Unlikely Sex Partners

One of my father's crudest friends had a saying that he reserved for men he thought were losers with the women. He would say, "That guy couldn't get laid in a whore house with a pocket full of hundred dollar bills." I never thought about that much; I figured I was doing alright with the ladies until I turned forty. Then it dawned on me, I had never had one that truly cared about me. Through my blue collar hard-working, long-hour days, I had a long string who abused my trust, used me and made me pay too much for the attention I got from them. My first screen play got accepted and at my first cocktail party a lovely took my breath away and destroyed what was left of the pedestal my mother had helped be build for women. "You can take me home and fuck me all night, if you put in a good word with the producer of the movie. Just tell him I would be perfect for the part."

The word was barely out that my story had been picked up by a major studio. There wasn't even any word on the street about the story line, setting or characters. Whatever the beauty was on, she had trouble navigating in a straight line. I had not told her "No" but she moved on with her offer and I saw her leave with another "nobody," twenty minutes later. My hopeful new agent watched me view her departure, "Once your mystery hits the screen, you can have a dozen like that lined up outside your door."

That was six years ago; he was right but they were not what I wanted.

Luckily, the movie goers were ready for character stories like "L.A. Confidential" and "China Town." Some great casting director picked an unknown, understated smart-ass, Bogart-like actor and within a month of the movie's premier, I was under contract for two sequels.

I retired to the same nice house I had built for myself when I was a lowly contractor. The more success that came my way the more I stayed at home, prowled the internet for ideas and pen pals. I wrote porn for diversion, fished to get outside and dreamed of hot women who were at heart like the 1960's TV moms I grew up watching. My mind seemed to be creating more and more flawed characters that the public clamored for. I was lonely and getting depressed but couldn't imagine ever finding a woman who really cared about me. I refused to look. My "agent," who was now called my "publicist," took great liberties in building a persona for me that was stranger than my characters. To the public, I was a cross of Howard Hughes, Mickey Spillane and Jack the Ripper. My readers accepted that I had to maintain a low profile or I would be locked away in some "Cuckoo's Nest."

My output was surprising even me. I could maintain it, if I could find a good proofreader and someone who was learned enough to tell me when I had missed the mark with a character, idea or believability. Slowly, I worked my way down the lists of other misfits that the editors condescendingly sent me. I never have figured out what editors do.

On the bottom of one list were a few scribbled-in names that were obviously afterthoughts. I got intelligent replies to several emails from "Phyllis." She agreed to scan one of my story idea sheets and give me her opinions. She corrected how one of my characters was tested for HIV; she challenged how much power an electric car would need if "cold fusion" proved possible in a sci-fi story; she ripped me a new one for not knowing my way around Paris and she suggested I change the caliber of a Smith and Wesson revolver because S&W was just starting in that caliber when my story was set and my character definitely could not afford a new pistol. I imagined her to be a six foot tall Amazon, genius who knew everything and was supremely confident.

We worked together on a mystery that was due under contract in three months. Her responses were quick; her ideas worth entertaining; she was well read and a good speller, which I am not. She was not expensive and I started to rely on her editing and didn't argue much when she suggested that paragraphs be reordered.

Several times I asked if we could meet and work together for a few days in person. I believed if we got to know each other our exchanges would be more brisk without so much consideration for bruised feelings. She fended off every such request.

A military history magazine with limited distribution asked if I would rework some of my early Viet Nam experiences. I wasn't up to that. I sent them to Phyllis and asked her if she wanted to try. She must have stayed up all night, in the morning her reply was to the point. "Wrong outlet. You have a lot of pain and angst in your recollections -- a lot of personal loss in the midst of too little success. Your good guys and bad guys get cloudy. Definitely not the John Wayne stuff this magazine wants."

"I knew something did not fit. I think you nailed it. The articles sounded like a nice diversion. I had better stick to my short porn stories for diversion. It is much safer."

"I didn't know you wrote porn. Give me some leads to find your work."

