed it.

Let the fires build, but kept in control.

Pickup is an adventure or it is nothing. If it becomes work, what’s the point? I get enough of the drudge-work of persuasion in my day job. Now was the time for play.

Looked out the taxi window on the way to the hotel like a child eyeing Christmas presents. Which one of you beauties will be for me? So many human shapes, towering and petite, firm and soft, slender, voluptuous, vicious. So many races. All the faces with that Philly intensity: too much stress, too little sleep, a sexy edge and no bullshit. A lot more smokers here than in my own Colorado.

I wouldn’t call the Kimpton Hotel luxurious but it’s kooky, fun, stylish. Sexy like the town: not so much oozing sex as brandishing it.

After check-in I flirted with the idea of the rooftop bar, dismissed it. It was late Friday and I was beat. Even if I did find some thirsty traveller upstairs I’d be less than scintillating company.

Just like any physical sport it’s important to listen to your body. I got a quick salmon dinner at the seafood place next door, a glass of white wine that hit a lot harder than usual, went back upstairs and crashed.

It was different in my twenties. Because almost no one in their twenties knows what they are doing. You’ve got this amazing sexy body and all these teenage feelings still going strong in you but hardly half a clue how to use them.

By our thirties most of us learn the secrets, or at least the tricks. And the best trick of all, laughter.

Saturday morning. I didn’t eat breakfast. Never cared to. Overslept a touch from the little time zone difference, gussied up (I’d hung all my clothes up the night before to avoid wrinkles: that’s not pickup wisdom, that’s Sales wisdom). That day I went for Effortlessly Superior. It’s summer, it’s hot, I kept it light and unthreatening.

I walked around Old City, the spruced up tourist part of town. Parks, museums, old churches. Just drank in the scenery. Didn’t want to tire myself from walking all over, just get the sun and fresh morning air into my scrubbed skin, shake out the journey. Feeling refreshed and good.

Your internal state matters in this game. Give off happy rays, it lures people in. Give off fatigue, anxiety, desperation, it warns people off.

At the harbor I found a cute coffee shop with outdoor seats, had my first black coffee of the day.

Seriously, who needs breakfast? I’m tasting that coffee, just a bit too hot for comfort, zapping my tongue, my throat, my stomach. I felt the cold air on my skin. I felt my blood slide around all good inside, woken by caffeine. I feel that edge of hunger giving me an urgency to my step, like a real genuine resident of The City that Loves you Back.

If I were filled up with toast and shit I wouldn’t feel half of that. I’d be all sluggish.

The barista is cute. Black girl, natural hair all tied back. Not skinny but blessed to carry her weight well. It occurs to me they probably don’t say barista in a place like this. Server? Coffee girl? I wonder how she looks naked?

Here’s how you break the ice with a stranger. You open your goddamn mouth and talk to them. That’s it. No pickup lines and shit. No “cold approach”. What does that even mean? Who on Earth would want someone coldly approaching them? Just talk.

If your stomach is all full of butterflies and you need a prepared greeting as some kind of security blanket, you can’t beat “Hi”. “Hi” is the classic. Tried and true. It says everything it needs to.

Above all don’t be clever unless you absolutely positively can’t avoid it.

“Hi,” I said to her, enjoying the butterflies and smiling my best don’t-worry-I’m-not-a-serial-killer smile. Fuck she’s pretty. “Just curious, what do they call your job over here? Back home we’d say a barista.”

“We say barista too.”

“Oh. Huh. I don’t know why, I thought it’d be something else this far East.” Shit! Don’t be clever! Sip. “This is good coffee.”

“Thanks.” Unenthusiastic service industry voice. I gave a little more smile to acknowledge the stupidity of my own statement. She didn’t return it. My butterflies exploded into howling banshees of rejection.

/Creep, creep, you’re a creep!/ they screamed.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

Hah! Triumph! Endorphins! “Colorado. Just flew in. I’ll be here all week selling sci fi bullshit that’ll never work to investors who should know better. It’s… boring and stupid, but I love Philly.”

She cocks her head. “You know this isn’t Philly, right?”

“Oh I know.” And we start chatting about this neighborhood and that, swapping favorite filthadelphia stories of violence fraud and horror. It’s casual.

She’s not into me at first, I can see that. She’s a little bit doing her job, a lot bored at work. She’s laughing though. She’s sharing too. Not all stories are secondhand; she’s seen some shit.

