by Mimi Strong
“Really.” I swallowed hard. “Sure, let's try that.”
Which brings us back to the dining room table, and me being served up like dessert. I hadn't suggested such a non-traditional, non-bed type location, but we'd come in the door kissing, he'd ground me up against the table, and things just happened then and there. He even sat in a chair so he could be comfortable and take his time.
Do I recommend this position? Oh, yes. Yes, I do. Dim the lights and pull the blinds so you don't feel like you're being medically examined (unless that does it for you), and close your eyes and enjoy the other kind of kissing.
Devin asked for instructions, but I refused to give any, saying he'd have to watch for subtle signs, such as muscle tension and moans. (Also, because I wasn't sure how to put the instructions into words. You may think I'm a worldly gal, but I can barely say the word clitoris out loud.) As he pulled off my panties, he said, “I might do everything wrong.”
“I'm willing to take my chances.”
He kissed the insides of my thighs, first one side, then the other. My dress was still on, just pulled up.
He lowered his face to my mound, and I had to close my eyes out of nervousness. I felt his hot breath on my pussy, and then his lips, kissing me on the thatch of fur, my little triangle, and then his lips on my bare skin, where I'd been waxed.
As he kissed me on my swelling lips, I squirmed on the table, trying to get away from him and also get closer, all at the same confusing time.
Tenderly, he stroked my labia with his fingertips, parting them, and then he applied his lips and tongue. He swirled the tip of his tongue over my clit.
Into my pussy, he murmured, “Found it.”
“You sure did.”
He licked the firm nub up and down, then round and round. He brought me up and let me simmer as he moved his tongue further down, exploring my folds and opening.
I was going to tell him he was doing a great job, but he moved up quickly and set upon my clit with determination. In just a few minutes, I was a shaking, quivering mess. My moans pitched up and I think I muttered something about how he'd better not stop, and soon I was coming.
I gripped the sides of the wood table underneath me and groaned as I came, my eyes opening and fixing on the sleek light fixture above the table.
“Wow,” Devin said. “That was even better than I expected.”
I sat up, my head feeling woozy and stars flying around the room.
“You liked that?”
He grinned.
Now sitting on the edge of the table, I leaned down to kiss him. He pulled me in, hungrily meeting my lips.
You'd never guess that a month earlier, the guy had been afraid of kissing. Now he was a pro-quality kisser for all three types of kissing.
I pulled away and jumped off the table.
“I want to show you how good you made me feel,” I said. “Do you want me to give you a special kiss right here, or in your bedroom?”
“You don't have to.”
I looked him squarely in the eyes. “Devin, I want to. Some girls love to give head. I am one of those girls, so… lucky you.” I reached down and fondled the thick rod he was sporting inside his jeans. “I want you in my mouth.”
He ducked his head in the cutest way and said, “Mm-kay.”
We took a lightning tour of his apartment, which was really big. He lived there alone, yet he had three bedrooms, with one set up as a guest room for out-of-town friends, and one as a home office. He led me into his bedroom, which was much nicer than the typical bachelor pad.
I looked around at the trendy paint colors, framed art, and matching furniture. “Did you hire a decorator?”
“Yes and no. We re-decorated the rooms at the hotel a year ago, and the designer insisted on doing a modified version for my home bedroom.”
“Lucky you.”
He looked around sheepishly. “I think the poor fellow had a crush on me, and assumed that since I didn't have a girlfriend…”
“You heartbreaker, you.”
He shrugged.
We both glanced over at his bed at the same time, then laughed. I pointed to his hand, because he was holding my panties, and we laughed again.
I jumped on the sexy bed with all the pillows and patted the spot next to me.
Devin got on the bed and crawled toward me on his hands and knees. We kissed as I unfastened his button-down shirt and then his jeans. We got him stripped down and lying on his back.
The room was warm and comfortable.
I kissed him some more and then moved down his torso, licking and tasting his smooth skin as I went. I grabbed his erection in my hand, wrapping my fingers around quickly.
He shuddered and tensed, then relaxed.
I lowered my face to him, breathing in his musk, and I swirled my tongue around the head, then took him into my mouth.
He breathed in audibly through his nostrils, a reaction that was the sexiest sound I'd ever heard. With one hand around the base to help, I sucked and licked him, drawing the experience out by slowing it down when he seemed close to the edge.
Finally, I took a break long enough to tell him he could come if he wanted to, and he could come in my mouth, just in case he'd been waiting for permission.
He grunted in response.
I straddled his legs, rubbing myself against him as I took him in my mouth again and bobbed him in and out.
His whole body seemed to draw in on itself, like the gathering of a pool of energy, and then he was so hard, and thrusting against me, then shooting in my mouth. I massaged the base of his cock and kept pleasuring him until he was done. I swallowed easily, happy to have his essence inside me, then I kissed the tops of his legs and the bottom of his stomach and then up, over his chest and to his neck.
He sighed and wrapped his arms around me, hugging me tight.
