Acceptance

Author's Note:

I'll give my usual disclaimer. This story is written from my perspective as a straight man. I hope it's not alienating for female readers. This is the only perspective that feels authentic to me right now. Maybe someday I'll try a different point of view.

I edit my own stories. I found a few minor typos in my last submission, so I've been more careful with this story.

As always, I welcome feedback. I've enjoyed hearing people's thoughts, and it's probably the reason I've continued to submit stories and attempted to improve my writing.

Thank you for reading.

.....

Two years after my divorce I was still single and living alone. I was forty. My twelve years of marriage had been fairly successful, but my wife and I grew in different directions and eventually decided to part amicably. I didn't feel any pressure to find a new partner. I was learning to accept myself and live more honestly. This seemed to be an important step in my life.

Dating after so many years of marriage was strange. I used a dating app for the first time. It was kind of exciting at first. Many more young women expressed interest in me than I would have expected, but ironically, my interest in them was also less than I expected. I didn't want to be fetishized as an "older man". I'll admit, soon after my divorce, I did date a woman who was thirteen years younger than I. She was lovely, but there wasn't enough to sustain a deeper connection. Eventually I stopped using the app. I decided to let connections happen naturally in-person.

There were a few hits and many misses. I remember one evening in particular. I met a charming woman at a bar. We spent the evening talking. She was single, fascinating, and funny. We seemed to have great chemistry and a quick rapport. Toward the end of the night I considered asking her out on a date, when she offhandedly asked me if I could introduce her to any of my single female friends. It was only then I realized she was gay. Apparently the vibe I had been feeling was embarrassingly misguided. But I truly enjoyed my conversation with her, and it was a good reminder that authentically connecting with someone is its own reward. I decided to take this lesson and apply it to my future interactions.

A few months later I attended a gallery opening for my friend Jenna's most recent body of work. It was a full installation that had taken her weeks to complete. Openings weren't really much fun for me. I preferred to visit galleries after the work had been on display for a week or two so I could see it without feeling crowded by other people. But supporting my friend was important to me and I'd agreed to come.

I entered the gallery and admired the effort she'd invested in transforming the space. I took it in briefly before deciding to look for her to offer my congratulations. I moved through the crowded space, weaving through the tangle of trendy (if not slightly pretentious) art folk. Then I was compelled to stop abruptly. An alarmingly beautiful woman stood in my path. She was dark skinned, statuesque, and voluptuous, her hair in tight braids pulled back into a cascading ponytail. She was resplendent and commanding. I immediately felt a shock, a stab of panic like seeing a crush, even though I had never met this woman. We made eye contact as I approached, and my unconscious mind demanded something of me; a vague edict to speak.

"Hi," I said, as though we'd known each other for years.

"Hi!" She said returning my smile. "Have we met?"

"No. I'm confident I'd remember."

"Oh, okay," she said, still smiling, probably wondering why I had greeted her.

"I'm looking for Jenna. Do you know her?" I asked.

"Yeah! She's back there," she said pointing to the back corner of the gallery where Jenna was somewhat predictably lurking away from the crowd.

I thanked her and moved on, but my thoughts kept returning to her. I wanted to look back. I wanted to stare at her, to memorize her features and watch how she carried herself like a living sculpture. I delayed as long as I could, but as I approached Jenna I spun briefly to glance back in her direction. I found her looking back at me and quickly averted my eyes in embarrassment.

"Hi! Thank you for coming!" Jenna said, welcoming me with a hug.

"Congratulations!" I said. "This is incredible."

"Thank you."

"By the way, who the fuck is that?" I asked, too nervous to turn around and indicate who I meant.

"Who?" Jenna asked in confusion.

"The tall smokeshow, behind me. Is she still looking?"

"Oh, you mean Zoey? Yes, she's still looking," Jenna said, waving over my shoulder. "Why?"

"I don't know. I said 'hi' to her. It was a weird thing to do."

Jenna and I discussed her work for a while, but her attention was in high demand. She was soon whisked away by other friends and potential buyers, and I decided to leave before the wine reception.

I passed Zoey on the way out and introduced myself. "You're Zoey?"

"Yes," she said.

"I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier. I didn't mean to be rude," I said apologetically.

