The Art of Sex Ch. 01

Forward -- A Poetic Prelude
A fig inspires awe
when eaten slowly. Raw.
Parting softbud flower,
lapping there, posthaste.
Inhaling her musky power,
& savoring every taste.
Consuming -- in a sense --
may seem over bold
but this subtle quince,
has fleshy depths untold.
We've all surely heard
[& hung on every word.]
"Good things come,
to those who wait."
It's this exotic plum
that I so long to sate.
Parted, tongue within,
kissing slit-to-maw.
Yes, lips to lips akin,
a fig inspires awe.

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Introduction -- Meeting the Übermensch

You think about everything you've shared so far with a man you met in such a casual way on the Internet. It shocks you how drawn you feel through this shared fantasy. This man makes you feel electric and in a way that you haven't felt for some time. He has a way with words. He amuses and arouses you with them. And you now imagine you have much in common. Naughty things. He knows you love naughty talk. And you want to share some. And photos. It gives you a secret guilty thrill knowing your image alone can make a cock grow firm.

You want to be wanted.

After an extended getting-to-know-you email exchange without ever leaving the anonymity of the Web, then reading an overtly erotic poem that spoke to your very core you were more than ready to give yourself to this man sight unseen. You want to make your naughty fantasies real. But you created a scenario to make yourself comfortable sharing yourself. As you became progressively more drawn in, you decided that meeting in a public place before showing up at a hotel room is a very good idea. It provides a sense of comfort you can change your mind and run away if need be.

He seems safe and you are aroused by the way he describes the things that delight you. His words caress you slowly. So, why do you need to be so cautious? Then again, what's the hurry? You want to kiss him. You imagine arousing him. You secretly want unrestricted sex, but you won't ever take that risk. You are happy at home. Then again, what is a life without some risk? "Which is it?" you ask yourself. You're not making sense.

You agreed him to meet you for a drink to make sure you are compatible. And you deserve the escape. In route to your meeting, you begin musing about sex. You are feeling wanton. Ready. There is a subtle quiver between your legs. You try to ignore it.

You think to yourself, "talking sexy is not revealing, it is expressive." Sure, we all feel vulnerable when we are naked. And, who isn't a bit insecure about showing their most private parts to another human being we just met. But that really reveals nothing. Sharing your emotional self -- your genuine feelings -- or a piece of your own writing with the expressed purpose of evoking an emotion in another that reveals much more than removing your clothes. Literary expressions can strip away social restrictions and bare your soul. Sharing your inner fantasies reveal hidden traits that you bury from yourself -- that's real nakedness. You want to share these with him.

When a partner unwraps your desires and then serves them back to you in their own way, they taste far different that you when imagine them. That the thrill of sexual discovery. What is this man going to serve up for you, you wonder. With that thought your Uber pulls up the curb. "No turning back now, it's just a drink," you tell yourself as you exit the car.

And now here you are -- standing streetside, in front of Pépé le Moko. A bar with a silly movie name. A first date. Or whatever this is, you think. He captivated your erotic mind with a poem about cunnilingus. And you now find yourself imagining him providing just that. He describes himself as vanilla, but his mind seems to reflect your own hidden eros. He is calming and directly sexual at the same time. That is a tad unsettling... but also very arousing.

Here he comes, strolling down the sidewalk directly towards you. You've done this before, you're not a girl. You are just meeting a man... but the first time is always a little scary. You want to turn and walk away. You feel paralyzed and cannot move. "It's just a cocktail, you can stop at any time, just as he promised you." You remind yourself this as you straighten your little black dress. Coco Chanel would be proud of your choice -- It's hot. It highlights your cleavage. More important, it shows off your legs. You even thought about this as you shaved them. You imagined his hands sliding up them smoothly from ankle to knee and then parting them. But that is too much for now. This dress I just short enough that you feel a need to tug it down. Yes, you decided to dress for a date. You like how you look.

But you now wish you had worn jeans or anything more casual. No, damn it, you really don't. You're a smart, gorgeous, and empowered woman so why not flaunt it? He will love you as you are. But the nerves remain. So, you remind yourself yet again, "It is just a cocktail."

The word "cock-tail" now sounds far more erotic than it normally would. Male and female parts forcefully conjoined. In fact, somehow that word is now vaguely suggestive of rough sex. Stop worrying, he seems safe. Thoughtful. Romantic. But a little intimidating.

"Cocktail. Cocktail. Cocktail," you find yourself repeating robotically as if you are repeating the words back to a hypnotist as his trance-inducing tricks begin to take effect on you. Actually, they are. You can't stop thinking about him.

