Dear Reader: The following story is a fictionalized account of some recent experiences. The names and many other details have been changed significantly to protect the 'guilty.' In order to make it more interesting and erotic I have followed the Christian Black's suggestion in his essay entitled "A Philosophy of Porn" and placed my tale in "Pornotopia." In other words I ignore such issues as safe sex, condom use, and other less than erotic aspects of human biology.
There won't appear to be much connection between the title and the events in this first chapter but trust me its relevance will become obvious in the succeeding chapters, which will follow shortly.
I hope you enjoy and welcome all comments and constructive criticism. My thanks to my editor, funnygent32.
Marcy
*
As I think back over the last year, I hardly recognize the woman I was before meeting Nick. You see, I grew up in a conservative Catholic family where sex was literally never mentioned. In my 31 years I have never seen my mother -- much less my father - naked. As a result I was quite shy about such things and so compared to most of my girlfriends, I was pretty naive.
As a kid I fell in love with gymnastics and I was pretty good. At eleven and twelve I had dreams of the Olympics but at thirteen a huge growth spurt - that never included my breasts - left me 5'10" and gawky and my coach discouraging my Olympic dreams.
Since I was popular enough to have my pick of the 'nice' boys, I managed to avoid the issue of actually having sex until I decided, just before heading off to college, to finally get it over with. Even then the idea of being naked in front of boy was humiliating because of my meager endowment 'boob-wise.' As you can imagine the outcome with two 18 year old virgins -- especially with one of them as uptight as me - was less than spectacular and so I was in no hurry make sex a big part of my life in college. There were two boyfriends in college with whom I had sex but I guess neither was all that experienced and so I graduated never having experienced an orgasm involving anything but my own fingers. I liked men, a lot; I just didn't see what was so great about sex and given my upbringing, I tended to avoid those conversations with my girlfriends that might have led me to expect more.
After college I went to work in NYC for a large ad agency that offered plenty of opportunities to meet and date men in both the art and business worlds. Maybe I was just unlucky but my experiences with artists led me to conclude that they were either gay, total narcissists, or both, and the investment bankers and lawyers I met mostly seemed to enjoy bragging about their deals and their fees. The last of these ended particularly badly. A handsome early-forties lawyer charmed me for a month before I discovered that his wife was summering in the Hamptons. My friends all laughed at me, saying that a transfer to San Francisco was like jumping from the frying pan into the fire as far as finding interesting, straight men was concerned; but having just turned 31, I was ready for a change.
I rented an apartment in the City and although I soon made new friends and quickly grew to enjoy the office's more relaxed atmosphere, San Francisco is definitely a very gay scene. Now gay guys are great fun, don't get me wrong, but as I settled in and started getting over "the Roger-who-rogered-me," as my British friend branded him, I began feeling a little lonely and horny for some real, un-married, heterosexual male companionship.
About that time my best friend at the agency, Rita, a Mexican-American woman who dealt with the Hispanic side of marketing, invited me to a party at her home in Marin County, just over the Golden Gate Bridge. Rita is a true Latin beauty, amazing cheekbones and light brown skin that attested to some Mayan or Aztec heritage. But her height, 5'5", and slender build suggested that some conquistadors were in the mix as well. One of the many things I love about her is her brash and bawdy sense of humor, which she often expresses in a rough Mexican accent that always makes me laugh.
"Come on up. You need to see some trees and grass and even though most of the men are taken at least they're not gay." She urged and I accepted and that sunny Saturday afternoon I was off to the land of hot tubs and chardonnay in my favorite new hip hugger Capri's and a modest top that offered just a hint of midriff. While I may lack the boobs to be runway model material, I'm tall and thin and I've learned what flatters my figure.
The drive north to San Rafael was lovely, but I was surprised at Rita's beautiful home, which was nestled back in the hills among huge trees. I knew that her husband, Carlos, was in the music business but I had no idea he was so successful. Rita must have been watching for me and as she opened the door she let the whole neighborhood know that "baby sister" had arrived (though I was barely five years younger) and that I had to meet her Carlos.
I knew that Carlos was Cuban but I surely wasn't expecting this Carlos. He was big (6'5" at least) and very dark, powerfully built, and obviously still in great shape for a guy in his early forties. Most of all, he was an absolute sweetheart as he swept me along, introducing me to their guests as he refilled their glasses. I was half scanning the other guests scattered around their patio and backyard when I realized that the man Carlos was introducing me to had no tell-tale ring (or tan line) and I was being introduced as the most beautiful single woman attending.
"But Carlos," I demurred, "I think I'm the ONLY single woman."
"Well, this is the only single man. So you should meet. Marcy, this is Nick. He lives up the street and he's a lawyer, so don't trust him!"
As Carlos moved off, leaving me with Nick, I said something really stupid: "So are you an ambulance chaser." I stopped, suddenly realizing that unlike back on Wall Street, he actually could be one. Fortunately he laughed.
"No, I'm just another corporate type, though I am, shall we say, semi-retired and doing more interesting stuff these days."
He went on to describe having been corporate counsel for an internet start-up during the late '90s and how, after helping them go public, went to another and then another, acquiring along the way a reputation for getting those things done. He laughed as he added that fortunately he'd sold his stock right after he'd moved on from each company. All and all he seemed a charming guy: taller than me (6'1"); good-looking; probably quite rich; but at 45 or so, I was thinking perhaps a little old. Still ...
A little later, Rita sidled up to me when Nick had gone off for drinks, and nodding in his direction said, "Good guy." She told me that Nick's wife had died not quite a year ago, that he was 46, and not "back in the market" so far as she knew.
Nick soon returned and I found myself very much enjoying his sense of humor as well. He mentioned his wife's struggle with cancer briefly but moved on quickly to charm me with stories of the sybaritic '80s and '90's when everybody was getting rich on the dotcoms and the telecoms and, ultimately, the con-coms - as he put it - and the parties were outrageous. When I observed that things seemed to have calmed down a bit, he laughed and said that things were not necessarily as staid as they might seem that night.
"A few of us still partake in the demon weed and the hot tub parties are just a little smaller."
"Well believe it or not, pot did make it to NYC."
"But nothing like the stuff I've got at my house."
OK, so I was buzzed on the wine and he was so charming and I do like a little pot now and then - and he lived just up the street. Off we went with Rita leering as she saw us sidling out the gate.
Nick led me through his house stopping only briefly to get his stash and another bottle of bubbly before heading to his backyard. Not surprisingly, given the combination of a charming man, a warm August night filled with bright stars, several glasses of wine, and now stoned out of my mind, I was a pushover and frankly happy to oblige.
Kisses led to mutual groping and when he suggested we go inside, I asked, "Would it be too bold if I asked to see your bedroom? You know I'm only doing this because you're a complete stranger and I never expect to see you again," I warned as we began fumbling with each other's buttons.
"Bedroom, sure, but let's suspend judgment on the rest."
