A germ of an idea has been circling the outside of my consciousness. Time to let it hit the bulls-eye.
My girlfriends have been having flings. Sexual flings. Not sure if any of the flings will convert to more, will stick. But right on, I say. Right the fuck on.
Datomantrix leads the pack. A new guy has turned up, in from the wilds of on-line dating and Suffolk County. She altered her hosiery for a date with him last week. He's amenable to driving in to town for sleepovers. Yee-ha.
(I've learned a new term from my East End pals. They call the regions on Long Island between the Hamptons and The City, "Mid-Island," or "Up-Island." Interpret that as you will.)
La Latina has not been idle either. She has tended to her biological needs with, let's just say, one of The Erasers. Seems to me that she is moving through the necessary stages after the protracted heartbreak of last year.
Surfer Girl scored a touchdown on Superbowl Sunday. She admitted the next day that she would have preferred the extra two hours of sleep. Instead. Let's just say she truncated the fellow's ego at the knees. The next victim is on deck, and from what I can glean, is psyched. Bon courage, dude.
Liz Taylor Jr. indulged with a Spaniard who was in town on business for a few days. Perfection, I think. Open to play, she seized, ahem, the opportunity - no emotional strings. Guilt-free, she claims. And he had "the most perfect ass." Oh honey, I know we women can so relate - that indentation on the perfect boy-butt. It looks and feels as though it was made for the heels of our hands. Place them here - and here. Yum.
Hot Momma may be working overtime in L.A. and in LA, the latter (the state) offering her renewed physical opportunities with a gorgeous man she's known since high school. Romantic, I'm sure. A convenient distance away, that too.
Sometimes, we're just open. Open to it. Like The Eraser Hypothesis, a set of factors lines up, deliberate or unconscious, or both. For example, you might sort-of say to yourself, okay, I've pounded four vodka martinis, and this attractive fellow is nuzzling my neck, sending tingles down my spine. It's not such a leap, is it?
Is it?
I have not indulged in a while. It's starting to gnaw. Last weekend, sprawled on my sofa, idling watching the Olympics, images of Il Romano danced across my mind. Lascivious images. Although I had allowed him to put his hands all over me, I didn't allow his massages to go further. He disappeared, then reappeared, and disappeared again. I am relieved that I didn't give in to him. I know I would feel bad now. And I don't have the space for that, at the moment.
Still I indulged in my fantasy. He smells of tobacco. His dark eyelashes are ridiculously long. His beard is rough. I remember looking at the tops of his hands when we had lunch a couple of weeks ago. Soft black hairs extended past his cuffs. He was playing with my fingers, dreaming out loud, "Cara, you come (it sounded like cahm) with me to Miami. It is a conference. You come." Dreaming.
Staying inside my fantasy, I remembered those hands on my hips, my legs, my thighs. And while I never saw him undressed, I could imagine his body as an epitome of all the things I call male. And adore. All the things that make a man a man. Different in every way from me. Nothing more exciting exists in the world as I know it.
I could imagine right down to that moment. When. When delirious from his artful ministrations, you cannot stifle that little inward gasp. And then.
And then.
Too bad he vanished. Too bad, because he was the first one to get that close...in a long time.
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