After a moment of holding each other, he said, “Feather, you are the hottest, sexiest girl in the whole world.”
“But?”
“There is no but.”
I rolled off him and got comfortable along his side, snuggling my head on his outstretched arm.
Running my hand over his smooth chest, I said, “I thought for sure there'd be a but.”
Ask him, I thought, but I couldn't form the words. I couldn't just ask him if this was a date and he liked me, or if he was just practicing with me, his Kissing Coach, so he could bring his experience to someone else.
“I'm wondering about that Indian restaurant you took me to,” I said.
“What about it?”
“I guess you go there a lot?”
“Yes.”
My heart started to pound. “Have you considered dating that pretty girl who was our waitress?”
“Yes.”
My insides shriveled painfully. “Oh.”
“I'm just teasing you. She's my cousin. Even if she wasn't my cousin, she's not really my type.”
I had to replay in my head what he'd said. The girl was his cousin. And she wasn't his type. He'd really said those words, and I hadn't imagined it.
“My type is bossy white girls,” he said.
Pretending to be offended, I said, “I don't know anyone like that.”
He rolled to his side and took my hand tenderly, then moved it further down. He was hardening again, and gave me a mischievous look as I squeezed him.
“Oh, my,” I said.
“Oh, my,” he repeated.
We then said “Oh, my,” to each other, over and over, in a cute fashion that would probably make anyone besides us gag at the horrible cuteness of it all.
After that, we were kissing and getting ready for the second round, when my phone beeped. It was the reminder beep, and I realized what time it was. I had a client meeting, in less than twenty minutes.
You might wonder, how could I have been so stupid?
My only explanation is that I'd been so nervous about the date, it was as if nothing else existed after the planned museum outing.
I jumped off the bed and retrieved my panties, then cleaned up in the washroom. I debated long and hard about using Devin's toothbrush. Did I have penis-breath? Was that even a thing? And if I did, would it be fair to get it all over his toothbrush? It had been his penis, after all.
In the end, I used the ol' finger-as-a-toothbrush and followed with some mouthwash.
As soon as I exited the bathroom, Devin grabbed me for a kiss on the way out.
“Minty,” he said.
“I didn't use your toothbrush.”
“It's okay if you did.”
I gave him one last kiss, then pulled away.
Out in the hall, he called after me, “I'll call you!”
“You have the number!” I said as I stepped into the elevator.
I got all the way to my appointment with my coaching client before I started to over-analyze our parting words.
I'll call you, he'd said. As in… don't call me, I'll call you?
What the hell did that mean?
I tried to push it from my mind and focus on my session. I was meeting with Justine, the forty-one-year-old woman who was trying to break her pattern of choosing the wrong men.
We met at her house, and she had some sandwiches set out, which was perfect, because I was famished.
Justine held up two bottles of wine. “Red or white?”
“I don't drink at client meetings,” I said.
“Except for at our last session.”
I grinned. “I don't have anything in my notes about drinking.”
My mind was churning, though. Why had I shared the wine with Justine? Ah, right. My meeting with her had been right after my second meeting with Devin, when he'd run off, terrified at the idea of spontaneously kissing me while we watched television.
I'd been unbalanced that night, as I was again, even though the kissing issue had been resolved.
“White wine,” I said. “I tend to spill things on myself, so I stay away from red wine, unless I'm wearing burgundy.”
“Smart.”
I winked at Justine. “Knowing your weaknesses is half the battle.”
“Doctor, heal thyself.”
She handed me a glass, and I gave it a swirl. What the heck was I doing with Devin? Our ratio of talking time to naked time was way off. If I were a dating client of my own, I'd give myself royal heck.
I asked Justine, “What does 'Doctor, heal thyself' even mean? I thought a doctor who treated himself had a fool for a patient?”
She didn't know, so I rambled on for a bit, trying to work it out, but then gave up. The expressions themselves don't contain the wisdom, so they don't have to make sense. The important part is that your mind struggles to make sense of them, and in doing so, upends other thoughts in your head. It's like when company comes over and you have to clean your apartment and you find something you thought you'd lost.
My afternoon session with Justine went well. She'd made wonderful progress and had a few casual dates lined up with interesting men. I had a suspicion that some of the guys had gotten help from their own dating coaches or female friends, because their profiles were miles better than average.
I find it odd that men don't understand the number one rule when it comes to courting women in the digital age: start off bland.
I know that sounds illogical, and most guys upon hearing my advice will be annoyed. “What about showing some personality? What about standing out?” they say.
The truth is, though, that men and women are not the same, and the rules are different. The worst thing that can happen to a guy on a blind date is he might get rejected. The worst thing for a woman is she could be assaulted and killed. (Apologies for the downer, but it's true.) Each party has to be empathic to the other and their fears.
Ladies, in your profiles, please stop talking about your demands to be treated like a princess. You are single and using an internet dating site. You are probably not in line for a throne or title.