"Oh, no worries. It's nice to meet you. Jenna has mentioned you a few times."

We briefly talked about Jenna's art, but I didn't want to be intrusive, so I quickly excused myself.

"It was really great to meet you, Zoey. I'm actually taking off, but I hope you enjoy your night," I said. Then in a moment of dumb bravery I casually said, "By the way, you're magnificent," before I turned and left her smiling and probably bewildered.

I returned home feeling a little disappointed about my exchange with Zoey. Was I a creep? I didn't want to ruminate on it, so I tried to put it out of my mind. This happened to me from time to time. I'd replay conversations in my head, compulsively focusing on moments of awkwardness like small wounds I couldn't leave alone. I wished I'd been more charming and asked Zoey a thoughtful question about herself instead of being so enthralled by her physical beauty. I managed to forgive myself and chalked it up as another lesson in self compassion. Maybe I'd see Zoey again someday and have a proper conversation.

Two days later I got a text from an unknown number.

[Unknown: Hi! This is Zoey. I got your number from Jenna. I hope you don't mind. Do you want to grab coffee sometime?]

It was a shock. I thought I'd made a terrible impression on Zoey. I replied immediately. Maybe I was overeager, but I wanted to meet this woman and didn't want to mess it up a second time.

[Me: I'd love to have coffee with you.]

We met at a small café the next day. We had a lot in common. We were both divorced. Zoey had been single a year longer than I. We both hated dating apps.

Zoey was also an artist. We shared our work, exchanging phones to scroll through each other's images. As I fawned over her thoughtful and vibrantly colored art, I felt my admiration growing. Infatuation always starts like a dark seed planted deep in my heart, and I could sense its familiar roots beginning to sprout, groping its way into my limbic system, seeking purchase on something important to me, metaphorically tugging at my heartstrings. It hadn't yet grown into the dense mangrove it would become, but I knew it was there, silently expanding.

"Jesus, this is amazing," I sighed.

"So is yours!"

As it turned out, Zoey hadn't asked Jenna for my number. Jenna had given it to Zoey and told her I called her a "smokeshow."

Yes, I was a creep.

"Fucking Jenna," I thought, cursing her briefly before I appreciated the fact that Zoey never would have messaged me if Jenna hadn't intervened. She was actually a wonderful friend. This was little consolation for my embarrassment.

"I'm sorry I called you that," I admitted sincerely.

"Don't be. I was flattered. I don't get that kind of compliment often," Zoey offered forgivingly.

"Really?" I asked skeptically.

"It's a blessing and a curse. Most of my friends are skinny white girls. They get all the attention. That's usually good for me, but you know, it gets a little old."

"Okay, I'll tell you something at the risk of looking shallow."

"Ooh, tell me."

"I wanted to hit on you so badly the other night, based exclusively on how hot you are."

We both laughed.

I didn't want to dwell on it so I moved the conversation along. We chatted for another hour and didn't return to the subject. Our coffee date ended with a nice hug and mutual interest in seeing each other again.

Zoey and I met for drinks a week later. Again, our conversation was expansive and deep. We talked for three hours before I mustered the courage to reach across the table and take her hand. I nervously slid my palm across hers and she smiled, closing her fingers around mine and bringing her other hand to my wrist. Her hands felt small and silky against mine. I enjoyed the contrast of my light complexion against her dark skin. We talked while we touched each other's hands, communicating far more through our gently playing fingertips than our words. I ran my fingers up her palm and explored the thin tendons of her wrist, then tenderly folded her fingers into a fist and held her whole hand in my palm, gently kneading her forearm with my other hand. These were the terrifying simple touches that could only occur once in a relationship; the first touches. I will never forget the first time I touched her hands.

Our date ended with another hug and a chaste kiss, standing on the sidewalk while she waited for her ride to pick her up. I returned home, vibrating with excitement.

Our third date ended with a fiery make out session in my car as I tried to drop her off at her apartment. It started with slow deep kissing and escalated until we were breathless and disheveled. Our clothes stayed on, and we didn't take it further, which made the sexual tension exquisitely unbearable. We said good night and I savored the glorious ache of anticipation I would endure until I saw her again.