I shift gears into my best tales of rich people ripping off other rich people. So damn stupid these people when it comes to procurement, so quick to sabotage one another. But also so suddenly goddamn cunning and unified when it comes to bleeding you.

Okay. Conversation lesson. If you’ve ever read a books about seduction, subtext, subconscious manipulation, fucking “neurolinguistic programming”, please do yourself a favor and forget it. It’s nonsense. (Except “Models” by Mark Manson, that’s gold.)

How can I put this? YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS MIND IS SMARTER THAN YOU ARE. Like, way, wildly smarter about social signals. So if you consciously try to manipulate someone else’s subconscious (or your own!), what are you doing? You’re shoving your dumb slow clumsy “logic brain” in between her social genius brain and yours. You come off like a jackass.

Look, someone throws a wine bottle at your head. If you have a friend at home get them to do this right now to illustrate the point. Watch how you catch it. Did you use your conscious mind there? Did you whip out a pencil and calculator, apply Newton’s laws for the mass and velocity of the projectile, determine where it’s going to be and how to avoid it? Or did your hand go up?

I let my monkey brain do the talking. I stayed out of its way. My word brain just enjoyed the coffee and laughed at her de***********ion of the time her sister had a break-in from a pervert who’d held her at gunpoint, made her use the toilet while he watched and stole nothing but her underwear.

I did get little updates from my underbrain; I knew what it was up to. It was telling her “hey, I’m not the very top tier but I’m plugged in, I’m good company, I have wherewithal and an open mind.” She hears it. If I tried to build on that consciously I’d trip all over myself.

She’s a little warmer now. Lonely nerds will list the signs to watch for: faster breathing, dilating eyes, leaning closer, touching her lips with her tongue. Maybe those are real things. Who the fuck cares? I know she’s warmer because I’M feeling good and warm myself.

I’m not after her for conversation. And she’s not going to walk off the job right now to fuck a stranger.

“Listen,” I say, “I gotta go. Meeting a prospect for brunch and a demo. But I really enjoyed meeting you. I’m Sarah.”

“Grace.”

A handshake offered and accepted. I linger and look down a second. Am I suggestive, or shy? Fuck if I know. Ask my subconscious.

“Hey, I’d love to see more of you. Can I invite you out tonight? Send you a text?”

Her face said no before I’d finished speaking. Yeah, boys, you know that look. “Ohhh, I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m really busy this weekend. I promised MY BOYFRIEND [is how I heard it] that we’d spend time together.”

In martial arts the first thing they teach you is how to fall down correctly. You’re going to get knocked on your ass over and over, it’s important to learn how to roll with it safely.

Biggest lesson I can ever impart: with women, be fucking GRACEFUL. Learn to embrace rejection. After a few practice falls you’ll enjoy the chance to show you can handle it, and they’ll be really flattered. It demonstrates your respect and your strength.

I laughed gently at myself. Show Grace some grace. “That’s okay. You have a boyfriend?”

She nodded.

“Well he better be Prince Charming, I’ll say that.” Her face twitches. “Listen. This is 2019. You’re allowed to have a harmless glass of wine with a girl. Maybe over the week? I like the way you frown when you’re going to say no again, it’s sweet.”

“I… shouldn’t.”

“It’s okay. Really it is. Here.” I give her my card. “Never know.”

It’s only on the taxi ride (always a taxi: taxis are sexy) to the huge beautiful eclectic Philadelphia Museum of Art that I realize I never left her a tip.

Probably for the best. What would be worse, too little or too much? No tip says “you’re not my barista, you’re a girl I’m interested in.” My subconscious outwits me me again.

Art, art, art. I enjoy this. Good place to meet women too. Ladies LOVE to be picked up in museums, galleries, charities, bookstores, churches, jazz clubs, poetry readings, pottery classes, anywhere else they can complain-boast to their girlfriends later. It flatters the self-image.

All things being equal they hate being picked up in subways, bars, crosswalks, and abortion clinics. Park benches and bowling alleys are somewhere in the middle.

Well most women. Some relish wrongness. I sure do.

Anyway, I want to emphasize that I was PRIMARILY there not to meet some fine-ass art. Not to meet a woman. Which made meeting a woman very nearly inevitable. I know, mind blowing revelation.

