I am so fucking sick and tired of the dating game. Pleasantries, strained conversation, and more-often-than-not zero chemistry all make for a very long date. Thank goodness I am self-employed and can use an incoming email as an emergency excuse to bow out gracefully if things get too awkward. Of course, there is the possibility that nobody will bother to email me—let alone a client—during such an outing. That only happens—along with dozens of text messages—while I am at the movies and my phone is silenced lest I be asked to leave for disrupting the other viewers. What I’d like to know is how movie theater personnel know if someone is texting or talking when they don’t bother to check during the course of the film. Seriously, empty threats are simply that. But I digress.
Where was I? Oh yeah, bad dates. Worse than bad. Horrid. Nightmarish. Loathsome. Obnoxious. Ghastly. (OK, thanks Roget). Perhaps the biggest problem with my parade o’unsuitable suitors is that my standards are too high; however, I always say that I’d rather be alone with my high standards than in yet another bad relationship. For the most part, I’m fine with it, but I’m so incredibly horny. You know it’s bad when the cashiers at Wal Mart monitor your Rayovac consumption and make comments like, “Weren’t you here last week buying batteries?” To which I was recently forced to go against my natural character and be a smart ass in replying, “These are AA. Those were AAA. Big difference.”
Anyway, here I am, on a Saturday night, getting ready to watch television, alone, yet again. I went to my “toy” drawer and was asked by the alpha vibrator (my large-ish two-toned purple one named Big Tony) if they could please have a night off. Seriously, though, how could I refuse their collective pleas? After all, there are labor laws across the globe and what kind of person would I be if I didn’t give my little guys a day off here and there, lest risk a temporary revolt or, even worse, a full-blown (pun intended) mutiny? Then what would I do with my battery stockpile? Buy flashlights for the apocalypse, I suppose, zombie or otherwise.
I decided to do what any single, undersexed, libidinous, intelligent, mature, classy lady would do—I put an ad on Craigslist. And mind you, not in the quasi-respectable “women seeking men” section but, instead, under “casual encounters.” At the very least, I figured that I would obtain some entertainment from the responses I got, as well as the variety of photographs which horny guys feel compelled to share. I am supremely amused by cock shots, especially those that are on the puny side. I feel utterly compelled to reply, asking the sender if he realizes that the camera adds ten pounds and that he might want to rethink his photographic options.
I was correct. Within 15 minutes of posting my simple, straightforward, candid, tired-of-the-dating-bullshit, looking-for-NSA-sex (that’s no strings attached for all you personal ad greenhorns) ad I was inundated with dozens of replies. Most of them were half my age (surprise, surprise) informing me of their sexual prowess (um, dude, you’ve only been having sex for, what, two years?) and how much they love older women. I suppose that’s one benefit of my age. I have the privilege of being an enigmatic and post-pubescent’s wet-dream-inducing older woman, or even better, a carnivorous, lithe cougar.
Anyway, I was particularly intrigued by one ad in particular. To protect the guilty, let’s call him Gerard, after my body pillow. Gerard was cute, younger but legal, seemed relatively normal, and could actually spell. Most importantly, however, he had nice arms. We met for coffee and conversation and shortly thereafter—when I had determined that he posed no threat—I brazenly invited him to “boldly go where no man had gone before”—my place. (In all actuality, I have had company before but I felt compelled to make a Star Trek reference in this story, just to reinforce my latent nerdiness.)
All Gene Roddenberry credit aside, I was very happy that I chose Gerard as my plaything that night.
We almost immediately retired to my bedroom when he arrived where he gave me a luxurious backrub—with lotion, in fact—and kneaded the knots out of my overly-tense shoulders. I think I actually purred. I was more relaxed than I had been in months and could have actually fallen asleep at that moment until Gerard kissed the small of my back, and then my shoulders, neck, ass, legs, and feet, before rolling me over and kissing my neck, lips, ears, breasts, stomach—not necessarily in that order—finally stopping between my legs. Had this been an A&P pop quiz, he would have gotten an A+.
He licked and sucked and nibbled, all the while wrestling with my legs as my body convulsed with orgasm after orgasm. At one point, I heard a crash, thus forcing us to reconfigure ourselves upon my meager full-sized bed to prevent further damage to life, limb, or property.
When he was finished I returned the favor; running my tongue up and down the length of his rather appealing shaft, circling the tip, taking him into my mouth and sucking gently, and then harder—all the time listening to him moan and being pretty damn delighted with my orally-fixated aptitude.
“What do you like?” I asked, foregoing my manners and speaking with my mouth full.
“Everything. What about you?”
“Everything? Really? That’s an awful lot,” I retorted, accidentally drooling upon his throbbing organ.
He chuckled. “Well a lot of things.”
“Such as?” I asked, wiping my saliva-covered chin with his pubic hair.
“For one, I’ve always wanted a slave,” he replied.
“Like, to clean your house and do your laundry?” I asked, erupting into uncontrollable giggles.
He replied to my absurdity by donning a condom (always practice safe sex, kids), rolling atop me, and, finally, entering me. Slowly, at first, teasing me with his length. Then faster. And harder. And deeper. And more orgasms. I lost count after eight when Gerard whispered, “What are you doing with your fingers?” I was so aroused, I think I even heard a French accent despite the fact that the Gerard after whom my pillow is name is Gerard Butler—a good ole Scottish lad.
What a workout, OMFG! We maneuvered through every position known to the two of us, making me wish I had kept my dog-eared copy of the Kama Sutra I sold at a yard sale to a young, eager-looking guy years before.
We went through the entire box of condoms that he brought with him. OK, I must confess. It was only a three-pack. However, for an early 30-something guy to actually need three condoms over the span of four hours in the middle of the night was an impressive feat nonetheless.
“I should get going soon,” he panted after number three, at around two am. “Work in the morning, ya know. We should do this again, by the way.”
“Yes, we should,” I countered, helping him sort through the strewn clothing on my floor, chair, bed, dresser, and windowsill. How the hell did we manage to get clothes there? I thought. I also conjectured that sorting through our collective attire was an awful lot like doing laundry and that his desire for a slave did, in fact, have latent housekeeping undertones.
Once he was all dressed—and I in my nightie—we went on a joint scavenger hunt to collect the condom wrappers and used condoms for disposal, all the while reflecting upon the fact that I was glad that I rented and if I had a black light and some Luminol, my bedroom would make a great set for an episode of CSI.
I walked him to the door. “Thanks for coming. Over,” I said, giving him another kiss.
“See ya soon, hopefully,” he replied as he left. I grinned at him like the Cheshire cat.
I woke up the next morning, muscles delightedly sore. You know, that good sore like after a satisfying workout or following a sadistic dental hygienist’s cleaning when you’re all finished and safely out of the office and then gently bite down (yeah, I’m weird).
Anyway, let’s just say that I’m glad I’m not going bicycle riding today.
Read N.S. Faulk’s other sexy stories published here on Every Night Erotica.
A career student who ran out of money, N.S. Faulk turned to writing erotica for fame and big bucks. She is the proud mom of two amazing daughters who are not allowed to read her stories — EVER! She’d like to thank Tim McGraw and Vin Diesel’s arms for their unknowing inspiration to her writing.