Loving Feminists: A Memoir of Being With and Making Love to the Modern (American) Woman

By Yowling Wolf

"Loving Feminists: A Memoir of Being with and Making Love to the Modern (American) Woman", describes the anonymous author's development and evolution into one aspiring to romantic relationships relationships with feminist women--educated, independent, ambitious, careerist, modern--, and over twenty such relationships, including that with his wife of thirty years.

Intended to instruct and enlighten as well as entertain, a carefully crafted remembrance of early development and failed attempts at losing virginity offers a nostalgic reminder of the slow, fitful progression to sexual maturity once standard for young men of middle class, educated background. (Useful antidote to today's intimidating instruction via pornography.) With a twist. The author's discovery, age eight, that although appearing White he is Black, therefore of lesser status in America. This circumstance, coupled with subsequent trauma and a difficult stepfather relationship, transforms a somewhat bookish youngster into a colder, calculating creature of particular appetite and need where women and society are concerned.

Resentment of racial injustice, together with raising daughters, eventually aligns him with feminist outlook, prompting desire to alter standard predatory, chauvinist sexual practice to behavior more accommodating and pleasing to women. Especially independent, ambitious, attractive, self-possessed White women to whom he is attracted.

Progression and development in this vein offer a blueprint of meaningful, satisfying sex for feminist women and their partners. Stark antidote to slam-bam, thank-you-ma'am.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350912289

Book preview

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Copyright 2023

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 979-8-35091-227-2 (softcover)

ISBN: 979-8-35091-228-9 (eBook)

Contents

Foreword

Preface

Introduction

One—A Woman of the Type in Question

Two—Early Years

Three—High School

Four—On to College and Freshman Year

Five—Kell the Irrepressible

Six—Reunions with Kell

Seven—Virginity Lost

Eight—The Woman I’d Marry, Mother of My Children, More

Nine—Post College Year

Ten—England

Eleven—Wife Stray, Work World, Amazon Tryst

Twelve—Work World, Major Stray

Thirteen—Divorce

Fourteen—Post-divorce, Dating, Lessons

Fifteen—American Hottie

Sixteen—My Very Own Karen

Seventeen—Candidate for IN Love

Eighteen—Well-bred Naughty Lady Part I

Nineteen—Weekend in Indy

Twenty—Philly gal

Twenty-one—Well-bred Naughty Lady Part II

Twenty-two—IN Love

Twenty-three—Professor, Soccer Mom Dynamo

Twenty-four—Cali Gal

Twenty-five—A Woman of Size

Twenty-six—Under the Spell of the Child-Woman

Twenty-seven—MILF Next Door

Twenty-eight—Lil Bit, (Somewhat) Hard to Get, Who Walked Away

Twenty-nine—Chapter One Continued: M5 Experiment

Thirty—New (Exciting!) Trick for an Uber Dog

Thirty-one—I save lives!

Thirty-two—An Unlikely Find

Thirty-three—300+ Smiles, Messages

Thirty-four—Today, Tomorrow… Next Year?

Foreword

WARNING! If sexual activity explicitly described would offend to the point of not enjoying interesting stories and a master class in evolution of sexual technique, stop right now!

Unusually perhaps, I, Silicon Valley marketing executive, which is accurate enough, one of more than twenty women featured herein, was invited to write a foreword to this book. Indeed, consented to reading the various chapters. And I found them entertaining. The chapter on myself in particular. Which pretty accurately recounts my relationship with the author.

Which author, whom I’ll refer to as Y, sent me a smile or some such about twelve years ago when, following my second divorce, I posted bio and photos on an online dating site.

And, initially, I ignored Y. Didn’t think him quite up to my standard. He wasn’t bad looking. Seemed fit and intelligent, which is important to me. I did like his profile. But he was bald and lived across the country in Pennsylvania. Not really a viable prospect. Especially as I had plenty of hits from the nearby San Francisco area. Lawyers, doctors, business types.

I’m a California gal, born and raised, more particularly a northern California gal. I’m blonde and fit. Was valedictorian of my high school class, graduated from college with honors. Grew up swimming competitively. Was a certified Pilates instructor at the time I posted online, age 55. Still instruct occasionally. Work out with weights. Retired with a few million in the bank. Have my own North Bay house and a couple cute dogs. Days are spent tending to investments.

For sure the modern American feminist woman. A Catch!

But I’ll admit that although I’ve met and dated many men since my time with Y, and gotten serious with a few, none of the relationships lasted. When men discover the real me, a somewhat steely, independent gal beneath the slim figure and sweet, somewhat high-pitched voice, they fade away. Which didn’t happen with Y. But something else.

I’ll note that none of the men met since Y, none I can think of before him for that matter, matched Y’s performance in bed. The man screwed the bejeezus out of me, and I loved every minute of it.

Also checked my three boxes: intelligence, emotional intelligence, physicality.

And we remain friends.

I’ll confess to harboring … Well. We shall see. I’m very admiring of how well Y has reacted to a terminal cancer sentence. Never complains. The guy has guts. He’s also more mannered than his graphically explicit sexual descriptions suggest.

Here’s the thing. I began furiously dating some of my many prospects. Lunch, dinner, even progressed to sex with a few. But then they’d cool to me. As noted, beyond my cute look and soft, somewhat high-pitched voice is a steely, competitive person who should have been a boy in a family of girls. Upon perceiving this person, same as my last and second husband, a handsome widower college professor met while walking my dog, who, more than his personality, as I didn’t and couldn’t have kids, having a young son with whom he was too buddy-buddy was the main attraction, they couldn’t handle being with someone their equal, if not superior. They’d eventually drift away with some lame excuse.

Not Y. Leastwise not online. We exchanged emails. He composed a poem for and about me that I very much liked. (See below.) He proposed a very flattering description of me, turned it into an acronym that I (and he) use to this day. I called him, put him through a litany of questions designed to ferret the genuineness of his interest. In truth to discourage him. Yet he hung in there. Maintained my interest. Indeed, began to intrigue me. He was interesting and confident. And claimed to be mixed-race while not appearing so. That added to the intrigue.

Here’s the poem, entitled Who Could it Be:

Who could it be that loves a slender lass, a sexy lass, a sassy lass who lives on a hill with a view and a viewpoint?

Retiree from the adventure of biz seeking adventures of gee whiz!

A woman unexpectedly sweet, whose rise from struggle hasn’t impaired ability to snuggle.

A woman of compassion and grace, with angelic mouth and face, who when aroused can sting in a big wing ding.