"Hello?" you query, knowing full well it is "HIM". He doesn't look scary at all. Then you suddenly realize your pussy is already getting wet.

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Chapter 1 -- A Change of Tense

I motion you toward the Pépé le Moko lounge and open the door. You comply and enter. It is a tiny vestibule on street level. In effect it is just a stair landing and an immediate decent into the dark. I touch your lower back in an innocent and gentlemanly fashion and say, "Come on, let's go, baby." I suspect you're wondering if I called you baby to be informal, or to unnerve you. I used "baby" to establish intimacy, not meant in a sexist way. It's meaningful to me.

Now entering and going down these stairs, I'm feeling very happy my online messages led to this meeting. The hostess shows us to our table. Actually, it's a booth. You slide in first and sit in the middle space, and I follow. I am sitting to your right, at a slight right angle due to the curve of the seat. This will make conversation more comfortable once we can see again. I touch your hand on the table. This unnerves you a bit as it seems overly intimate. But you get the feeling that it was my intent. Then I wink at you.

At least you think I winked -- It is so dark. I told you it was a romantic bar, but you're thinking, "Only if romantic means pitch black."

The waiter brings the menu. You notice a Thai appetizer, thot man kung, that appeals to you. You start to remove your glasses to read further until I say let me do that. What an odd man, you think as I reach up with both hands and gently remove your glasses. Then I lean in and kiss you softly as soon as the waiter turns to walk away. This makes you very uncomfortable, but you kiss back. I look you in the eyes and say, "I'm very pleased to meet you."

For me, there's no gesture more intimate than removing a lover's glasses. This is more sensual than helping her out of her panties. It is an act of loving intimacy. And it reveals the eyes and initiates direct eye contact. I look directly into yours. This direct romantic gesture unnerves you. I knew it would.

I call the waiter back immediately and say, "May I have the wine list?" Then I add to you, "What would like?"

You say you would also like a glass of wine. So, I ask, "Do you mind if I select it for you?" and then proceed to do so. I select an interesting sparkling rosé from Loire and proceed to tell you that it is an unusual sparkling wine made from Cabernet Franc. We continue to make small talk until the waiter arrives with our drinks, with me nervously displaying my interest in wine. When the waiter returns I say, "cheers!" You smile and raise your own glass to mine. You seem to have lost any insecurity you might have had.

I take your apparent confidence, as a cue to unnerve you -- again. I remove my left hand from the menu and put it under the table. I let it rest on your right thigh on top of your little black dress. It is just high enough on your leg to be provocative, but not so high as to seem vulgar. You do not flinch nor acknowledge my move. Instead of reacting, you rather coolly ask if I would like to share an appetizer. "Perhaps something a bit spicy." you say provocatively with a wry smile as if reminding me you are fond of naughty talk. Your comfort appears to be growing. And any guilt seems to be fading.

I reach for my drink with my right hand and take a sip. This requires me to lean forward a bit and thus raise my left hand slightly from your thigh as I do. You use this moment of reduced pressure on your leg as an opportunity to adjust yourself in your seat. You slide your hips forward ever so slightly and adjust your skirt upward a bit with your left hand. So, when I drop my hand back down onto your leg, it is now resting directly on your thigh.

Warm. Bare. Skin.

I know that sliding your hips forward slightly could just be incidental movement to make yourself more comfortable in your seat, but the intentional raising of your skirt -- however slight -- is a clear signal. Or, is that an accident too? One thing is certain; I am now confident that you would like to be on the evening's menu even if you would never go through with it.

My left hand is no longer separated from you by a thin fabric barrier, it's now hotly resting directly on your leg. I remained motionless. We both look straight ahead in somewhat uncomfortable silence. Both wondering: "What to say next?" I ask which dish you are considering. I ramble on about flavor profiles and wine pairings for a bit. You pretend to care. You are glad I am just talking about anything. But your mind is on my hand. It's hot. You wonder to yourself if I know this is making you wet. Perhaps, you think, "I have made myself too vulnerable already." Does he know I secretly want him? You want to tell him how you most like being fucked, and share fantasies that you've long kept secret. Will you do so? Can you?

Yet, despite the self-doubts, you slip forward very so slightly again as you take a sip from your glass. Thanks for the clear signal. But my left hand does not move in position on your leg. I let it slide forward with you. Then, after a brief pause, I raise the glass in my other hand again very casually to my lips. I drain my glass and return it to the table. Leaning forward as I lower the glass; my left hand now comes away from your right thigh. You can now only feel coolness there -- filling a void that was formerly the hot shape of my palm.

