Ok, here is just one story from that weekend.
I was at a conference. An academic conference. A conference with lots of academics.
On the third afternoon of this conference, I decided to walk back to my hotel. On the way, I stopped in a pub/restaurant for dinner. I sat at the bar.
To really give you the context for this moment, I would have had to tell you about so many other moments. I think, sometimes, when I am in a particular mood, I actually emit some kind of signal. Or smell, maybe. Let's just say that this was the third of three very. interesting. days.
So.
In the restaurant. A bit bewildered. Hunched over my glass of wine. There is a man next to me and I strike up a brief conversation but it is muddled, odd, goes nowhere. I ask about the game on the television. Silence. He leaves.
Two men take his place. An older guy - about sixty? A slightly younger man - maybe fifty. The older one starts in immediately, "I'll have EXACTLY what she is having."
I look over. Smile. Tuna. It's tuna. Cooked rare like I like it.
The other man leans over to look at me. I keep eating.
They talk. I eat.
"Are you here for the conference?" the older man asks. Yes. We start talking. The other man is listening closely.
He is so open. Almost too open. Raw, even. At some point, later in the evening, he will exclaim, "I love that I met you... I was supposed to meet you... there is something about you... I can talk to you..."
After we have talked for a while, the younger man gets up to leave. He gives me his card on the way out and says that I should come to a reception later that evening that he will be going to. He tells me the name of the hotel.
The older man and I keep talking. He tells me various things that are far too personal to say to someone one has just met and then says several more times how easy it is for him to tell me things that are far too personal to say to someone one has just met. Eventually, I leave.
I go to the reception.
I am wearing the tightest jeans, high black boots, black shirt, push up bra. The bartender tells me later, when I come up for another glass of wine, that the man I had met earlier at the bar almost fell over himself to get across the room when I walked in.
Before he made it to me, another guy got there first. We discussed quantum physics, which I know nothing about. Eventually, I extricated myself. The man who invited me - I'll call him Damien, for many hilarious reasons - intercepted. We talked. We went to a table in the corner and talked more. He said, let's go somewhere else. We did. A bar.
We sat in the back. His hand was on my leg. He was hard, hard, hard.
He was, as it turns out, married. Unhappily. Perfunctory sex - weekly. His hand was on my leg. I've already said that.
After a few drinks, he spoke even more freely.
I am... I... my wife... I live in a really conservative place. My wife knows I feel... but she... I am going to think about you when I jerk off for at least a month... or more... or when I am fucking her... that is just a fact.
I laughed. After he had finished my drink, he went on:
Look, I know I am older, but... can I hold your hand? Can I... I am just going to hold it for now. I know you probably don't want... Ok... I want to... can I just hold you. I want to hold you tonight.
I said no. We got into a taxi. He held my hand.
When we got to my hotel, he got out with me. I stopped him on the sidewalk. I told him to look at me, to listen to me. I was not going to sleep with him. In fact, he could not come up to my room at all.
He asked if I would walk with him around the block and talk for a minute. I said ok. We walked.
As we walked, he talked. I am going to tell you exactly what I am thinking, he said. I am thinking about touching you. I want to touch you. I am imagining you. I just want to touch you. You don't have to fuck me.
Again I said no. We stopped on the sidewalk. He pulled me into a doorway. Of a Starbucks. I let him do this. I knew exactly what was coming.
There was no one on the street. It was late. He pressed himself against me. He was, of course, hard. He was also drunk.
He reached down and pulled his cock out. It was shielded a bit by his coat. He jerked off right there in front of me.
Right before he came, he sounded like he was choking. Fucking... fucking... you fucking....
He never finished the sentence. He came on my jeans, groaning. I made him wipe it off.
---
In another weblog, I will write about what I was feeling during all of this, but for you, I have tried to just describe the actions, the outward gestures.
I did get wet when when he jerked off. Really wet. I can't say that I don't love that. But I felt ill at the thought of fucking this particular man. If he were on top of me, I would panic. That is the reality.
When I got back to my hotel, I masturbated thinking of him. Legs spread, I vibrated my clit and fucked myself with my fingers until I came hard, thinking of his grunts, his spurting dick, the cum dripping down my leg.