A true lovebug that one wants to hug, and much more.

Why it’s me, and the woman is D.

And I am forever [ACRONYM’S] Y.

Hey. If this guy wants to travel all the way across the country to pursue me, why not let him. So, I did.

Y advertised himself as sixty-one (to my fifty-five). Seeing him atop the escalator leading to baggage at SAC International, I guessed he’d fudged on the age. Indeed, he owned to being sixty-three. No biggie. He was tall, fit, better looking in person than in pictures. His neatly trimmed salt ‘n pepper goatee made him look distinguished. Professorial, but manly. Exuding confidence. Gave me a big smile and hug. Hmm.

On the drive to my house, a large ranch on an acre in a resort community off Highway 50, east of Sacramento, which belonged to me, not my ex, conversation flowed. Only much later would it emerge that Y hadn’t gotten over a relationship with a gal in Florida. Which involvement pretty much squelched ability to be open to someone new. He was attentive, witty, had a good sense of humor. I was more attracted than anticipated.

Y greeted my spunky terrier dog with not just petting, but roughhousing. Pushed her this way and that, causing the dog to get excited and growl with pleasure. Y would prove to be very knowledgeable about dogs, and a great pal to mine. Which impressed me.

On the couch, wine in hand, we kissed for the first time, and he was not just a good kisser, but a great kisser, causing me to be aroused. Which Y must have sensed. He guided my hand to a hard lump in his pants. And I didn’t immediately withdraw it.

Whoa, cowboy! A bit too soon for that. But definitely got my attention.

We went to dinner in a nearby town and conversation continued to flow. Y was a bit of a talker, but not in an annoying way. He seemed a little nervous. We talked about everything from west coast to east coast and politics. Turned out Y had gone to high school in Los Angeles. Los Angeles High School in fact. At no time did I sense him being taken aback by my assertiveness. He was plenty self-assured. Talked to me as if I were a new pal. Also held my hand.

I decided that we were both adults. We’d known one another for months. We’d just met in person, but it wasn’t like we were strangers. Upon leaving the restaurant he again kissed me. Again, my heart fluttered. I decided we’d see what we’d see respecting the night’s sleeping arrangements.

As it turned out, back on my couch, the room darkened, my dog observing from her bed, we made out passionately. Y unzipped and guided my hand in. Omigod! It was stiff and so thick. His cock seemed huge.

Turned out Y likes to get high before sex. Said pot was an aphrodisiac for him. Foolishly, he’d brought a small amount of marijuana with him. Asked if I minded if he got high. Which I thought was considerate, and nodded ascent. And that first night we made love.

I told Y I’d been in the habit of arranging sex parties with my ex. But he just planted his mouth on mine, kissed my neck and face, ever so carefully and gently, exposed my modest breasts, making nary a dismissive comment. Rather, gently, expertly tended to my large nipples with his lips and tongue.

I cautioned that making love to me was like making love to a teen boy. He just told me I was beautiful. And there was that big, dangling cock, curiously much darker than Y. The mixed-race heritage where it meant the most. My pussy was wet. I couldn’t wait for him to fuck me.

Which, presently, he did, at first easing himself in ever so gently, filling my vagina, pushing deep into me, causing me to gasp. Then, engaging in the timeless dance, all the while covering my mouth, my shoulders, my everywhere with his wonderful lips and tongue. So caring, so expert.

Until something completely unexpected happened.

For near twenty years with my husband, I’d not had a vaginal orgasm. Never climaxed via penal penetration. Always manipulation of my clit with finger or tongue was required. I couldn’t recall when I’d last climaxed with a cock inside me. Yet now, suddenly, incredibly, as Y rhythmically fucked my pussy, I felt my vagina beginning to contract, to seize upon his cock with increasing urgency. So expertly had Y primed me, so relaxed and comfortable had he made me feel.

Please, don’t stop, I recall murmuring. Please keep fucking me. Oh, please fuck me!

And suddenly the lower half of my body seemed to converge on Y’s cock. My pussy, my stomach to my toes contracted in spasm after spasm. I was delirious with pleasure and joy. Also knew I was Y’s forever, if only he would have me. Take me. Own me.

Which, pretty much, he proceeded to do in days that followed.

He was opinionated. Had views about many things. Talked a lot about his family, which was large. He was eldest of eleven kids, eight of them boys, half-brothers. He told me about his life betwixt between the races. He easily passed for White. Especially given his confident presence and articulateness.

We disagreed about some things. But altogether he was a perfect gentleman. He bought me a bracelet. Not expensive, but I cherish it. And on the way to the airport this man I was ready to give myself to kind of crushed me.

Perceiving I was rather hopelessly falling, which tends to happen if I get in bed with a man. And this one… God! One day he insisted I get on top. I couldn’t remember when a man had done that. Certainly, never my husband. And he let me tie him up.

Omigod what a lover!

He said on the way to the airport that he could see I was getting in deep. But he wasn’t feeling the same attraction. Not yet. Which made me cry.

Our story and where it goes, ends, and may yet recommence unfolds herein. Y is the one man I’ll confess to be stronger than me. The one man who scares me, such is his power to break through whatever barriers I may construct to protect myself.

I’ve not since met a man who understands me so well. Who, more importantly, appreciates me for who I am, all that I am.

I fell hard for Y. And he hurt me badly. Yet we remain friends, maybe more.

* * *

Preface

Beyond autobiographical aspect, but drawing upon, reflecting upon that aspect and underlying themes of race and interracial relations, LOVING FEMINISTS, A Memoir of Being With, Making Love to the Modern (American) Woman in chief is carefully etched descriptions of meaningful relationships between the anonymous author and over twenty feminist women.

Most women are mature. All are intelligent, independent, modern, feminist. Part and parcel of exploration of the relationships, in the vein of instructing mutually rewarding love making between the parties, reflecting growth of the author in that sphere, is varied, explicit, graphically described and recounted sex between author and the women.

The book is strictly off limits for children. It is not for prudes, those who would remain willfully, woefully ignorant in the department of rewarding lovemaking with the modern woman.

Today in America women are sixty percent of college students, over half of law students. Optimism inspired by female advance can be sensed in exuberance of wives, sisters, daughters, mothers, aunts of all background. Non-college women in both rural and urban America start businesses online. Upbeat perspective of American women is likely a contributor to male insecurity, malaise, epidemic opioid use and death. It is arguably a major contributor to unease and disaffection of males who resort to random violent attacks on innocents.