You exhale audibly at the loss of contact. This change of position definitely isn't what you were hoping your signal would achieve. You did not want me to remove my hand. You wanted to communicate that you would allow it to rest slightly higher on your leg if I were inclined to move it there while we chat. Just slightly more inviting. Just slightly more erotic. But not vulgar. You were matching my spontaneity. You wonder if I took your shift as a signal to remove my hand.

But, as I lift my left hand from your leg, I rotate my body slightly toward you. My left hand comes up from under the table and very careful grasps a wisp of blonde hair from your cheek. This gesture seems over solicitous and almost paternal. I say sincerely, "You look gorgeous tonight." This action is rather mood-breaking for you. Especially so, when combined with me softly saying, "I noticed there was something in your hair," just as our eyes meet.

You seem to appreciate of my attentiveness, but have your expression suggests a slight sense of disappointment that I moved my hand to perform such a mundane task. Especially after your own signal for me to move forward with the faux seduction. You have made it clear that sex is not your end game.

With you still focused on the disappointing departure of my warm left hand, its mirrored pair has plans of its own. My move was just distraction; a misdirection made as much for the dining room as for you. I made you self-conscious by my grooming gesture. But, as your attention is drawn to your own hair, my right hand has gone forgotten under the table. As I turn toward you it crosses my body. And while my left hand delicately feigns the removal of some small thing from your brow, I rotate my upper body toward you. This new position allows me to slide my right hand up your skirt, directly between your thighs.

My above-table action -- the intentional ruse of my grooming gesture -- made repositioning my body seem innocent to both you and anyone else in the restaurant watching or within earshot. No one suspects anything untold was about to happen under that table. Not even you.

While my oh-so-innocent left hand was resting on the top of your thigh, my right hand has less platonic motives. It slides between your legs and stops. My right palm is now flat against the inside of your right thigh. You flinch at this, but just barely. My hand is just high enough that the tips of my fingers are making slight contact with your warmest of spots. Right there where your legs meet. You blush. I smile at this.

But now you are not just embarrassed, you are actually somewhat frightened. You do not want a scene. This action is far too sexy for you in public. This is more than you agreed to. You are uncomfortable. But you are also frozen. At this point, any reaction, whether good or bad, will attract attention. You struggle at this point to draw in a breath that is not audible. I wonder if you secretly want to close your eyes and push your pelvis forward. I suspect another part of you wants to get up and run out of the bar. This a deciding point. Literally. But, either way, there are people, so a bold reaction will attract the attention of those at a nearby table.

With only the tips of my fingers just barely touching your private warmth, I look behind your lashes directly into those gorgeous blue eyes as I speak, loud enough for people at a nearby table to overhear, "You look wonderful tonight, baby. You're just as beautiful as the day we met..." said as if we are a happy married couple on a dinner date. You realize I am spinning this bullshit tale to cover my new position in the booth, but you find the sweetness of sentiments about our fictional history oddly complimentary. You are already smitten and we both know it.

As look directly into your eyes, I push my hand inward ever so slightly. The tips of my index and middle fingers are now parting and pushing into your pussy ever so slightly -- through your panties -- as I speak to you. I push them inward a little more. I can now actually feel your wetness through your panties. You squirm as you feel yourself getting even wetter.

No one has ever done anything so sexually charged to you in a public place. At least not in plain view. You gasp quietly, but audibly. I lean in further and kiss you. A real kiss. Not just a pleased-to-meet-you peck like I gave you when removing your glasses. You cannot help yourself; you kiss back. I smile at you, my lips now stained from yours. And then I add with intentional sappiness, loud enough for the room, "You really do have the most beautiful eyes."

You now realize that the current placement of my hand has encouraged your nipples to stand up and salute the world a little. You are aroused and your body is announcing it to me above and below the table. I give you another friendly little kiss on the cheek. You smell wonderful. The action of my lips is not at all matched by the directness of my hand. And with that kiss, I withdraw my hand completely and say, "So, what do YOU want to eat?" and laugh.

You know what I meant by this. You know that I am implying that what I want to eat is -- you. And, as direct and vulgar as that may be, you still get a happy feeling between your legs at the thought of it. You want your fig worshipped. And you now know by reading me, I'm probably very good at that. You want me to taste her. You want to relax and selfishly feel the pleasure. You want me to ask for the check. Right now. The time has come. And you want to come too.

Public arousal. Surreptitiously. And clearly premeditated. You shudder at this kind of cerebral naughtiness. This man is trouble. You really don't know what to make of me. But you do know you want more. I show my passion is patient, measured way. That's absolutely thrilling.

You wonder now if I fuck as patiently as I write, if I will tease multiple orgasms out of you just as skillfully as I stimulate your mind. You can't wait to find out.

You are aroused now as you read this. Tell me I'm wrong.

To be continued...