That sounded more like an order. I was dead tired, lonely and half lit, so I answered without thinking. I didn't hear from Phyllis for a few days even though I filled her emails every day with attachments for a sci-fi screen play that could be made cheaply by a smaller studio because it was a character study more than a super-expensive special effects story.

I tried IM to get a rise out of her, "Where did you go?"

"Depressed and thinking."

"Had hoped my work was not that bad. Or was it my porn that depressed you?"

No answer. I went to bed and took the next day off to try and prove I was as smart as a trout. I wasn't.

I had a day old email from Phyllis. "I believe you are missing your best talent when you write. The feelings imbedded in your porn show that you could push the mystery genre beyond the "high camp," "tongue-in-cheek" and "slap-stick" styles you have been successful at emulating. If you want to try, we should meet."

We exchanged emails for a few days.

"Phyllis, I am intrigued but don't know if I can bare my soul that much in more serious work. I'll start by letting you see who I am." I attached my best picture of my thin, tanned, leathery skinned, sixty year old, tall body. "I don't think I'm handsome but I don't look bad compared to other men my age. I also included some personal data about the real me, instead of the fantasy on the book jackets."

Her answer was heart wrenching, "You will be disappointed in me, but this is my lot in life. Polio left my legs twisted and my body stunted. I don't see very well and I weigh 90 pounds." Her picture showed a woman with no make-up, trying to look plain, flat and figureless.

"Disappointed hell, I've been trying to get your talents in the same room with me for a year. I live in a quiet, often lonely world, I would love to hear a female voice and have some company for a few days or we can meet half way between us. I'm sure you have guessed that I live near Portland, Oregon."

"I'm in northern California. Best if I come to you - small apartment here. Is there a motel close to you?"

"I am sane, housebroken, civilized and a good cook. You are welcomed to one of the guest rooms in this big house (address attached, MapQuest for directions, Google for pictures); I'm on the edge of a small town with good restaurants and a Wal-Mart. What more could "My Lady" need? If you don't drive, I'll pick you up at the airport; just say when."

I did do some research behind her back, after she agreed to fly from Sacramento. I arranged for a four wheeled electric scooter like the one she was using in an old picture taken at a Christmas party. I lived on mostly flat land and the entire town was assessable, if she rode and I walked.

Oregon's weather was helpful. For the first two days, I showed her the town. She was delighted with the scooter and her weak legs needed it for any trip over twenty yards. We just got to know each other - cooking breakfast together, grilling hamburgers and eating out. She learned much more about me than I did about her. She heard my sorted experiences with women and why I no longer try; by the third evening the rain started; we decided to sit in front of the fireplace and drink a 5 liter box of Franzia White Zinfandel, while I pulled her life story out of her. It does not take much wine to get a ninety pound woman to open up. She had two BA degrees -- American Literature and English; she felt safest on a college campus. She lost her virginity in high school to a rape from her prom date. Since then, she had never dated or been married. She was thirty-five.

I was thinking too much and her speech slurred when she asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"I was wondering what you thought about my wild and often outrageous porn stories."

"I like them. The rough ones are exciting and scary."

"Why?"

"I only know the sexual side of men through novels. I'm not sure how uncontrollable, violent or driven they actually are. I'm not sure what things you write are true, exaggerated or outright impossible fantasies."

"Do you get excited and masturbate when you read porn?"

That was one question too far. I knew it instantly and changed the subject. "I've had way too much wine tonight, need a late night snack and then to sleep it off. Remember we said tomorrow was going to be our first workday together, in-person."

"Won't your publishers be mad if you take a week or so off from your current story?"

"Yes, but they will get over it. They are making too much money off the current release and the last one going to paperback."

Like two kids we had pb&j with Ruffles, milk and the last of the wine in our glasses. Phyllis' legs weren't working very well; I scooped her up, took her to her bedroom and dropped her onto the queen sized bed. "You're tired, go to sleep and I'll see you early tomorrow."

"I am very tired but I have to clean up, brush my teeth and get changed."

"Is your mommy going to scold you if you don't?"

I took her shoes off, helped her off with her jeans and covered her. She was out before I turned her light off.