The author’s considered view is that Blacks, Browns, Yellows, Reds, immigrants are not the real source, the proper target of White male political discontent respecting replacement. Rather, agitation and unease in that sphere stems from proximity to sisters, wives, mothers, daughters, aunts inspired by, infused with the feminism that has birthed and is now reflected in a world of unprecedented opportunity open to (American) women.

Yes, the author, well educated, lawyer, businessman, is given to thinking deeply on subjects. The book, however, is in the main about relationships with feminist women. About loving such women, getting along with such women, pleasing such women in the bedroom.

Over six years ago, age sixty-nine, diagnosed with stage four terminal cancer, as happens in such circumstance I was prompted to think about life, legacy. For example, children, three raised to successful adulthood during a thirty-year marriage. A small business of my creation that worked out, reflecting as this book does, a penchant for sussing, working out systemic solutions, formulating roadmaps for solving complex problems. Business throttled back, semi-retired, five grandchildren, no financial worries.

Also looking back, ten years into marriage, age thirty-four, I experienced a change in outlook that revolutionized thinking and behavior respecting perspective toward wife and women, reflected rather dramatically in approach to sex. I became more cognizant of my then partner. Her sexual needs, her pleasure. I became a feminist.

Sex described herein is explicit, varied, plentiful. Never random, casual, lacking in partner mutuality. No anonymous one-night stands. There is often love, as between author and wife. Sometimes there’s IN love. Autobiography is faithful. Nothing is made up or contrived.

Anonymity of women, and relatively that of author, is chosen because, where sex is concerned, America, same as most of the world, is immature, prudish. Reputations need protection.

Some women herein are aware of the book. A couple expressed no reservation, assuming confidentiality. A couple welcomed it. Others, including the author’s present partner of near seven years express extreme agitation at the very idea. Indeed, the author has had misgivings. But in the end decided there is an interesting, edifying tale to tell.

America has always been prudish, immature regarding sex. Not that other nations merit praise. In a time when, according to recent study, over a quarter of young men in the past year [2021] did not have sex, in which the phenomenon of incels, men without female partners, celibate not by choice and angry about it, is a significant, growing internet presence, likely contributing to the nation’s spate of senseless violence, our nation is badly in need of sexual instruction.

A major contributor to sexual unease of young men, for example, and likely to improper expectation and approach to sex, is exposure from early age—eight, nine years old!—to hardcore internet pornography. Viewing callous, muscled men slam-bamming numbly acquiescent women must grossly intimidate and mislead respecting performance and female expectation. This in an era when expectation of women of all economic, racial, and ethnic type respecting sexual pleasure, leastwise in America, has advanced far beyond thanks for a slam-bam three-to-five-minute fuck. Far beyond feigning satisfaction at the man getting his rocks off.

Perspective. I’m a post-World War Two baby. Born in Ohio. As did most boys of my era, I admired all things war related. Admired my soldier veteran dad and uncles. Played GI Joe, cowboys and Indians; had armies of plastic soldiers I’d arrange at war; aspired, as did all boys at the time to a manliness model little different from that extant today among boys in Caribbean nations, South America, Africa, Asia, Russia, and most European nations.

Namely, macho. Concomitant with a view of women, amid the mysterious, hugely alluring mystery of sex, as objects of pursuit. Prey to be bedded.

The woman’s feelings, did she enjoy sex? Not of much concern.

Sexual guidance in my youth was catch-as-catch-can. Mostly word-of-mouth from older boys, doubtless full of exaggeration. Maybe someone got hold of dad’s or older brother’s girly magazine. Which magazines then weren’t hardcore, explicit. It was assumed the reader already knew how to do it. Some perhaps read Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Lolita, The Story of O. I did.

My age ten ignorance of sex was such that I made the mistake of muttering faggot under my breath as I sat next to my burly, Mister T-like new stepfather at Sunday breakfast, he having chuckled when I burned my elbow on the waffle iron between us. And immediately was removed from my chair, pinned like a bug to the wall eighteen inches off the floor, looking into the face of a demon, my mother and two younger sisters staring open-mouthed, wondering what manner of creature had come into our lives. And Mr. Creature, perhaps realizing the extent of his anger, maybe my ignorance of the word’s import, simply lowered me to the floor after several tense seconds.

To be labeled gay was that threatening to manhood in that time. And probably still is for many men.

I’ll note that though terrified, I didn’t wet my pants. Rather, for two weeks wouldn’t speak to the man or acknowledge his existence, this relative stranger, a Black man in America harboring inner demons that from time-to-time emerged. Until my mother begged for rapprochement, and I relented. But never called him dad, never really acknowledged him as father. The sudden, unexpected death of my real father less than a year earlier had transformed a somewhat bookish, naïve boy into someone harder, someone possessed of his own angry inner turmoil.

In short, I grew up thoroughly chauvinist, a pig of the male species.

But for reasons to be revealed, primarily American racism, experienced age eight when I returned with my family after four years in Africa to wholly segregated Tallahassee, Florida, a deep sensitivity respecting justice and injustice was fostered. Such that at age thirty-four, suddenly, I empathized with the plight of women. Suddenly flipped a switch.

Because I’d become father of an adoptive daughter. Two and a half years later a natural daughter. I already had a son.

Owing, I think, to my sense of justice, and awareness of the venal nature of men regarding women (my own venal nature!), of the injustice girls and women faced growing up, I became a feminist. Deeply, viscerally, without fanfare embraced all that much maligned misunderstood word popularized in the latter nineteen sixties implies.

Chiefly, belief in female equality. Belief that women should have access to rights and privileges accorded men. Rights and privileges accorded White men!

Never openly expressed this. Didn’t think it or announce it. But looking back, it happened.

Accordingly, raised my girls to be adept in a martial art—black belts. Able to deal with men physically should need arise, including at present their husbands.

Going forward, I began to pay more attention to my wife’s needs and enjoyment during sex. Not that she’d ever complained. Not a virgin when we met, me nineteen, she twenty-one and graduated from college, never had she complained about our lovemaking. And she was a feminist. Before the word was current.

Example. Yet unmarried at twenty-six, me dragging my feet, she declared defiantly, radical feminist thought at the time, I don’t need a man to have and raise a child.