Here are three things to think about if you find yourself eyeing up a gorgeous woman in a museum, which I sure was an hour into my visit. This is especially important if you’re nervous as hell and trying to work up your nerve.

First, yes, she already knows you’re watching her. You hideous creep.

Second, the harder it is to come over and say Hi the more credit you get for courage. If you hover around waiting for the perfect moment you’ve got it backwards. Approach when it’s difficult and you impress her. For extra credit try talking to a girl when she’s already with a group of friends; it’s terrifying and it works!

Third, she’s more scared than you. Of course she is. Think how much easier you have it than her in this interaction. You get to choose the target and the timing, that’s your reward for accepting the risk of rejection. You at least know it’s about to happen. You at least know that you’re not a psycho; she doesn’t have that assurance.

So get over there, say Hi, accept that the first hundred seconds are going to be REALLY fucking awkward but if you can power through them and reassure her you’ll be her hero. Total swoon.

Oh, and try to enjoy the terror as much as you can. Isn’t that what you’re here for? Your right hand can give you an orgasm but can it give you such butterflies?

“Hi,” I said.

She recoiled as if stung by a bee.

“Um, hello.” Uh oh, her voice was already saying, “I want to get away from you as fast as possible.” Alarm bells rang in my head. Shut up, alarm bells.

“Sorry if I bothered you there.” Shrug. Museums, eh? “I just, you were looking at that painting so long, I was kinda wondering what you saw in there.”

A museum guard walked by. For a stupid second I was terrified he’s going to kick me out, which of course is idiotic, he didn’t give a shit; my nervousness is echoing in my chest. (Thump thump thump goes Sarah’s heart that really should know better by now… I love it.)

“Oookay,” she said, a verbal eye-roll. “It’s the colors. See how flushed the skin looks on those figures? It’s a trick. You look close up, there’s no red or pink, it’s all yellows, orange, white. See what I mean?”

“Oh yeah.”

“It looks flushed because of all the blue.”

“What blue?”

“In the shadows, see? The painter could have used flat blacks and greys, or a brown to warm up the scene, but instead he’s sneaking in all that cobalt and indigo. It’s a complimentary color, so now your eyes imagine a red flush to the skin that isn’t really there. And that’s more vivid than actual red paint would have been.”

I liked her already. Yeah it’s juvenile, first year art student stuff. But it’s also a wonderfully sensual observation. Of course you’d be a complete fool to tell her that.

“Huh. One one level that’s first year art student stuff, but on another, gosh that’s a wonderfully sensual observation.”

Dare to be a fool, kids.

She laughed, and she laughed because I made it a joke and not a creepy observation. How, I hear the incels ask, can we ever know the difference? YOU don’t. Your subconscious tells you: it’ll either flow naturally or it won’t. Trust your feelings, Luke.

Say I got it wrong. She’d have been weirded out and scooted away from me as fast as she could. I’d have felt like utter shit for five whole minutes (oh noooo!), then I’d shrug, later I’d laugh. So would you. That’s called learning.

“Are you an artist? An art student?”

“I’m a starving artist. I mostly do collage, so I’m always looking at how other artists find ways to make their pieces talk to themselves.” She goes on in this vein for a little bit, getting deep into her “self-conversation” ideas, leaving me to just make little complimentary do-please-go-on noises.

Now it might sound like I’m making fun of her. I’m not! The teasing is love. It’s my role here to get her flowing, so to speak. It’s a dance and I’m the lead.

And she’s a wonderful dance partner. I love a good talker, a girl who flows naturally and readily. She was saying genuinely interesting things. We both had fun. Yeah half of it was her tight five for when she’s trying to impress people, but she’s young, we all go through that stage, and she mixed in off-the-cuff observations too, her own real thoughts.

Thus: “I like your hair,” she said out of nowhere. “Long blonde and straight. If you had a turtleneck and a cigarette you’d be perfect.”

Oh, you.

“Do you smoke?” I asked.

“No.”

“Me neither. Let’s get a salad and smoke cigarettes.”

We all know that inviting your date to a meal is a terrible idea, right? The setup’s all wrong. You’re on show the whole time, you’re across a table and thus denied the casual side-by-side intimacy of bars, taxis, theaters. If it goes badly you’re a hostage till the meal is done. And when it’s done, you’re both stuffed with food, i.e. not in the mood for fucking. (No I’m not anorexic, fuck you for asking.)

