After the Crash

These were traits upon which I used to pride myself sexually, even if some of the women I was with had mixed feelings about them. Fortunately, my ex-wife didn't mind them, at least early in the relationship. We even did some of the kinkier things that can be done with a lot of cum. I used to have the ability to cover a woman's face with enough cum to obscure her identity.

Not that I did that often. But I often wished I had met a woman who liked some of these perhaps kinky things. I mean, really liked them. When I was younger I remember thinking that a blowjob was the most wonderful thing in the world. That hasn't changed. I still feel that way. And though I'd never been deepthroated, I would love to be one day.

Unfortunately, blowjobs were a rare thing after a year or two of marriage. And when I got them, I never got to come in my ex's mouth.

Gazing at the black sea dotted with lights from boats moored in the harbors, my mind wandered back to that stunning creature in the hot pink neon bikini. What if this doctor knew what he was doing and sex turned back into a sure thing - on my part at least? Would I ever find a woman with as lovely a physique as that one today? I've seen many, many beautiful, toned and shapely women. But I don't think any one of them affected me, stayed inside my brain, the way she did today. She was truly spectacular.

So, tomorrow would be the key possibly to at least getting this part of my life back.

Thinking about this hope made me reconsider one of the paths in life I did not take. In college I wrote for the school newspaper. I had actually written two novels too, although neither was very good. I always said that one day I'd write again. Maybe it was this feeling of hopefulness - in a man my age - that would give me the kind of encouragement I needed to put pen to paper, metaphorically speaking.

I was lost in these mostly depressing, but somewhat hopeful thoughts when I was interrupted. A voice above me said in English, "I can't believe it's so crowded up here. Would you mind if I sit with you?"

I looked up to find that a pretty face with a dazzling smile, looking down from quite a height had asked that question.

"Of course, please join me," I said without even thinking about it.

That smile was truly a gem. Her pretty green eyes highlighted an oval face with strong, high cheekbones, a straight nose all set off by relatively short blonde hair. She looked like royalty, whatever that might mean. That bright set of beautiful teeth won my heart. In fact, it stirred something in my groin as well. Thank goodness for that. Things hadn't really stirred there of late.

She pulled out a chair and sat down so quickly, as I was still mesmerized by her face, that I didn't even have a chance to look at her figure. Shit, I said to myself, I should have looked. All I could see was a blousy and loose-fitting dress whose cloth was a print with large, colorful flowers, making it impossible to determine her shape. The only thing that was obvious was her height.

Oh well, I was with a pretty woman, probably around thirty. And she was sitting at my table.

Part 2. Dinner Conversation

"Thank you for allowing me to share your table," she said. "This view is so amazing that I can understand why someone would want to come here, sit in peace and quiet, take it all in and not want to leave. I'm so sorry I'm disturbing you."

What a nice sentiment. What a lovely face! I could keep staring at it all evening. What view? The only thing I could see was that amazing smile.

"You're alone?" I said, surprised that a pretty woman would be by herself. I glanced around and said, "From a quick view of the other tables, yeah, it seems that they are all couples."

"How rude of me. I should have introduced myself. My name is Patrice. I'm an American, of course. I live in Seattle, now, though I was raised and lived in the Chicago area most of my life."

"My name's Mace. I'm up in the air at the moment," I said, thinking that statement did not exactly make me sound terribly stable. But what the hell. This young woman is not interested in me. I might as well be honest. "Actually, I've been up in the air for a number of years. I used to live in Connecticut, but, in the 'small world' category, I just recently moved to the Seattle area. So are you on vacation?"

"Not exactly. My company sent me to Grasse, not too far from here, for some training, although I don't travel for work often. I had an extra few days so I decided to come to the Mediterranean, one of the many places I've never been. I wanted to swim in the Sea at least once. It was colder than I thought it would be, but I loved it. And you?"

She didn't really want to hear about me, at least that's what I told myself. And, if I hadn't been drinking so much already I probably would have said that I was on vacation. Instead, I was blatantly honest.

"It's a long, sorry tale. Why don't we get a bottle of wine? If you're still interested after your first couple of glasses, I'd be glad to tell it to you."

And we did just that. We finished the first bottle rather quickly and though it had become a beautiful evening, I could only see those brilliant teeth and sparkling eyes. I realized, well into the second bottle, that I was fantasizing about her mouth. Now who was being rude? I had to force myself to see her whole face and the rest of her, as much as I could see at least. And I realized I'd missed some of what she was telling me about herself.

"So the opportunity came up in Seattle and I jumped at it. I really needed to get out of Chicago. Those winters, the humid summers, the traffic - and some personal shit as well! If you'll pardon my language."

"I've only been there a short while," I said, "but from what I've seen, Seattle traffic isn't so great itself."

"You're right," Patrice said. "A walk in the park it's not. But I live near where I work and most days I just walk."

She stopped for a moment and looked at me.

"I've been talking so much. I should just shut up for a while. Are you ever going to tell me your 'long, sorry tale,' Mace?" she asked.