Of course, we’d long made love—fucked; this book will be explicit. Three, four, five, six times a week and more during four years of off-and-on dating, during breaks in which, unbeknownst to the other, we had other partners. Two-to-three times a week during thirty years of marriage, my drive being greater than hers. The day she came home from breast surgery, age forty-five, the radical cutting possibly not necessary, possibly a product of callous male unconcern—we should have gotten a second opinion!—, at my insistence I made love to her to reassure her of her continuing appeal, she atop me and weeping.

Respecting no complaints from my wife, the likely reason beyond modest expectation of women at the time was that early on I’d learned to postpone orgasm. Not so much to please the woman as, selfishly, to prolong my own enjoyment. I deemed lasting to be manly and wanted to impress. I wanted to give any woman I was with an ample drilling with, as I’d learn in time, a more than average tool.

From all women who accorded me privilege of intimacy prior to age thirty-four, I cannot recall any offering complaint. The one who might have, a six-foot-three amazon with and for whom I was altogether inadequate, who has her story within, was apparently too polite to comment.

The important thing is that not once did I invite any of these women to ride atop. None was asked, Was it good for you? I gave the pussy of not one oral attention.

Okay, two. The aforementioned amazon, because she enforced it. Also, a blonde, mid-twenties graduate student in England who lived directly above in my dorm, who galumphed about in short skirts and knee-high white plastic boots. Who I’d listen to moving about in her room. And meet when she interviewed me as leader of a petition movement. Who was still a virgin. Who I seduced by persuading her to give me a haircut, her breathing becoming heavy as she operated the electric clippers.

One evening in my dorm room I gave ample oral service to her pussy. When, presumably well-primed, me between her thighs, member rampant at her aperture, she suddenly said No!

And I desisted, stopped.

Not owing to any admirable chivalry. What checked me was a year of legal training that made me sensitive to possible repercussion should any woman, even a compliant mid-twenties virgin with her clothes off utter rape.

Following my conversion, age 34, beyond cunnilingus and coming to enjoy it (no pun intended), and encouraging women to take their turn on top, I became readily acquiescent to requests made as women became confident I wouldn’t judge them.

Tie me up? No problem. Spank, whip you? Okay. Spank, whip me? Readily acceded to. But after they’d done so, nonchalantly, I’d venture, Umm. Didn’t do much for me.

Over time, via carefully calculated technique, alternating ingratiating, please-the-woman maneuvers with well-timed, gradually introduced rougher handling—all calibrated carefully as, ever selfish (the old me never entirely erased), amusing myself remained a prime motivator—, I became able to bring matters to a pass, never attempted with my wife I’ll note, where, having sometimes savagely consummated my own pleasure at the end of a twenty-to-thirty minute session (more bores me), me having my turn and doing something the properly serviced woman always wants—namely, delivery of manly essence—, I’d look down at my partner, sometimes with fierce mien, sometimes, depending upon read of the woman with slight smile, and say, often demand, You’re a slut, aren’t you? Or Are you my slut?

Pleasing the woman, enabling her to enjoy sexual congress as much as, usually more than myself became my goal. A goal heightened following early-detected prostate cancer that left me capable of erection, but with minimal discharge. Ejaculation now but a fraction of what it had been, therefore far less enjoyable, focus shifted even more from achieving my release to enhancing, enjoying all other aspects of a tryst. Especially entrancing the woman.

Hearing Best ever! became a goal. Frequently achieved.

I became able to orchestrate matters to a pass where a woman was so thoroughly in throes of carnal ecstasy, experiencing such gratitude toward me, was so trusting of my non-judgment, that in response to my demand (to some, not all) that she declare herself slut, most looked up and mischievously, coyly, teasingly, some eagerly, clearly having enjoyed their immersion in carnality, for all a first, savoring the idea, loving and responding to the game, wanting probably to further please or amuse me, responded, Yes! I’m a slut! I love being a slut! "I love being your slut!"

Your ethical slut, my present partner insists.

This book aims to both entertain and instruct. The women are interesting. Owing to the author’s need to impress, most are attractive, several strikingly so, or were in their youth. But not all. One is large, a BIG girl indeed, another, the amazon, awkwardly tall.

The women are all feminist, modern. Smart, educated, independent, professionals and businesswomen with their own money, their own homes in most instances, most beyond marriage with grown children, most middle-aged in their sexual prime. Women unafraid of the penis, merely desirous that it work and work well. Older sisters of today’s confident career-oriented modern American woman who expects more from a partner. Who feels entitled to her own sexual pleasure. With whom men seem to be having difficulty. Whom many men probably avoid.

They are professors, lawyers, a doctor, artists, a professional ballerina, business owners, a Silicon Valley marketing executive, a woman with whom I lived seven years following divorce, whom I’d describe as quintessential American Hottie. There were one-night stands, but they are not part of this book. As noted, explicit adult variations of sex described are in no instance random, casual, lacking in partner mutuality.

Again, anonymity is chosen because, where sex is concerned, America, same as most of the world, is immature and prudish. Reputations need protection.

Respecting lessons, a much-needed model of a young man’s (the author’s) gradual introduction to sex conveys the important lesson that SEX IS INDEED A DELICATE, FRAUGHT DANCE! No one, especially the male, is going to be good at sex right out of the gate. Successful adult sex is a complex activity, requiring stumbles and missteps to master.

Second, a much-needed model of man paying attention to the woman’s sexual wants and needs is provided. And of the great pleasure to be derived therefrom. Of a man being solicitous of the woman. And, for women, affirmation that you have not just a right to sexual pleasure, but to demand far more than likely you are currently receiving. That you can and should reach a posture of carnality and mutual trust where you can invite and revel in sluttiness.

* * *

Introduction

Slam bam, thank you ma’am has long been prevailing American male sexual mode. Consider the movie Basic Instinct, Sharon Stone as wealthy author, possible murderer, surely feminist. Michael Douglas feverishly accosts a psychiatrist colleague up against a wall. Male actors in other movies frantically take women on tables and countertops, dramatically clearing obstacles with a sweep of the hand. Gasps of apparent pleasure of the woman partner notwithstanding, are such one, two-minute male releases comfortable, enjoyable for a woman?

Alcohol fueled hook-up trysts with Bret Kavanaugh beer-boy types still seems prevalent in high school and college movies. One can only imagine predations on women guided by thuggish, misogynist rap hip-hop lyrics.

Do men know, even care what skilled lovemaking looks like? Lovemaking that not only satisfies the woman, but inspires her to want, insist not only that the man satisfy himself in his turn, but, if need be, do so roughly. And she is lawyer, doctor, corporate CEO.

