It's 1:30am, and my dick is inside a girl I have known for less than three hours. Her name is Ginger. Ginger's ass cheeks are jiggling each time I thrust in from behind. And Ginger's tongue is massaging her best friend's swollen clit. The friend's name is Alex. With Alex and Ginger splayed open in front of me -- a pleasing landscape of tawny, young flesh -- I have just had an epiphany. I have realized that the best sex -- the most satisfying fuck -- is the one you earn just by being a good person.
Maybe some backstory would help.
It's Friday night. Earlier this evening I made a bet with my brother Blake. We have a tradition of meeting for drinks at the end of each week. We work in different parts of the city and don't get to see each other often. But one of our favorite bars -- the Drunken Donkey -- is an easy drive for us both so we often meet up and catch up. And talk about women. We are both single -- him perpetually so, always playing the field, and I freshly single, after a divorce she and I both knew was inevitable. But relational status is about all my brother and I have in common. I'm a Gen-Xer and something of an old soul. I like jazz. I like to read. I like my smart phone, but I'm not married to it. Blake is eight years my junior (our parents' surprise baby) and a full-on digital native. And it was our differing perspectives on technology that put me on the path toward the menage a trois I'm currently enjoying.
At about 8pm, over bad beer, Blake asked how I was doing with the ladies, which led to me complaining about the bar scene, which led to him extolling the virtues of Tinder, which led to a vigorous debate about the value of find-an-anonymous-friend-for-a-quicky apps. Blake likes them; I'm skeptical. So Blake proposed a bet. He said he could get laid using his phone before I could get laid using my charm. Blake's phone is the latest model with the most memory, the fastest processor, the best service, and all the other bells and whistles. My charm is not the latest model and could probably use an upgrade. But I agreed to the bet. Loser has to buy drinks for a month. I drained my beer and left Blake at the Drunken Donkey, staring at his screen.
It has been seven years since I was part of the dating game. I went to a bar where I used to know every server, certain that the entire scene had passed me by. I'm 42, with a little bit of grey cropping up around my temples. I work out, but I'm a step slower on the basketball court. I realize I am not the prize I used to be. Blake's phone might beat me handily.
The bar was just how I remembered it: trendy because it didn't try to be. It drew a mixed crowd of two categories: college co-eds and office professionals drinking away a week's drudgery and enjoying the scenery provided by the first category. It was crowded, but I spotted a place at the bar where I could squeeze in. The barkeep nodded and I realized that I was in a contest of tenders. Blake's quest involved Tinder; mine a bartender. I ordered Bullit Rye, neat, and surveyed my options. Lots of pretty girls, several without obvious male attachments. At the end of the bar, there are two girls embracing. I was briefly excited by the idea of watching lezbos kiss. But then I realized it wasn't that kind of embrace. One is crying and the other is consoling.
Moving on, I spied one woman across the bar in her mid-forties, bleach-blond hair, plentiful makeup, and a low cut dress. She was showing off impressive boobs, but they look to be receiving a substantial lift from her push-up bra. I looked up from the cleavage to see that she was smiling at me. Caught me peeking. Bright red lips. Long lashes. She clearly had an agenda for the evening that included whatever it took to make herself feel sexy. And I had to admit it wa working.
"A little trashy, but I can work with trashy," I think.
On my trip around the bar, I had a twinge of guilt. Isn't this a shitty move? Trolling for trim? Was I about to take advantage of this cougar? But when I rounded the bar and saw her winking at the guy seated to her left, I realized how silly that was. If anything, the cougar was out to take advantage of me. What would it hurt to give her what she wanted -- an evening that convinced her she hasn't lost her allure -- and keep me from shelling out for Blake's beer for a month? I sat down on her right, and she lost interest in the guy to her left.
She spoke first, swinging herself around on the stool to give me her full frontal attention. "I'm Roxy."
First, I felt guilty. Now I was a little grossed out. But I can muscle through.
"Hi Roxy. I'm Tad." My name is not Tad. It's Sean. But I felt like she had already established the truth standard in this relationship and I was following her lead.
"You here alone?"
"Going on two years now," I said. It was my standard answer and I only then realized how pitiful it sounded. In a quick rescue effort, I added a question to which the answer was obvious: "You?"
It was too late. She was already making pouty lips and putting her hand on my knee. "Oh, poor thing." She scoots to the edge of her barstool, her bare knees protruding from under her dress and sliding between mine. Her hand moved up my thigh. "I'm sorry you're alone.
This was going as well as could be expected, but I was remarkably disinterested. In fact, I was a little relieved when the guy on her left whispered in her ear. Whatever he said sounded like it started with "My friend and I" but I couldn't make it out. Whatever is was, it captured all her interest. Her hand was gone. Her knees extracted from my lap. And she went full-frontal with mister-my-friend-and-I, showing me the thick-strapped back of her dress.
"Well, that's that," I thought and took a swig of whiskey. Then I noticed the two girls at the end of the bar. They weren't hugging any more; they were laughing. At me. The blond one made pouty lips in mock sympathy for me after Roxy's rejection. I flip them the bird. Then I call the bartender over and ordered them a drink.
When the drinks arrived -- cosmopolitans -- the girls raised them in a long-distance toast. Then they conferred for a moment and, to my surprise, carried their glasses in my direction. When they reached me, I was surrounded by empty seats. Roxy had decamped. They flank me and the one who made pouty lips spoke.
"That was epic," she teased, nodding behind her where Roxy was leaving with two golf-shirted men.
"She lost interest when I told her she needed a bigger bra,"I said.
"Oh, is that what happened?" she nodded in mock understanding.
"I'm Sean," I was hoping to change the subject.
"Ginger." This is the Ginger of the pouty face tease and the jiggling ass cheeks where we started this story. Ginger introduced her friend, Alex, she of quieter demeanor and soon-to-be swollen clitoris. But toasting my new friends on that barstool, I hadn't yet glimpsed either ass or clit, and had no inkling that I ever would. These girls were sweet to come over and console me, but they would move on to the rest of their night soon. And I would have to start scanning the stools for another target.
Alex had straight, dark brown hair, parted in the middle with no bangs. I thought the haircut added to a look that I wanted to describe as "vertical." Thin nose. Small mouth. Narrow frame that peeked out from one of those shirts with holes in the shoulders. Skinny waist and legs inside tight white jeans. Alex was reserved and pretty, like an antique porcelain vase one was expected to admire, but not touch.
We made small talk: established the appropriate social connections of careers, relationship status, current event awareness, and sports fandom (they both followed women's soccer). Alex and I discovered that we had attended the same local high school, and hated the same calculus teacher.
"He was crazy!" Alex laughed. "You know I once caught him trying to look up my skirt!"
"Well, he wasn't crazy for that," I winked.
"I was sixteen!"
"You're right. That's inappropriate," I retreated. "Plus, you're not Chinese."
"Right? What was with the Asian fetish!? He used to talk about Asian girls all the time. I seriously saw a bulge in his pants more than once."
Alex was reserved, but easy to talk to. She didn't look around when she talked, but kept her eyes locked on mine.
By contrast, I could hardly look at her. Not because she wasn't easy to look at. She was very pretty. But I had a mission. I was there to score -- to beat Blake -- and my best shot at that was someone a little older and a little more -- I hated to admit it -- desperate.
There was a grandma to my left. Nope.
A knot of college girls across the bar, making eyes at any dude who looked willing to buy them a drink, which was every guy in the bar. There was basically a line forming. Too young and too much competition.