First tip: don’t invite her to meals. Invite her for drinks.

Second tip: forget about tips, just go with your mood.

I was hungry.

A Greek salad for her, a tuna nicoise for me, outdoors in August sun. We considered wine. “This might sound crazy, but will you split a glass with me? I’d really enjoy a drink with you but it’s too early in the day for a whole one.”

I’d bought a pack of Camel Blue and no one came to stop us from smoking outside, coughing and laughing like teenagers.

I won’t bore you with our girl talk. We touched lightly on her world and on mine. I sussed out fast enough that she’s one of those who’d much rather share her impressions in unhurried poetry than any actual details. If I talked about my flight in last night, she told me what she thought of last night’s sunset.

I liked her. I enjoyed a bite of lettuce, nice crunch between my teeth. Sun, wine, nicotine mixing nice.

“I like your hair too,” I said. “Curly hair always does something to me. You’re really lucky, black hair and bright blue eyes like that, it’s striking.”

“You like my eyes?”

“They’re why I approached you.”

She takes a long sip of wine. There’s no ambiguity now at all, no question in the air, though a person can always surprise you. My subconscious tells me this is an artist and an outgoing girl, probably got around from an early age (God bless the artsy girls). Far from scaring her, a lesbian experience fits right in with her self-image. Probably far from her first.

All of which I heartily applaud. But I’m here to have fun, not paint by numbers. If it’s a sure thing, let’s dial it up.

I put my hand on hers. “You’re very beautiful,” I said, “and I really want to kiss you. Then I want to kiss you again. Then I want to strip all your clothes off right here in the restaurant and make love to you on this table.”

She inhaled. She’s surprised. She’s also glowing. She’s going to say something but I interrupt.

“Shame the table’s wobbly. Come with me to my hotel?”

A golden second’s delay.

“Okay.”

And then I changed the subject and we made more small talk as we finished our meal, as if nothing had happened. Her eyes, those deep icy blues were transfixed. She offered to pay for half. “What? Don’t be silly. You’re an artist. This is on me.”

In the taxi I showed her I meant business. I took an active but feminine role, sat right on her lap facing her, my legs on either side of her hips so that my summer dress rode up my thighs.

A moment’s glance back at the cabbie told me he wouldn’t raise a fuss. It was a sunny afternoon, traffic was slow, anyone who wanted an eyeful could get it. I grabbed the back of her head, got my fingers wound up in her pretty curly hair, and plastered our two ash-tray mouths together nice and deep.

Fuck, smoking is sexy when you’re a non-smoker.

We took our time kissing, really exploring. She was stroking my sides, arms, shoulders—I could tell she liked how slim I am—but there was only so much road to the hotel and I wanted to push her boundaries since she so she obviously liked it. I guided her hand under my shirt and she took it from there, slipping under my bra, squeezing me, grabbing my ass with her other hand.

I had one free hand and a mischievous mood, so I pulled her into an even tighter kiss, tongue tracing behind her teeth, and that free right hand of mine travelled straight down between my legs, between hers, down under the thin material of her skirt and panties. A nice surprise: she’s hairy down there and wet as a flood. Her whole body just… surrenders to me, her mouth opens, her legs open, her hips lift up to meet me, and now my two fingers were sliding along the outside her silken slippery treasure…

Let’s pause a moment while I teased her, made her wonder if I’ll really dare to fuck her right here in the taxi (why yes, yes I will). You’d probably rather hear about the fucking, which shows taste and character, but there is one important point to make and after that I promise to taper off the asides in favor of practical case studies from the field.

Let’s talk about signals.

We can agree I’m behaving pretty aggressively here. My subconscious is picking up that she’s into it, and that jibes with the fire in my blood that says go for it.

What if I’m wrong?

Well first of all, I keep listening. My fires are burning but I’m in control. Control is sexy to women because control is power. If she starts pulling away or giving signals that she’d prefer slow or stop, I fucking slow or stop. There’s a flow to these situations and with ninety nine percent of people it’s really not hard to follow it.

Second and foremost, if she says no, that’s that. That’s the signal we as a society have agreed on as our safe word; let’s all respect it.

In fact she did try to break the kiss just then, and I let her at once. I half thought she was going to say stop. Instead she kissed my neck, slowly up to my ear, as I’m teasing her outer lips, and breathless she’s whispering: “Go on… do it… I want you to do it?”