Chapter One introduces the author, age sixty-eight, at the height of his (chemically enhanced) sexual powers, engaging with a confident-yet-insecure, sexually experienced younger woman recently met online, with whom he’ll have a tempestuous relationship and learn it’s never too late to learn new tricks. Via exchange of extensive emails, not the norm in the many relationships described, the reader is acquainted with the author and woman and gains a sense of steamy sex to come in most of over thirty chapters.

Chapter Two reverts to the author’s formative childhood beginnings, starting in Africa, shifting soon to America and, importantly, a segregated south that informs racial awareness and identity that plays a significant role in instilling a sense of injustice and measure of insecurity. Which factors lifelong motivate the author, a fair-skinned Black who appears White. There is exploration of trauma and abuse that produces a complex character, someone guarded but basically good, capable however of callousness, ruthless calculation, at times anger.

Educated at the best schools, the author is intellectual but also physical. Women are surprised by, pleased by emotionality that is sometimes contrived. Being somewhat the bad boy cloaked as gentleman is perhaps an allure for women secure and not in need of being cared for.

The reader learns, reassuringly, that if independent and career focused, women nonetheless want male companionship. It is learned that given appropriate space and agency, properly catered to in the bedroom, the most formidable of women crave being taken and sexually mastered. Requiring considerable partner empathy, non-judgment, confidence, competence.

Most women are encountered following the author’s divorce. Most have careers, money, their own houses. Some are republicans. More are liberal in outlook. Individually, collectively, they are formidable, interesting, aware of women’s progress and their worth.

* * *

One

A Woman of the Type in Question

Thinking about threads, themes that might tie this book together (beyond successive relationships with feminists instructing a winning sexual art form or formula), there naturally comes to mind chronological recounting from pre-pubescent naïve thoughts and urges to pubescent stumbles, to bumbling virgin, to calculating skilled lover.

And such in due course will unfold. But I had another thought.

Some may not warm to a chronological build to sexual aspects that may be the prime draw. After all, how different, interesting, informing is the sexual awakening of even a precocious teen. Which, spoiler alert, the author was not.

Moreover, this book is not just about sexual encounters, although there is much of that. It will meander into hopefully broader vistas.

Thus, the thought occurs to open with a preview of sorts, bring the reader impatient for sex scenes, perhaps the only reason for opening the book, to if not immediate immersion in such, at least spicy intimation of the adult sexual content that informs much of the book.

Properly primed, such a person can then skip ahead to the good parts.

For the reader interested not just in sex but a window into and an instruction aid for relating to America’s modern woman, a preview is also presented. Via a trove of emails, unique to a relatively recent relationship, the author in maturity—age 68—is introduced. Also, the sort of smart, accomplished, independent, self-aware woman featured in the book.

A relationship that, when picked up once again in its proper chronology, demonstrates that it is never too late to learn new, dramatic, unusual sexual tricks.

This inaugural story begins, as do several, with me, the author, following dissolution of one of numerous relationships following 2001 divorce, going back online seeking a partner. The divorce, it may be noted, was preceded by a mostly fulfilling 30-year marriage—three children, all adult and well-functioning, five grandchildren.

As previewed, I’m 68. Three years resident in a small Pennsylvania city west of Philadelphia, moved to following twenty-plus years outside Pittsburgh. That after twelve years in Brooklyn. I’ve sulked somewhat, but not a lot, over recent loss of a woman I didn’t love, but who was fun. Which relationship tended more carefully might have matured into something special. Might have, as is said, had legs and a future. But was allowed to extinguish for reason of… Certainly stubbornness, unwillingness to compromise in the service of love (and getting sex).

On the other hand, absent such extinguishment the telling that begins this book wouldn’t have occurred. That, as intimated, will heavily feature exact words of participants in emails.

Beginning

Apart from a terse This hurts! in a phone message from M4 (indicating relationship fourth with a woman name beginning in M) that stubbornly I didn’t respond to, I could only speculate what was transpiring with her. Whether her Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays went well. Whether she saw her California doctor daughter. Whether that daughter, who I liked, would marry her interesting boyfriend, who I also liked.

M4 in her turn remained stubbornly silent.

Foolish woman. Too bad. Big TSK! were predominant thoughts. And I did miss our sex. Her lithe little body. Her eagerness. All recounted in her chapter following much later.

Meantime, there was advice offered upon advisement of the relationship that preceded M4, painfully ended, that had brought me to my new city. Now several years past. That preceded acquisition of my 1880 rowhouse. The guy offering advice a transplanted Brooklynite who sanded, polyurethaned, considerably brightened the ancient oak floors of my present home.

Women are like buses. Another will come along.

Late January 2016 I was back online, seeking, waiting, hoping for a bus.

Where there were the usual starts and stops. Attractive women much younger who were a reach and didn’t respond. (Some did and nicely, but only because they understood from my cautious outreach that I accepted we likely were a NEVER!)

Women I had no interest in—quite a few— who reached out to me. I normally politely replied, Appreciate your interest, but no thanks. Years earlier online I’d found that adding a photo of myself in a suit deterred a run of biker gal interest.

Pretty quickly among six-to-eight daily offerings appeared a pretty, curly black-haired gal with bright red lipstick and a demure, winning smile. Olive-complexioned, appearing middle eastern or Italian or some such, she wasn’t really my type. But sixteen years younger has its appeal.

For reasons explored in chapters following, I prefer fair and blonde or, taste acquired later in life, redhead. But, from my 68-year perspective, M5 was for sure a HYT. (Hot Young Thang!) I was interested in her as at least prey, excitement, transition to someone more preferred.

And may I interject the following observation (of which this book will have many).

A positive of aging—I prefer ubering, an invention of mine from the German uber, meaning over, higher, superior (perhaps similar thinking as the ride-sharing company)—, is that as one ubers, more women are attractive. Women I’d not have paid attention to when 40, they’re pretty, even beautiful from the perspective of 60+.

I immediately responded to the 52-year-old cutie, as I supposed would other men. And here I should add that, naturally, typical online gambit, I’d fudged the age thing. Advertised myself as 64, expressing a preference for 50-60.

Just a number, right? Perhaps owing to African admixture, something we’ll get into, going back generations in both Jamaica (paternal side) and the American south (maternal side), I’m usually taken to be five and more years younger than I am.

As is said, Black don’t crack!

[BTW. Women younger than 50? Umm. Didn’t want to bother with under 50. Today 55, realistically 60. What would we talk about?]