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Her hair was still wet when Phyllis came into my office carrying her first cup of coffee. "Did you take my pants off me last night and tuck me into bed?"

"Yes, but I didn't peek, even though I wanted to."

I had never seen anyone blush so vividly. I let the subject drop.

For the next hour, Phyllis pulled her notes out of her brief case. They were organized. I felt like a school boy having his work graded by the teacher with her red pen.

"Have you gotten much feedback on this list of stories?"

"I never seem to get much feedback and I cannot guess if it is mostly from women or men. We can look up the feedback on the site and I keep all the emailed feedback in a folder." A pattern did emerge from my "Romance," "Loving Wives," and "Erotic Couplings" stories.

"Dave, there is a market for erotic stories, even hardcore, that caters directly to the over forty-set, house-bound, people with problems and wounded souls. They want sex as much as everyone else but it is not to be in their lives. Your background lets your characters express that pain and find avenues where the impossible happens and seems plausible. Often you have tried to "sex-up" a story to attract the sixteen year old male readers. You fail at just adding sex scenes. I think you can expand your stories into "Harlequin" type love stories with edgier sex and find a new market -- a market where real people have relationships and wild sex, not just the perfect, beautiful ones."

"I don't see the market as being large enough."

"It would be like the new video games and movies -- interactive and sold on the internet."

"A single story that could go down several paths to cater to specific pockets of people and allow them to seek out bliss, frustration or happily-ever-after? Stephen King tried the chapter selling for one book. Others have tried. I think it might be fun to try, but I would want it to be free to associations of afflicted people with enough guts to say sex exist for their membership."

"That would be an entirely new twist. Don't you want to try for the money?"

"I don't need any. I had rather see homebound, MS patients reading or even writing chain stories and getting off and getting a little sexual relief from a story that spoke directly to them and their situation. Feedback could allow, what worked for someone, even a toy review. It's a good idea, Phyllis. Most porn writers on the internet write for feedback anyway. Feedback could be required in some way."

We went late into the night and took a break to bathe. We met in the kitchen as I made coffee to come on at eight the next morning. I was in my robe and followed Phyllis into her room still talking, still wound up, still spouting ideas.

She pulled the covers back and slipped into bed and I sat down on her bed still oblivious to everything except expanding her idea.

I was mid-sentence when Phyllis' eyes locked on my lap. I looked down. My robe had opened and my cock and balls were clearly on display.

"I'm sorry. I get way too wound up and forget everything else. That is also how I write. I get too involved, oblivious to all around me, I'm sorry. I did not mean to embarrass you."

"It's alright. I have never seen a real naked man before. It both shocked me and intrigued me."

"I'm just another human. My parts are different than yours and I am very oral as you know."

She was still looking toward my now covered cock. "All that oral stuff is real?"

I leaned over and cupped her head in my hands and kissed her lips softly and licked them as I pulled away. Her eyes had closed and she was very still. When her eyes opened they had a glimmer of panic.

"Phyllis, I know you have been hurt by a man and maybe deep down you are still afraid of them. We have worked together for a long time now. Do you trust me to be gentlemanly and civilized?"

"Yes."

"Hold your hands out."

She did and I slipped my robe off and stepped forward so one of her hands touched my cock and the other was near my balls. I waited and she gently explored. My cock responded as it should. She explored some more and a glistening drop of precum flowed out of my tiny lips and began to run down the helmet. She touched the wetness and rubbed, feeling its slipperiness. I took her finger and licked the wetness away, then used my own finger to wipe some more up and offered it to her. Tentatively, she licked and then sucked at the salty liquid.

I stood offering myself as her first willing experience. She marveled at how hard and yet soft my cock was. I showed her how to pull my foreskin back and told her I was not circumcised. Her hand tentatively jacked me off, doing what she had read and almost understood. More precum flowed. Phyllis leaned forward, licked and then sucked it away, taking the crown of my cock into her mouth. To reduce any anxiety, I put my robe back on, belted it and then pulled her covers back.

"May I taste you for just a moment, also?"