“Do what?” I asked brightly and innocently, loud enough for the cabbie to hear—then I gasped as she squeezed my breast.

“Take what you want…”

I knew what I wanted. I’d been rubbing my fingers over her, getting them good and drenched. A shaved pussy’s great, a trimmed pussy like mine is great, but the wonderful thing about a hairy pussy is how it keeps in the moisture and heat for you. And now my two fingers (not the front finger but the index and ring, which are stronger at this angle) found their target and pressed into her oily good warmth like a hard cock.

She had me in her now, deep in the place that’s so emotional and special for us women. She squeezed me, saying yes with her walls, and she nipped my ear with her teeth. Just at that moment with my head turned I made eye contact with a man out the cab window staring in at us a little too obviously. I gave him a wink.

And then I started fucking her, my way. People imagine that women all use the same style with each other. Nonsense. We’re as varied as women and men. My favorite is to use my whole arm as my shaft, so I’m reaching down between us both, my palm pressed to her hood and clit and all those good soft things, my two fingers so powerful in her.

I was glad our mouths weren’t locked now, I could move my head back, smile at her, watch her. I used firm, rocking, pressing motions, curling my fingers to massage her G-spot, almost pulling her towards me. I alternated pressure, sometimes squeezing up on her clit, sometimes releasing it. And each thing I did inside her I could see on her flushing face as she tried to hold onto her breath and not moan.

All the way to the hotel I fucked her. When the car stopped I covered her face in kisses, rolled off her and took a twenty out of my purse. There was just a little gap in the plexiglass shield, but on purpose I reached through with fingers glistening, and when the cabby took the cash he made sure to squeeze my fingers and get a touch of her wetness.

Did he smell her, when we got out and neatened our clothes and I escorted her through the lobby? I didn’t look. Left him the option. Funny thinking back now on that sneaky moment of shared moisture, now that you can’t even shake someone’s hand.

I remember it was a fairly full elevator and we more or less behaved ourselves, except how we looked in each other’s eyes.

But halfway to the hotel room she pushed me against the wall and full-on ravished me, dove her tongue into my mouth and put her hands everywhere. Don’t know if anyone saw but we were surely on camera.

In the room. The door shut. She surprised me: no devouring attack now, she kissed me sweetly on the mouth twice, three times. And then she turned her back to me and stripped.

Off came the skirt, revealing a round little tight pale ass. Off came the artsy jacket, the blouse, and then she reached behind her to unhook her bra. Last and far from least she sort of curtseyed down to her take off panties without bending over, then stood back up naked and glorious.

What a lovely creature turned around and smiled like an angel! She was pale, my artist, with cute pink nipples like candies. And she kept herself in shape. I hadn’t guessed what a flat stomach and trim legs she’d been hiding under her clothes. She must do a lot of cardio.

She lifted her hands high above her head, made a gift of herself, arched up those young firm breasts like an offering. Her armpits were unshaven though not bushy. On her it looked good. Bohemian.

I took the gift. I was still fully clothed and I enveloped her, pressed my mouth to her tits and drank her in, ran my hands over every curve, into every crevice. I had already fucked her in public, I knew how her face flushed when I drove all the way to her cervix; I had no reason to be shy. I ran my fingertip along her asshole; I stroked my hand over her chest, up her shoulder and down the underarm, through that little patch of hair. I licked her chest and her neck.

Once I had taken my first fill I stepped back with a smile of my own, lifted up my own stylish summer dress and lowered my own undies. Then, keeping my dress pulled up, I pulled the hotel chair away from the desk and sat back in it, hips forward and legs spread.

She got the idea. And did me one better: she took a pillow off the bed and set it down between my feet, elegantly kneeled.

She put her hands on my thighs and pulled my legs apart a little farther. The motion changed her from my servant to my conquerer. She had me right where she wanted me. My sex, my cunt, my womanhood lay spread before her eyes, totally vulnerable and open for her. I quivered. She took a deep breath, smelling me right into her blood, getting high on me, and any second now she was going to taste me.

When her tongue began its magic I felt myself slide down a three hundred mile tunnel into her ministrations, this voluptuous sweet pleasure just wrapping me and squeezing and throbbing and slithering through my whole being. Jesus, could she lick me! I don’t even know what she did, it was witchcraft. I felt her make my clit sing, I felt her way up in my deep places I thought only a cock could reach; it felt like I could feel her lick all the way through my belly my spine my lungs my heart.