M5—Yeah, another M. Didn’t know her name yet. Answered using an online handle. I’m good at reading between bio lines, judging personality and interest, crafting response that speaks to the personality, the interest. Wordplay, not devastating looks, is my forte.

We quickly went back and forth, initially according to dating site-guided protocol, then exchanging email addresses (mine a private address whose password will expire with me; hers—her actual address I’d learn), then phone numbers. She had a sweet, girlish voice that made me acutely aware of our age difference.

As noted, numerous emails precisely chronicle the emotional intertwining that here unfolds, albeit not without an initial bump. Many are quoted, as M5 is unusually adept and engaging at self-analysis and expressing inner thoughts and emotions. But apart from further description of this particularly sexually charged relationship in its proper chronology (in a much later chapter), narrative via email exchange in the book is an aberration.

[Other relationships featured emails. Sadly, lost to deletion, changed email servers, etc.]

The extensive email exchanges in this chapter perhaps serve to authenticate accounts that follow. Are perhaps a check on meanderings into fantasies of what might have been versus what was.

We decided to meet Valentine’s Day at the sprawling King of Prussia Mall off the Pennsylvania turnpike, Valley Forge exit. A daytime date. The day chosen perhaps guaranteeing neither of us had a significant other. I’d suggested visiting the nearby Philadelphia Art Museum in Fairmount Park. Turned out M5, seeking solace following her divorce a couple years previous, had visited the museum many times and liked the idea.

As to other of my personal characteristics, attributes, I’m tall (Thanks mom!)—once 5’11 ¾ in bare feet (I’m precise this way), now shrunken to 5’10 and ¼. I’m bald, which caused angst at onset, age 19! However—Thank you, thank you, Michael Jordan!—, the near-shaved-head look is now reasonably cool, at least to some. Cute as a pre-teen (girls followed me home in 4th grade), I’d say, candidly, that 7-8 out of a possible 10 on my best day would be my looks rating as an adult. I’m told I’m handsomer in person than in photos; and I’m surely getting better and better looking relative to out-of-shape, seeming testosterone-deficient age-mates. Despite one-third African ancestry, I’m fair-skinned. People take me for… Possibly Jewish, Middle eastern. Never (owing to articulateness?) mixed-race Black. At the time I sported a nicely-filled-in salt-n-pepper goatee. (Now a neatly trimmed white beard.)

I’d listed mixed-race on my profile, as such these days (first time ever?) seems cool. Growing up in a lilywhite Philadelphia suburb, M5, as would be revealed, had felt herself to be less on account of dark features. Stemming from Greek roots. So, me being mixed-race probably reassured her. She’d married the fair English-Swedish buddy of an older brother, producing a stunning daughter of whom she was very proud, and a son. The former was soon to be married. The latter was in college.

The following is an email sent by M5 about a month after our first date. It doesn’t reflect our somewhat uneven start:

Missing you will be my intermittent theme this coming week. 

Thank you for this lovely email. I read it at least five times today, and it made me swoon every time.

This email is the equivalent of the last session of our fucking on Saturday night. First, you sat on the edge of the bed and captivated me with your soothing voice and your keen observations. You stroked my face tenderly at one point in response to something I said. Then, minutes later… [Omitted. Set forth in context in the continuation chapter.] When in the world will I ever find that combination again in a man? NEVER! So, I am not taking it lightly...

And good news, male readers! You’ll learn that cave man remains relevant. Cave man with rough edges polished. Preferably intelligent, sensitive cave man. His role, however, is sharply reduced. His is but a brief, appropriate-moment cameo, a fleeting exercise of dominance and control at precisely the right time. Skill, artistry, forbearance, self-abnegation, and, especially, empathy and consideration must precede his appearance.

But I get ahead of the tale.

M5 and I were to meet at the mall on the ground floor of an open-sided parking garage across from the Cheesecake Factory. The mall’s vastness made a precise logistic necessary. The day was sunny, albeit chilly. I made sure to arrive early and brought a small bouquet of flowers. Whilst waiting, I reflected on being stood up on an assignation with a Black gal from Philly a year earlier, at the P.F. Chang far to the opposite side of the mall.

I’d have to say that Caucasian women have long seemed to me less problematic than Black women. A likely reason for White partner preference is not wanting an echo of my own thoughts, doubts, rants respecting racial matters. I like, admire, indeed envy the freedom from racial concern of White partners. But other (Darker? Excuse the pun.) reasons for my preference will emerge.

M5 was pretty much on time. As her small, newish SUV rolled in and she stepped out, I thought, Not so cute as her pic. I quickly realized it was her smile, revealing beautiful teeth, that made her pretty. At the same time, she cannot have thought the uber before her, however nattily turned out, was some great prize.

Her parents, it would transpire, were indeed off the boat from Greece. The lily-white suburban upbringing had resulted in a measure of discrimination, producing a measure of inferiority and resentment. But this, giving us much in common, was yet to be discovered.

M5 was short, five foot two, she’d inform at some point, somewhat defensively. And chunky is not inaccurate. She had meat on her from ample chest to ham-like calves. But it seemed firm flesh, not jiggly. Moreover (a Black thing?), a little heft on a woman, so long as firm, has never put me off.

She wore 5-inch platforms, immediately radiated energy, and exuded confidence. Almost always she would wear heels, sometimes in bed. And let’s not forget her being 52, a youthful 52 at that, not a wrinkle in her Mediterranean countenance.

From my perspective a HYT for sure. I warmed to her immediately. And was acutely conscious of being 68, not 64.

In dark pants, black ankle boots and sport coat, I’d endeavored as noted to be natty, but to not seem old (uber). I’m sure I didn’t wear a tie. M5 pronounced me distinguished. Hmm. Weeks later in an intimate setting she’d admire my blue eyes. Which aren’t blue but greenish hazel.

We hugged. I asked if she minded if I drove, and she didn’t.

Arriving, parking at the museum, conversation having gone well, under weak, slanting rays of sun the afternoon was as nice as February can offer. As we headed up steps to enter, I was mindful not to stumble. Indeed, took steps two at a time, careful not to get ahead of my youthful V-day companion.

I felt proud to be with her.

Mirabile dictu! Wonderful to relate. At times in the museum we found ourselves holding hands. M5 was eager, curious, fun! She seemed to know what art she liked and didn’t. I’d learn she was a graphic artist, employed by a textiles conglomerate. Her parents might have been uneducated, as she’d relate. But there’s much to be said for being raised in a household that respects history and culture. I felt privileged to be with this smart, energetic woman.

