I am a phylogynist, a lover of women. I believe every woman is unique, I have nibbled, grazed, yes, even gorged myself on several of those I’ve met. But all of that is but a dim memory since she came into my life. Yet I remain, a connoisseur of the intimate acts a man and woman can do to pleasure each other. I just want to do them all with her and no one else.

I was never a man looking for a 10, or 9, or even a 5, I won’t grade women on looks alone. I was only ever interested in women, who hadn’t explored every aspect of her own being, including sexual, and wants a partner committed to mutual exploration. She only has to be intelligent, searching for the finer things, healthy, fastidious, enticing, seductive, amorous, sensually passionate and understanding. Certainly not too much to ask?. My lover is the answer to all that and more. She is the object of all my fantasies.

For me a “date” with the woman I love involves an evening out…. food, music, theater, dancing, a night in and breakfast in the morning…. I know my way around the kitchen. As the evening out is indeed a prelude to the night in, the temptation begins there. She is fastidious about herself, hygiene, hair, makeup, clothes. It helps my ego to feel that her appearance says to the entire world… at least the men. “I’ve got IT, but only he can have IT.” Most women can feel like a 10, if they care seriously about themselves. My love is definitely my 10.

I think a woman out for the evening should dress like a woman, slacks are verboten. Sensuous lingerie is a definite must; a lacy bra, garter belt and stockings can be a big turn-on. This particular night, she wore a feminine suit in a color most becoming to her. Under the jacket she was as daring as she felt comfortable, wearing a thin, lacy under-wired bra that enhanced her decolletage. The key to all of this is don’t show too much to the men about you but dangle the temptation constantly at the man by your side. The nice thing about garter belts and stockings, she need wear nothing else underneath, welcoming the stolen caress of her inner thigh or higher if the moment presents itself. Only she and I will know. She knows all these tricks and more.

If dress lights the flame of seduction, then personality, attitude and responsiveness fuel the fire. My love returns my attention, clues me to her particular wants, desires, needs. I want her to be affectionate in public but not too effusive or gushing and she is. I like her subtle touch, a brief but lingering caress, that little hug to set off my hormones. We like to touch dance, there is no more sensual act a man and woman can do short of the conjugal bed… at least in refined company. There you are; sliding against the body you long to pleasure, swaying to the rhythm of the music not unlike the rhythmical, surging pulse of lovemaking. Remember at those high school dances…. the band played a slow dance…. that hunk whose pants you would have died to get into and he in yours asked you to dance…. the two of you melted all over one another…. parting slowly after the music ended oblivious to the points of your breasts or the bulge in his crotch. Those feelings of pure sexual desire are some of the best memories of my life. Why not recapture them once-in-a-while.

So now, we have wined and dined, listened to the words of the beloved bard or his erstwhile imitators or basked in the sweet or cacophonous tones of musicians, even danced a while close together. Thus ends the evening out then begins the night in. The ride home is filled with the electricity of our sexual tension, the nervous laugh, the quickened breath, the pounding in our chests, the changes between both our legs. The key in the door, it opens then closes sealing out the gaze of others. I pause, teetering on the brink. The animal in me wants to take her right there in the hall “she’ll think I don’t respect her” and she pauses too. Her impulse is to drive her tongue deep into my mouth “he’ll think I’m a slut”. So we move tentatively, cautiously to the couch, and eventually everything happens. But we maintain the decorum for just a little longer.

I love to kiss and so does she; we literally take each other’s breath away. The kisses and cuddling give way to the slow and deliberate caress and fondling of two astute lovers. Her flesh is discretely exposed. Her skin glows, goose bumps appear, her breasts tighten, both nipple harden outward pulling the skin at its base into wrinkles. My lips and tongue strike southward down her neck in search of the milky swells and pink buttons no eye could miss, paying homage to her along the way. I circle the heaving mounds with my tongue and lips, drawing down my bead on the dark pink nubs. I suckle softly, baby-like, increasing my suction and force until I am a ravenous man, devouring this source of sustenance. Got Milk? This ravenous man now seeks out other delectables. Now the real reason for garter belts and stockings come to light. With little effort, I can now lay open the altar to Aphrodite and prepare its sacrifice to the Satyr.

Then comes the dilemma, or several of them. Am I fresh enough for what comes next? Do I need to go before? Isn’t the couch too uncomfortable? Maybe she doesn’t give in to it right away and my zipper slides down and her hand removes the swollen implement. She looks at it thinking, “It’s bigger tonight for some reason.” But it’s really no bigger, just big… thick and long. Some of her fingers encircle its more than 5 inches in circumference. She strokes downward, gliding the last remnants of the uncut foreskin from the bulbous head. It looks like one of those new Army helmets, glistening with slippery fluid. As she nears the end of its 8-inch length, the stretched skin pulls the head flatter, a red bumbershoot mottled with purple. She pushes down and squeezes, the urge of release rears momentarily in my sack and then subsides. Will she? I ask without muttering a word, as she slides to her knees.

The answer is quick. My waist unbuttoned, she pulls my trousers, then black cotton briefs to my knees. The rest eventually becomes a blur as I watch that Army helmet swallowed again and again, devoured with such relish by those rouge lips. Despite the onslaught the shaft grows more bolt erect and the urge of release is harder to ignore. I wonder did the Satyr pray to Jupiter to see it disappear one more time? There is no time to wonder, as with a gasp I erupt in near Vesuvian style. There is now a denouement, the dilemmas return, and this time to be answered in full. A recess declared, reconvene in bed ASAP.

The animal urge at the front door returns, this time without the former encumbrances. She again lies on the altar to Aphrodite, this time naked and suppliant. I begin again in earnest, the kisses, the lascivious use of hands… not a football penalty here, the suckling and tonguing driving ever southward in search of the opening through which all of mankind has passed. There is an air of sweet, heady perfume as the portals of mankind spread open before me and I commence to devour its folds. The pace of things has quickened, a gasp then a long moan and her clamping thighs bury me in the pulsing folds.

I lose track of time. Has my sojourn here been only a few minutes or stretched into hours or days? Did I dream this surreal Ecstasy…. her thighs burying my face into her again and again? I gasp for air as she pulls me ever northward away from the portal. As I drag across the sheets, my God, is my tool steel? I look in her face and her lips mouth a curious word that begins with “F.” I do not hear her but the words stop as I watch the Army helmet disappears. Now the rhythm of the dance overtakes me and the Army helmet appears and vanishes at the Portals of Mankind. That soldier is fighting a ferocious battle. To the victor belongs the spoils and the vanquished happily receives my seed. Battle won, the combatants crawl into each other’s arms as sleep enfolds us.

With a click, MORNING EDITION on NPR fills the room with the sounds of reality. We cuddle together, wondering if the fantasy was real, afraid to break the spell if we ask. My rigid shaft and the slick coating of her folds convinced us it was and might be again. Immediately she is mounted to that task. Such urgency on a still sleepy morning, steel meeting soft flesh then a gushing deposit warms her inside. Sated, I switch off the news and rise to shower and begin the finale, breakfast. She eats but a little, grapefruit, tea, a bite of omelet and one from a fresh baked roll. Work beckons me; there is never enough time. We leave each other at the most inopportune times. Her kiss at the door makes me believe in fantasy again. The Portals Of Mankind remain my Arc de Triumphe.

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