Guys, keep your answers brief, and do feel free to make a few jokes, but not so many as to appear flippant. I mean, save a few for the date, right? If you want to maximize your appeal, you have to leave some breathing room in your profile so that women can fill in the blanks. You know what women love? Potential.
If you're a guy, you might consider using a photo of yourself looking healthy and attractive, but wearing a hideous shirt or tie. The woman can hold her thumb over the photo (as I've seen my client Justine do) and imagine you in a tuxedo, on your wedding day.
Justine and I finished up our session by going through her closet and making a shopping list of wardrobe essentials to purchase on our next shopping trip.
The list is important, because if you don't have a plan, you might buy a red leather jacket because it's on sale and blow your whole budget. (I speak from experience.) As I was leaving her place, checking the bus schedule on my phone and feeling a little wobbly from the half-bottle of wine I'd enjoyed, I got a text message.
Devin: When are you off work?
Me: One minute ago!
Devin: You should come back over to my place.
Me: Should I?
Devin: Please? Pretty please with sugar on top?
Me: On my way. ;-)
That wasn't too painful, I thought as I knocked on the door of his apartment. I thought Devin would make me wait for days before calling. I'd barely had time to freak out over everything.
Was it possible things would simply be easy for us from this point on? I'd heard that love could be that way. Love. Gosh. I stood outside his door and tried not to think about the word love.
He pulled open the door with a flourish, saw me, and looked up and down the hall.
“That's odd,” he said. “I thought I ordered three hot girls from the Hot Girl Delivery service.”
I poked him on the chest as I walked into the apartment. “I don't think you're ready for three yet. You can barely handle this one.”
He grinned, looking so devilishly handsome with those thick, dark eyelashes over those dancing brown eyes. “I'd like to handle this one.”
I raised my arms to embrace him. “Handle away.”
He scooped me up in his arms, lifting me off the ground, then swirled me around until I squealed.
My toes touched the floor again, but my head was still spinning when he kissed me.
“Hmm,” he said against my lips.
I caught his lower lip between mine and sucked it loosely. Our mouths parted, our tongues touched, and he suddenly pulled back, as though jolted by electricity.
I stood still as he kept stepping back, his expression blank, his eyes wide.
I'd seen that look before; he was scared.
“What's wrong?” I asked. “Too soon? What?”
We were still standing just inside the door of his apartment, but Devin was inching away from me, further into the galley-style kitchen.
“You were drinking,” he said.
I gasped and covered my mouth. “Yes. I had some wine with Justine. I really shouldn't have, of course, but…”
Staring into his eyes, gone dim and no longer dancing, I retraced our conversations for clues. At our first meeting in the coffee shop, he'd mentioned he didn't drink. I hadn't thought much of it at the time, of course, but now…
“Devin, why don't you drink? Did you ever have a drinking problem? Or is it a spiritual or religious thing? If so, I'm really sorry I didn't know, and that I kissed you with wine on my breath.”
He frowned, his eyes sad now.
“Talk to me.” I took a step toward him, but he pulled back by two.
My voice shaking, I said, “I can leave, if you want.”
He shook his head rapidly, still not saying anything.
I said, “I'm getting worried. Should we sit down somewhere and talk about this?”
He opened a cupboard, took out a glass, then poured some water and drank it down slowly, his gulps audible.
He set down the glass carefully and said, “My mother used to kiss me good
night.”
I didn't know where this was going, but I didn't want to be standing at the edge of his kitchen. I didn't want him to clam up, either, so I stayed where I was.
“Yes?” I said, prompting him for more.
He opened the cupboard again, as though addressing someone inside it, and not me. “She could hide it from my father, because they never kissed. She said she didn't like his mustache.”
“Hide what?”
He turned to me, seemingly startled to not be alone.
His voice matter-of-fact, he said, “That she'd started drinking again.” He cleared his throat. “That she'd never actually quit at all.”
“And you kept her secret?”
“She gave me the bottles and I buried them in the neighbor's garbage.”
“The whole time you were growing up?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
I remembered the things he'd told me at our previous meetings. He'd stopped getting a bedtime kiss, but I'd assumed it was just part of him getting older. Had it been to avoid knowing her secret, smelling it on her?
He opened the cupboard wide and stared into it again, as though it held the answer.
Had Devin's mother been drinking the night of the accident?
My stomach was heavy; my whole body was heavy, like cement, yet I wanted to turn and run.
“Devin, it's not your fault.”
When he answered, his voice sounded cold and distant. “Everybody's so quick to say that, because they don't want to believe the truth. We all have responsibilities.”
Though my instinct was to keep talking, keep reassuring and encouraging him, I remembered my limited amount of training and tried to step back and observe. His breathing was short and shallow, and he was in emotional distress, overloaded.
Stepping into the kitchen slowly, I said, “Let me make you a cup of tea. Would you like that? Chai? Or just regular tea?”
He nodded.
I stepped carefully around him and hunted everything down.
“Should I heat the milk on the stove?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Just use the chai teabags and add honey and milk when it's done.”