I didn’t even know what to do with my hands, I just held them to my own face and shook my head, the pleasure was so strong. My legs tried to squeeze together but she forced them apart. My crotch bucked up and down; she let it. The way up her tongue felt like I was about to pee pure heroin, the way down like my whole lower body was sinking in electrified honey.

“Goddamn,” I whispered. “You really are an artist.”

She looked up at me, planting cute little kisses on my puss. Those ice blue eyes looked so fucking cute and she knew it, staring over my trimmed pronounced blonde mound.

“Is it okay if I tell you I love you?” she asked. Which was unexpected and weird, but I just nodded dumbly. Get me in that state like that and you can me ask for anything. “You won’t take it too seriously?” I shook my head.

She got up and stroked my hair with my hand. “Taste how good you are,” she said, and took a kiss. I already knew. I taste amazing. I never masturbate without fingering myself deeply, and when I’m ready to come I smell and taste myself. Might help that I’m a narcissist; I don’t know. Do men taste themselves? I hope they at least eat their own cum, even if they don’t admit to it. How sad if they don’t!

“I love you,” she whispered in my ear, and she took my hand and guided it back to that lovely cunt of hers. “I love you,” she said louder and brought her own teasing finger almost to my clit, just nearby; somehow even better. I couldn’t help rolling my hips again.

Oh, fuck, why not. “I love you,” I said back, and damn if I didn’t feel like I meant it! I certainly loved that perfect finger stroking along me then into me, unlocking me, melting me, opening me up like a skeleton key. “Oh… oh fuck… oh fuck I love you…” I went on and she gave me even more and now I was really truly being fucked.

It wasn’t long before we were writhing on top of the covers, pressed mouth to mouth, breast to breast, legs interlocked. I’m usually not one for scissoring but she had such a good lean shape for it, we thrashed and wrestled and let our heat build up, sometimes stimulating with fingers, sometimes pressing our pussies to each other kissing lip to lip.

I pressed her arms over her head and covered her in kisses. “I love you,” I said, and then I kissed her exposed armpit, just quickly in case it tickled, but she didn’t shy away, she offered more.

I gave her some tender attention there; a little boundary-pushing as a thank you for her sorcery on the chair. Whatever she used for deodorant wasn’t astringent so I took long wet licks which made her moan, even nibbled her a little, pulled on the hairs with my lips. Meanwhile she kept doing things inside me like my cunt was a violin that told her exactly what note to play next.

Then we were mouth to pussy, her on top, the sun filtering in through the window. She was… there’s no way around it, she was a much more talented pussy eater than I am. I can please a girl well enough, really a whole range of girls: my advice is listen, see what she likes, keep doing it. It’s hard to advise beyond that because girls are so different: most like it super gentle but some like it rough, some like to be teased some hate it, some are shy, some want a dry tongue like a cat, some will take charge and fuck your face, some are open for anything.

But this woman, she knew me better than I knew myself. I could only moan and press my lips to her wet warm petals as the pleasure wracked through me. She knew I was one part trying to please her and nine parts holding onto dear life. I could hardly breathe.

So this, I remember thinking, is what it means to have your brains fucked out! I had no brains. None. I couldn’t remember my name. My whole existence was a string vibrating to her touch.

I think she loved it, how completely she dominated me just by being so good. She rocked her hips against my mouth, taking responsibility for both our pleasures, building her own fires as she worked me over so masterfully.

Remember how I said it’s sexy to stay in control? Right around here is where I totally lost it, I was helpless in her hands, I pulled my legs up and apart to give her the deepest possible access, I drove my tongue out for her to ride how she liked. I gave it up to her. She responded by landing smart, hard spanks on my ass—smack! smack! smack!

A digit of her finger slipped into my asshole, not deep but there, and the electricity shot through me like a lightning bolt, all the pleasure in my pussy shivering up through my bowels, my spine. I squeezed my ass so tight she must have felt it like a clamp. My whole body bucked, I was going wild.