She did not say "Yes" or "No" but her body laid back and her tiny legs opened just a little. I lifted her night shirt and leaned forward kissing the insides of her thighs as I gently pulled one loose fitting panty leg away from her pussy with its neatly trimmed hair. I opened her lips; they were tight and the opening they surrounded was very small. I sucked at each lip, licked all around her clit and then pressed the flat of my tongue onto it and slid my tongue up. She was wet and I licked, kissed and sucked her to make her wetter. For the final half minute, I nursed at her clit softly and slipped my index finger into her to press at her g-spot. Her hips arched. I covered my lips and tongue with her juices and then kissed her slightly open mouth and she licked to taste her own wetness. I sucked at her tongue and when she inhaled, I exhaled filling her lungs with my breath.

She was totally still, silent and tense. I should not press, "The heat and taste of your body is driving me crazy. We must stop or I will ache to make love with you and watch your body climax with me inside you. Tonight, I will dream of your wetness, your taste and you. I might have to finish him off with my hand, just to get to sleep."

Sleepily, with lustful sparkling eyes, she was unafraid and said in a raspy voice. "Let me watch you do that one night."

"I will if you do the same for me."

I kissed her goodnight. I cannot imagine why she wanted to be covered, the heat coming from her was intense. I saw her hand wiggle under the covers between her legs, right before I turned her light off and closed her door.

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The next morning, shy Phyllis was not as careful being completely dressed or having her robe belted tightly when she came in for coffee. I watched and she recognized the appreciation in my eyes. Or was it lust? It had been a very long time.

"Dave, please don't think me too forward, but that was lovely last night."

"Did you sleep well?"

"I slept, ok, after a while. My mind was really going and I was pretty worked up."

I was dressed in slacks and polo shirt, ready for the day's writing. "Come sit on my lap while you have your coffee." She started to sit side saddle but did not resist when I turned her and had her straddle my lap, facing me. After she finished her first sip of coffee, I pulled her hips rubbing her crotch against mine. She looked questioningly at me. I did nothing else until she finished her second sip, then I pulled her again, this time she felt me hardening under her. She smiled and took another sip. I rocked her again. Sip, Rock. Sip, Rock. I was fully hard. She sat her cup down and continued without my help. I reached down into my slacks and pulled my cock straight up, so its shaft was available to rub against her clit. She discovered the better positioning instantly and began to rock in a nice firm rhythm. Soon she said, "God, that feels good."

"Then do it until it quits feeling good to you."

Her eyes never opened; her hands were around my neck like she was going to strangle me and she rocked. Her breath became irregular. Her feet could not touch the floor, so when she rolled her hips forward her entire weight was on my cock.

"That's it, Tiny One; fuck me to make your tasty pussy feel good. Use me. Cum for me. Let me watch your body fly."

Her lips pressed into my neck, she groaned and used my head as leverage. She came lightly and began to slow. I grabbed her hips and worked them roughly into my cock. She realized it was alright to be rougher and she quickly rose toward her second climax. I held her. Frustrating her for just a few moments and allowed her to move again. She was almost there. I held her. This time I let go of her hips and said, "Take what you want, as rough as you want."

She growled into my neck, tried to kiss but slobbered, then screamed, ever muscle in her body tightened, she bit down on my shoulder, then screamed again while her hips flew jacking my covered cock. Her body went limp in my hands and I lightly kissed her until she was fully back with me.

When I helped her up, so we could get more coffee, she said, "I had no idea......."

"With the right lover, it can be a hundred times better. Now you are relaxed and I am aggressive, that's the perfect writing combination for today."

"What would we do if you were relaxed too?"

"First, I would have to change my pants and then we would write sweet, mellow children's stories all day."

It was nice to hear her giggle.

That night, I could feel the tension inside her. It was fear mixed with the unknown. She felt that, I expected to have sex with her and she wasn't ready.

"Phyllis, I am behind on my emails. Would you mind if I disappear into my office tonight and catch up?"

"I'll watch some TV in my room and call a couple of friends to tell them I am still alive."