We made up a game of guessing which three paintings in a gallery display the other might like, and our tastes were similar. Moving happily from gallery to gallery, in a momentarily deserted passageway I spontaneously pulled her to me, inadvertently grasping a handful of the curly black locks that tumbled about her face. I kissed her quickly on the mouth. Just a spontaneous I’m having fun with you! kiss. Which seemed to please her.

Deciding, Yes!, our date should continue, as afternoon light faded we headed back to the mall and M5’s car. It being Valentine’s Day, reservation-less admission to one of many nearby eateries would be a problem. And here I impressed with knowledge borne of many years of business travel. I suggested we go to one of several hotels on the mall periphery. There’d likely be no crush at the restaurant or bar.

In the early dark I followed M5 in her car. She went this way and that, clearly knowing her way around the vast mall. At one point, as I nearly lost her, I wondered if she’d changed her mind and decided to lose me. But no. We pulled into the parking lot of a small Hilton. And sure enough, the hotel lobby was mostly empty. The restaurant was closed, but the bar was open.

M5 was content to order food and a drink and sit at the bar. We pretty much had it—and the bartender—to ourselves. I wished the lighting was less bright.

Chatting about this and that, M5 quite animated and interested, I asked about her and her divorce. She’d gone to art school, where she stood out among long-haired artsy types. Indeed, purposefully nettled them with her habit of dressing up and wearing stylish heels and makeup. She’d been at her graphic design employ for quite a few years and liked her job. And had been the primary family breadwinner.

Her husband, friend of her older brother, had descended into a marijuana fog, rarely emerging from the basement of their house, which they eventually lost. At present she rented a townhome shared with her son when he wasn’t away at college. Her daughter, whom she described as tall and beautiful, as she indeed proved to be in photos, was about to marry her college sweetheart and was a go-getter. The family her daughter was marrying into had money and had given the prospective daughter a new car.

Self-conscious about the disparity in ability to contribute to the nuptials, M5 was holding up her end of wedding preparations by crafting ornate, individual invitations for the over 100 expected guests. Each required nearly an hour of work. She’d completed 75.

So well had the day and dinner gone, it occurred to me an hour later in the parking lot that M5 might invite me to follow her home. I hoped she would. But no. We hugged, kissed—lips only, briefly—, and said our goodbyes.

Days later, after I’d sent an email extolling meeting her and our time together, M5 sent me a Dear John. She didn’t think we would work out after all. Hunh!

I replied immediately in a cordial way. Told M5 I’d enjoyed meeting her; she was charming and exciting; I was sorry I wasn’t to her taste but understood. Hoped she’d find what she was looking for, wished her well. And was surprised to get a phone call several days later. As noted, she had a sweet, pleasing, girlish voice.

Seemed she’d described our meeting and date with an older female co-worker. She mentioned a Black woman. How she’d decided no to pursuing the relationship and informed me. And her surprise at receiving back such an understanding response.

Sounds like you went out with a grownup for a change, the co-worker had suggested. A gentleman. Maybe you have some growing up to do.

She just wanted to say she was sorry, and… There was silence on the other end.

What is it? I asked. Following rejection, I click to a protective alter ego of which the reader will become aware. M5 said something on the order of, When you grabbed me by the hair and kissed me, I thought, ‘maybe.’

I followed up on this.

You liked me clutching your hair?... I just felt like kissing you.

It gave me pause, M5 said. I thought, Hmm. Maybe there’s more to this man than I’m thinking.

As noted, emails exist to transform speculative recall and interpretation of what now transpired to actual record. I’ll let the record speak as to M5’s revealing reason for initially rejecting me, and, to a point, what occurred going forward.

Saturday morning, Feb. 27, 2016, two weeks after our initial date, I sent the first of countless post-rejection emails to M5. You, the reader, will judge, but I’m pretty sure easy facility with words and… Let’s say, forays into my target’s psyche that pique interest, is, as noted, a forte. I typed:

very much enjoyed our conversation last night. (as I did the afternoon and evening of valentine’s day.) we seem to have an easy, effortless conversational intimacy.

guess the question is whether other forms of intimacy enhance and augment or detract. hmm.

seems logical a woman, without even knowing it, would imprint in terms of attraction on the men she grew up around. having German and English heritage myself, I suppose it should not be a surprise that I would not immediately ping that part of 100% Greek woman that responds to man as strutting cock. (all puns intended. haha.) on the other hand, there is the African in me, as yet unexperienced.

Apart from describing myself as mixed-racial in my online profile, I’d not, I think, brought up being Black with M5. Despite White appearance, I’d grown up thinking of myself as Black. (In my youth Negro, Colored; sometimes if rarely the "N’ word.) Leastwise—thinking of myself as Black—, as will be related, from the age of eight.

There’d been no cause to discuss race. M5 hadn’t broached this aspect. But now I thought it useful. White women seem to find my unexpected African heritage intriguing. I continued:

we shall see whether romantic interest blooms, and how quickly.

please have a lovely weekend!

HUG~

M5 responded a few hours later. She had a directness, candor, insightfulness that immediately captivated:

Y :

You have definitely piqued my interest. No question. And to be clear, I used to love only nice, sweet men. Then I married a nice, sweet man, and that soured. I wanted a tough guy. A thug. Now the appeal of that has worn off, and I’m trying to figure out what exactly works for me. It’s not easy! I am admittedly impatient, and I’m fiercely independent. That’s a hard mix.

Anyway, I always enjoy our conversations. And that’s not something to be ignored. Today I’m cooking and baking. Tonight, is the party. Tomorrow is dress shopping. Monday is back to work in our new digs. I don’t do well with change, so it has me a little off kilter. But I’ll survive.

Thank you for being so gracious. Here’s to second chances!

Xoxox

M5

And, wanting to press my seeming roll, within the hour—it was near noon—I responded:

kisses and hugs? I like that, M5, even if not at present felt... you know, in your toes.

you are so attractively direct--I wanted a tough guy. A thug. haha.

truthfully, I suspect you still want tough. not necessarily thug. (goodness!) but I think what a woman of your strength wants down deep, at least some of the time (certainly not as a constant), is a man who will on occasion take control, lessen the constant burden of responsibility. say, this is what is going to happen today! take charge. and this includes the romantic physical. sure, you want your time on top. (ride him hard, cowgirl! whoopee-ki-yay!) but at some point (timing is everything! artist of life needed!) you want to be taken, swept away... am I mistaken?