Our fourth date was three weeks later, frustratingly delayed by her travel plans. We agreed to have dinner at my house, which seemed like a big step. Cooking dinner didn't make me nervous. I was a serviceable cook. But having a date at my house was open-ended. It was more intimate than our previous dates, which had all been in public places. It also hinted at the possibility of sex. I hadn't slept with a woman in over a year. I didn't know if Zoey and I were ready to make that leap. I wanted to let the evening unfold without any expectations. I enjoyed the feeling of our connection slowly unraveling. I didn't want it to reveal itself too quickly. I wanted to hold onto the mystery of anticipation.

I considered this as I removed the paella from the hot burner. It struck me as an appropriate dish. It had to be heated, then covered and left to rest. It required patience. And then, after I'd waited long enough, I could slowly unwrap it and discover what was inside, but if I rushed it I risked ruining it. I had cooked a metaphor. I wondered If I had unconsciously selected paella for this reason.

I met her at the door when she arrived. It's hard to put into words how she looked to me. I could use words like "radiant" or "stunning", but those words are too abstract and detached to convey my feelings. How she looked made me want to melt into her and feel the warmth of her body. She gave me goosebumps. Her hair was no longer in braids. It was wild and free, her dancing tangle of black spiral curls parted dramatically to one side. She wore a black wool coat and scarf, which I took from her as she entered. Underneath she wore a simple light grey cotton dress and black boots. Her dress was long sleeved and form fitting, wickedly accentuating her ample curves in a way I hadn't seen before. I knew in that moment the anticipation I had been savoring was now unbearable. I wanted to touch her. I didn't want to stop touching her until I had explored every sensual curve, every nook and cranny, every inch of her. I was smitten.

I thought about what I was wearing. I just had on jeans and a t-shirt. I felt a little underdressed and wished I'd made more effort.

"You changed your hair," I observed nonchalantly, attempting to mask my swooning enthusiasm.

"Do you like it?"

"Oh yeah. I like it," I said, grinning. "Dinner will be ready in like twenty minutes. Do you want a glass of wine?"

"I'd love a glass of wine," she answered, beginning to explore my home.

I went to the kitchen to open the wine, and watched her as she milled around the living room, casually inspecting the art on my walls, then looking through the various photos I had framed.

"Is this your ex?" She asked holding up a photo from a friend's wedding.

"Uh, yes, that's her," I said trying to see the photo from across the room.

I poured our wine and joined her in the living room.

"She's gorgeous," Zoey said.

"Yes. She is," I admitted.

It would have been disingenuous to deny it. My ex wife was exceedingly beautiful according to conventional standards. She was a skinny white girl, with the long graceful body of a dancer. Other than height, Zoey and my wife had little in common, physically or otherwise. My ex wife was fair and blue-eyed. I remembered how those eyes often felt vacant and cold, unlike Zoey's. Zoey's warm chestnut eyes glowed with the light of a passionate inner life. I wanted to know what was behind her eyes if only in fleeting glimpses, to share something with her. We can never truly know another, but we can briefly touch each other and feel connected.

"So this is your type, huh?" She said taking a glass of wine from my hand. "Thank you."

"I don't have a type," I said honestly. "Right now, you're my only type," I continued reassuringly.

She looked at me skeptically.

"So your ex looks like me?" I asked hyperbolically.

She cracked a smile and we both laughed.

"That's fair. That's fair," she repeated, surrendering the point.

"Come here," I said.

She smiled and walked toward me slowly. As soon as she was within reach I threw my arm around her waist and pulled her to me.

"I fucking missed you," I said. "I've missed you since the last second we were together."

"I missed you to," she whispered.

I planted an soft kiss on her waiting lips. Then she pulled back. She took the glass of wine from my hand and placed both of our glasses on the coffee table. She slid back into my arms and placed her hand on the back of my head, pulling me into a deep kiss. I moaned into her mouth as our tongues explored each other. I felt her warm body under my palms as I placed my hands on her waist. Soon we were kissing frantically, her hand tugging at my t-shirt and running up and down my leg. I reached back and grabbed her ass, pulling her against me.

There was no way we were going to make it to dinner.

I broke our kiss as we breathed heavily. "Do you - " I said pausing nervously. "Do you want to go to the bedroom?"