Had orgasm ever poured over me so unstoppably? The peak was like this slow flood of boiling lava rising, rising, rising, not exploding but bubbling over the top and consuming me. I melted into her. Her tongue didn’t let me go, she was there sucking there right there on my clit, right there, so hard, loving me, loving how my cunt and ass spasmed for her, loving my taste on her lips, and I felt that love forcing me deeper deeper deeper up up up into fuck-heat and liquid joy: I was coming everywhere in my fingertips in my tongue in the back of my eyeballs and now she was twitching too, her lovely juices flowing…

When we came down to Earth I was shocked how covered in sweat we were. Not love fluids, not saliva, though there was plenty of both: but above all sweat sweat. My sweat, I quickly noticed, smeared on us both and all over the sheets. You’d think I’d run a marathon. It hadn’t been that much physical heat or exercise; I think it was the raw sensation, like sweating on cocaine.

She saw my embarrassment and breathed in my chest between my breasts, taking deep long draughts. “I love the smell of your skin,” she said.

I offered her my breast. There are women who don’t like their nipples sucked after sex; they’re too sensitive. I’m not one of them. She clearly loved it too. So I pulled a bedsheet over our bodies and we fell briefly asleep like that, her nursing from me, wrapped in my drying sweat.

Later we showered together. I was still so buzzing—I swear I was still twitching as little aftershocks worked their way through me, like I’d been struck by lightning—that we didn’t go at it again, but it was still lovely and sensual. We soaped each other over all over.

There’s something really comforting about another woman bathing you, soaping your pussy, your underarms, your back door. I remember she didn’t want to get her hair wet so we were careful about that.

Drying off, I offered dinner, but she had plans that evening and didn’t want to change them. This relieved me; it meant the ‘love’ talk really was just play. I told her I’d be busy through the work week (only half true; I also wanted variety) but would she like to do something tomorrow, Sunday? Let’s text.

Oh, but to trade numbers we’ll need to share names. “Tell you what,” she said. She lay back on the bed, still wet from the shower. “Make me come again and I’ll tell you.”

Gladly! I knew what she was doing, she was letting me get my own back. Now that I wasn’t totally overwhelmed, just me pleasuring her, I could take it at my own pace.

Sex between women can be soooo comfortable when we want it to be. That’s a danger of course, I think too much comfort is how relationships die, but gosh can it be fun. I worked my way down neck, breasts, belly and gently, enjoyably, luxuriously drank in her gorgeous pussy, even more beautiful now knowing what a creative and talented lover she is. I introduced my fingers into her again, three this time, luxuriating in how she squeezed me, just feeling and letting her feel.

We both let it happen as I licked, nibbled, sucked, stroked. My other hand teased her ass a bit—she’d clearly liked doing it to me—but just the thumb on the outside, just a delicious hello. Soon enough she was breathing fast, and I could feel the surge building in her, approaching like a man’s orgasm, ready to burst. She started jerking and twitching again, and her cunt was pouring like a faucet, tasting different, sweeter, and then BAM! she grabbed my hair and pushed and pushed up on my tongue like a man trying to shove his cock down my throat.

“Bianca!” she said in the depths of passion, and it took me a second to work out that was her name.

“Delighted to meet you. I’m Sarah.” And we kissed deep and exchanged numbers.

By the time Bianca had hailed a cab and I’d waved goodbye it was almost sunset and I was hungry again. I was also tired. No more wandering the city that night. I ate at a different restaurant, there’s a bunch in the area, but I don’t actually remember now what I had. My nervous system was fried! I don’t think we’re used to feeling that much raw pleasure.

I even felt a little low then, not sad per se, just natural emotional fatigue after so much beauty, like a child the day after Christmas.

Good. It’s not about having your brain’s receptor holes stuffed and your glands pumping happy juice every damn second. It’s about beauty, fun, creativity. The fatigue afterwards is to tell us we had a good time.

What I needed now was to curl up somewhere nice with a drink and relive every moment. And lucky for me the Kimpton has an awesome rooftop bar. Eleven stories up, open to the air on one side, stylish, plenty of couches, easy and fun. Should be hopping on a Saturday night.

Actually it wasn’t remotely hopping. I guess my clock was still off, I was up at the bar at nine when things probably didn’t heat up for two or three more hours. I mean, a few folks here and there, not the crowds I’d have preferred, but it’s cool, I was digging it.

If I’d sat at the bar I would have been pestered all evening by travellers hungry for a gorgeous and adventurous woman of indeterminate age like myself. And some nights I’d be into that. Tonight was not that night. I found a small couch to curl in.