(at the risk of getting a bit too personal too early. probably way too personal. But--you’re a grown woman with experience.)

know what?... I would love to be able to say in my profile, "ladies. I am indeed polished, educated, a gentleman. I like the world of ideas. in that respect I am somewhat the nerd. and i’m nice and kind. however, I’ve endeavored very hard not to be a wuss. it has been my aim to cultivate the bad boy you loved in your teens (when you didn’t need protection or security, because your parents provided it).

in that women like yourself today provide your own security and protection (man/husband not required), maybe once again you seek that excitement... a naughty boy. but, of course, such a man doesn’t know when to stop and let you be you. and may really be weak and dependent. probably is. A DILEMMA!

last night I tried to convey to you that there is in Y a Mr. Hyde. I don’t think you want to meet that person. I don’t see it happening. however, I’ve played football and boxed and done karate. (brown belt.) I have a quick temper at times, and have had fistfights in grade school, high school, college, even as an adult. the thought often occurs to me in groups of gentlemen—these guys wouldn’t fight. they’ve gone soft. I could kick their asses!

as I can no longer run, and I’m not inclined to back down quickly enough, I’m debating right now whether to purchase a handgun. (I hunted as a boy. my stepfather always had guns. one morning I almost shot him.)

jes sayin’, M5. there is, after all, the African in me. (as, possibly, in many Greeks?)

most women fall pretty hard for me.

something to think about, maybe have some feelings about as you’re baking.

be forewarned. next time I’m going to really KISS YOU.

y 

Still with me, dear reader? With US? Better perhaps than I can manage in independent prose, who I am is conveyed. Matters are definitely heating up. My aim precisely.

As women always do if there’s interest, M5 offered important crumbs as a guide to who and what she was about—sizable stones really! All I had to do was follow them.

I loved the smart, sassy, sexy, complex, unconventional, off-kilter woman she was turning out to be. And she didn’t disappoint. She waited until after midnight. Love a night owl!

Y:

I just got home. We had a very nice evening. It was fun being with three generations.

My mother raised me to make my own money, so I would never be dependent on a man, and so that I could pick any man I wanted since I didn’t need him to support me. That sort of backfired. I married a super sweet guy who had no ambition. So, for the 20 years of our marriage, I had to shoulder the burden. Early on, I think I enjoyed being in charge, but at some point I grew very weary of always having to run the show. I also grew weary of his lack of passion. So I went for the polar opposite—uber thugs. Men of few words with lots of muscles and not too much in the intelligence department. It was kind of refreshing for a short period of time. Then it’s like eating too much sugar. It gives you a sick feeling in your stomach. I think since I was such a good girl in my youth, I went through a second adolescence once my divorce hit. That was compounded by the guilt I felt, and I think dating guys who would hurt me emotionally (never physically) was appealing on some level. Fortunately, I have healed enough to stop that behavior. It was a hard habit to break, but I am much more settled now.

I like a strong man, but I do sometimes pull back if I feel my autonomy is being tested. So it’s a slippery slope. But I think you may be up to the challenge.

Hope you enjoyed your day.

Sleep well.

M5

Up to the challenge! OMG was I! Reading M5’s email in the still of the late evening made my cock hard. There is the humdrum of daily living—necessary tasks of paying bills, food-shopping, cutting grass, earning a living. But then there’s LIVING! For me, pursuit of a woman who fires my mind and my loins… LIVING!

I’d wait till morning to respond. I couldn’t wait to respond. And knew M5 would be eager to get my response. Intellectual fucking had begun. That it might, probably would lead to more was but the sweet carrot propelling a train now in motion.

I was confident that not only would I not disappoint a woman who expected disappointment. I would surprise her. Nay, thrill her. She would be owned! As it had been with other women, I’d be the man she never expected to find. It had been my mission in life, certainly since my divorce, to be that man.

Early the next morning—Sunday—, I eagerly typed:

mmm. morning, M5. sounds like a fine time.

And in case, valued reader, you’re curious to know more of me and how I came to be me—the milieu whence sprung—, here’s what else was in the first paragraph. Otherwise, I’ll leave stuff out. All is calculated (cuz I’m uber-calculating!) to achieve the end of winning, bedding, owning (to an extent) a woman of merit. I typed:

I am grateful for my large, close family. not sure what will happen when my mother passes. family is where one feels truly at home. could be the formidable duo of both my sisters will provide the center weight to keep us all together.

you are interesting for sure. (you were on V-day.) there is an attractive energy—stuff going on under the surface. probably emanating from the contradictory impulses and the tension that creates. I have a similar (ruthless?) take on who/what I’m about respecting relations with the opposite sex. however, I don’t think i’ve ever gotten such an insightful self-analysis from a woman. or a man besides myself. that lust and the distraction and release physicality can provide could enable you to overlook lack of intelligence... interesting. take me, cave man. but let’s skip the dragging by the hair. hahaha. mmm. kind of envy those cave men. (personally, I can’t be with a stupid woman, however attractive. I get bored. [unless I figure out ways to amuse myself. make her uncomfortable in some way?] it’s too important to me to also be making love to the mind. I want her mind to race and feel more than she has with others. a competitive thing perhaps... I’m winging it here. haven’t thought this through. however, appreciate that you’ve provoked this thinking.)

and very sexy. sounds as if you were both flagellating yourself. expiating whatever. (maybe the burden of having been good girl and dutiful wife.) but at the same time suspect you were exercising (exulting in?) an ability to dominate and control men. ???... whom you, of course, felt superior to... use them.

have to say I find it and you--your fearless intelligence and the passionate woman within highly attracting. (I look forward to being under your critical microscope. as I was on V-day. occurs to me you may have been disappointed you didn’t feel physical attraction to match what I perceived to be strong mental attraction. could be there is a mutual exclusion factor. if my mind gets engaged somewhere else during lovemaking... never mind. for now. smile.)

I think a reason you are giving me a second look is curiosity. and if I bring it physically along with the intellectuality... then you perceive danger?

I’ll say this... well, I’m reminded of a relationship when I was young (18). because of my youth and inexperience and her considerable experience relatively (despite being chronologically a year younger), and also a tragic motorcycle mishap, it was not physically consummated for a number of years. years of separation. in that instance, as in others, there was great surprise at how much passion was inside Mr. Cerebral. :)

could be you are correct to be wary. I’ve been dismissed early on by others. (the woman in the relationship I speak of is one.) none after that threshold