"Oh god, yes!" She whispered enthusiastically.

We crashed haphazardly down the hall, bumping into each other as we tried to keep kissing and touching, almost falling into the bedroom before we regained our balance and slowed down.

"Let me take off your boots," I said.

She sat on the bed while I unzipped each boot and pulled them off gently before tossing them to the corner. Then I pulled her back to her feet. We undressed each other slowly, one article of clothing at a time, taking turns. Finally, she slid my underwear down and I stepped out of them while she watched, slowly swaying her hips and biting her lip. We stood there for a moment, looking at each other's fully naked bodies. I was so hard it nearly hurt.

She was perfect. I let my eyes travel up her well-formed legs to her shapely hips. She had the most perfect little tummy, slightly rounded and soft - the delightful cushion that women hate, but men love to touch. Everything about her was soft. Everything about her demanded to be touched. I admired her full breasts, punctuated by large swollen nipples a full shade darker than the rest of her skin. Then I shamelessly looked down to her crotch, where she had left just a hint of short black hair unshaved.

I stepped forward pulling her to me again, my rigid erection pressed upward against her tummy. My hands grasped at her, rudely taking handfuls of her soft round ass. I was going to fuck this woman and make her cum.

I walked her back until her legs met the bed and she sat reflexively. I cradled the back of her neck, pulling her luscious lips against mine as I kissed her wildly. My mouth moved, searching hungrily over her chin and down her neck. I knew where my mouth needed to go, but I wanted to explore every inch of her on the way down. With one hand behind her back to hold her upright, I plunged my mouth over her collarbone, my free hand discourteously groping her soft body. Finding one of her heaving breasts I lifted it crudely, cradling my handful of tit as my mouth descended on her other breast. I circled my tongue around the border of her wide areola teasingly, spiraling inward slowly until my mouth hovered over her erect nipple. I let her feel my hot breath on her sensitive skin, then lightly flicked my tongue over her swollen nipple before engulfing her with my mouth. I sucked her tit gently while we both moaned together. I pressed her breasts together, savoring their weight in my hands and squeezing them closer so I could lick her from one nipple to the other.

Still gripping her breasts tightly, I let my mouth wander further down her body as she fell back to her elbows. I dropped to one knee and parted her legs as I kissed and licked my way down her abdomen. Then I placed my hands behind her knees and lifted her legs, spreading them. I kissed the insides of her thighs as the insistent scent of her arousal begged my mouth the find her dripping sex.

Suddenly I felt tension in her body. She had been melting in my hands, but now I sensed something was wrong. I stopped and raised my eyes to meet hers.

"Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?" I asked with concern.

"No, I don't want to stop. It's just that I don't know about that," she replied uncertainly. "You know, what you're about to do."

"Oh," I said, feeling a little confused.

I stood up and joined her on the bed. We lay facing each other and continued touching tenderly.

"Do you dislike oral sex?" I asked gently.

"I like giving it," she offered in consolation.

"Does it not feel good to you?"

I'd known women who genuinely disliked receiving oral sex. I understood that it simply didn't feel good to some people, and I wondered if this was true for Zoey.

"It does feel good. It just makes me feel a little selfish," she admitted. "I get self conscious. I'd rather focus on you."

"Okay. We don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but if it feels good to you, then I just want you to know I'd love to do that for you."

"I want to do things we both enjoy," she replied.

I truly didn't want to be pushy, but I could just tell she was holding something back, so I couldn't let myself drop it.

"Do you think I wouldn't enjoy it?" I asked gently. Then I took her wrist and guided her hand to my erection. "Does it feel like I'm not excited?"

She wrapped her hand around my rigid shaft and stroked me slowly. "Mmm. No. You feel very excited," she said smiling warmly. "Why do you want to do that so bad?"

"Because you're so fucking hot I want to taste you." I said, surprising myself. "You drive me crazy and I want you all over me."

"God damn!" she said, blushing and unable to suppress her wide grin. "You, sir, are very persuasive. I think that's the dirtiest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Shit. Did that bother you?" I replied.

"Hell no. That was hot," she said chuckling. "You can talk as dirty as you want."

"Okay," I said, pausing. "If you don't want to lie back and receive, maybe we should please each other at the same time?"