Is it just me? When I’m feeling really good and comfortable I like to arrange myself in a kind of half-ball in the corner of a couch, feet barely brushing the floor, feline.

I ordered my sauvignon blanc from the waitress. When she came back I noticed how very pretty she is. Blonde like me but curly—I really do have a thing for curly hair—and just a sweet fresh face, like she grew up on some Pennsylvania farm with lots of milk and fresh air. You couldn’t call her clothes revealing but you wouldn’t call them concealing either, especially when she set down my glass.

I was low energy, but what the hell, I was feeling confident for some reason or another. My fingers probably still smelled of Bianca (victory fingers), which is confidence-inspiring!

“Hi,” I said.

You see? You see? If I’d tried to think up something clever (“Have we met before?”) she’d be long gone.

She rewarded me with a smile. A nice smile! My subconscious shook my shoulder: she’s young bored and feels like conversation! it said. Say something more! I opened my mouth and let something fall out.

“I’m surprised it’s so quiet on a warm summer night like this.” Not bad. The air on my skin was gorgeous and not just because I’d been so well fucked earlier. She must feel it too. “Does it fill up later?”

“Yeah, it’ll get crazy tonight.”

“Well then I’m glad I’m here now.” Best flirtatious is accidental flirtatious because it’s unconscious flirtatious. And because it’s honest. “I’m Sarah.” Extended hand.

I usually don’t go straight to the name. I like the mystery of waiting, and if I ask right off I often forget the answer. But saying your name and extending your hand has this great advantage that you’re inviting the other person to touch you and they know exactly how to do it. (Well, they did until March of this year; shit.) Remember they’re more nervous than you are. Make it easy for them.

“Ellen.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ellen. If you don’t mind my asking, are you from Philly originally?”

“I’m from West Pennsylvania.” Hah!

“I thought so. You can spot long-time Philly people. You don’t have the stressed-out look or the dark circles under the eyes.”

She acknowledged with a nod. “I’m working here all summer. When the semester starts I’ll just do a few shifts.”

Oh you college cutie. “Cool, I did something similar to get through UCLA. Worked as a waitress in a seafood restaurant, absolutely hated it, found a job at a certain kind of cocktail bar and didn’t tell my family. That was an education. Seen much crazy shit here?”

Laughter. “A few fights, not much blood. This is a nice establishment. You don’t see the bouncers now but they’re there.”

“Guess I’ll leave my knife in my garter.”

She moved to serve other tables; I let her.

My mind was ready to drift too. Thought of that pretty barista in the morning… Grace was it? Yeah. Glad I didn’t hang around forcing the impossible, I’d have missed meeting Bianca. Thought of some of the really wonderful paintings I saw that day. Thought of the even greater artistry Bianca applied to my most personal and intimate places. I’m glad we did that together. She loved it. It delights me how much she loved every inch of me. She loved my taste, she loved my tongue in her.

Love, huh?

I think there’s some wisdom in what she whispered to me in the room. Danger too, and clearly she likes a bit of danger, but isn’t she right? When you’re really giving and sharing these moments, even if it’s a one-afternoon stand, isn’t that love? Who says it has to be a strict committed exclusive relationship sealed with a binding contract? Are we clones forced to fit a specific contractual mold or are we complex human beings?

And who says it really ended there, huh? I didn’t want a relationship with her, but I had her number in my phone, and… yes… I did indeed still have her smell on my fingers, mingling beautifully with the wine. Who says that’s not love? A soap bubble is more transient than a stone; is it less beautiful?

I was nearly done with my wine. The waitress, Ellen, was standing near me, scanning tables. On purpose?

I touched the back of her hand with my fingers, hoping it would impart a bit of Bianca sex magic. Okay yes I have a thing about this.

“Hey, I meant to ask you: if you’re working the summer, does that mean you’re here the rest of the week?”

She hesitated. I could almost see the internal shrug. “Not tomorrow. But the rest of the week, yeah.”

“Well, I’m a bit sleepy this evening, but if I’m lucky and get another quiet night I’d love to chat some more.”

She shrugged and said something noncommittal and took down my room number and signature for the bill.

Back in the room, setting the alarm on my phone I saw I had a text from Bianca. A single “kiss” emoji. I didn’t reply. I like having things to look forward to. Just the message brought back everything that had happened right in this room, and I went to bed in sheets still smelling of us both, feeling her kiss everywhere.

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