"I'll try to keep it short and sweet. I was a business major many years ago and just out of school I began working for a large financial company. After a while, I met a woman with whom I fell in love, got married, had a nice house in Connecticut, made a really great living, became richer than I ever could have imagined, had two nice kids... Life was good."

I paused, reminiscing.

"So what happened?" she said.

"The financial collapse happened. In short order, I lost much of my wealth. Then, seeing that I was no longer the great provider upon whom she had come to rely, my wife had an affair and then she took the kids and left me. Next thing I knew, she divorced me. I lost my home, my family, most of the rest of my money and most of my friends."

Her response what not what I expected: She smiled and even giggled a little.

"I'm sorry, but that's not funny to me," I said, my eyebrows scrunched together.

"No. It's not funny," she said, still giggling a little, but trying to put on a straight face. "In fact, it's so sad that it made me laugh. My apologies."

I looked at her, trying to see the humor in my story.

"Really?" I asked her.

"No, no. Oh, my god. That is a terrible story. I'm so sorry for you. But, you have to admit, it's such a stereotype. It just seems like a story out of Hollywood. It has all the clichés: Business goes bad, your wife has an affair, you get divorced and lose everything. Next thing you know you're on the Golden Gate Bridge looking down at the San Francisco Bay. That's right out of a movie."

I could see her point of view, especially with the alcohol affecting my brain. She was right. It was just like the movies. With all of my self-pity I'd never thought about it that way.

"I truly am sorry for laughing. You've had so many bad experiences and you've lost so much," she said, now dead serious. "It's awful."

"Well, 'don't cry for me, Argentina.'" I tried to sing, but it was pretty awful. I added, "Pity is no solace, so there's no need to feel badly for me."

"So why are you here then?"

There it was. She had again asked me the question. The question. We were both way beyond tipsy by then. (And I still hadn't seen what the rest of her looked like!) Anyway, I had learned that she was in her early thirties so she was more than twenty years younger than I was. Not exactly age appropriate. I loved looking at her, but I knew that, even if she were interested, I would almost certainly not be able to perform. So, why not? Be honest. I had nothing to lose and I had a willing and very pretty listener.

The hell with the woman in the neon bikini, she wasn't here with me - and certainly never would be - but Patrice was. And from at least what I could see of her she was spectacular.

"Well, it's actually quite personal," I said and paused, still not sure I wanted to open up about that much of myself.

Oh, what the hell.

"I'm here to see a French physician and researcher who is supposed to have an innovative way to help older men perform."

A part of me had been expecting that if I said it, the world to blow up. I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was still there.

Best of all, she was still there. And her seeming interest in what I had to say hadn't dissipated.

She took a moment, then said, "I've never been with an 'older' man, but you're not what I think of when someone says 'older man.'"

"That's very kind of you, but my kids are in their twenties. So I'm no young'un."

"Don't they have these pills that help men get and keep hard-ons, I mean, erections."

"No need not to call it what it is. I used to have no problem getting a hard-on. In fact, I could get a hard-on, come, and get another hard-on in no time at all." Had I really said that out loud? "And then, I could keep doing that for a long time."

She looked at me a laughed.

"Now you're going to tell me that you used to 'stay hard as nails' and 'come buckets' and 'keep it up all night,' I'll bet."

"Well, it certainly seemed that way to the women I was with." I paused, considering how blatantly I'd just bragged about my previous reality. No way to prove it was true or not. And why would a beautiful and sexy young woman like Patrice be interested anyway? "So, there you have it. Sad, no?"

She looked at me with a hard to read expression.

"So, Miss I'm-just-a-young-happy-sexy-thing and I've never had to experience anything like that, what's your deep-seated sexual secret? Something no one knows about you?"

She smiled and understood that I was being playful. Then she looked at me sheepishly with a bit of a grin on her face.

"You've been honest with me so I'll do the same with you," she said candidly. Then that enticing smile vanished and she soberly said, "But you can't repeat it to anyone."

I nodded, not knowing what to expect.

She looked me in the eyes, dead serious.

"I used to have an addiction to semen."

Thank god, I thought, for alcohol. It does loosen tongues.

"Um, excuse me. What did you say?"

"Well, it's a long sordid story too. But I had this boyfriend a few years ago and in the course of our 'relationship,' he had me suck his cock hundreds, if not thousands, of times. After a while we rarely had sex and then we stopped altogether. It was just blowjobs and cum and cum play all the time."

If I had been ten years younger, this woman would have been the girl of my dreams. Hell, she was the woman of my dreams. She was literally a walking wet dream. I may not be able to perform like I used to, but I was getting aroused. Good for me!

"So why didn't you leave him or at least tell him what you wanted?"

"That was the weird thing. I got caught up in his fantasies. I thought I loved him. In the beginning - before it became weird - we had such fun together. I cared so much about him. I just wanted to please him. Slowly, over time, we simply stopped normal sex and I became addicted to dick. And cum. The addiction became so strong, that I was able to have an orgasm almost anytime his cock came. Then I got into a 'relationship' with cum. He found a way to get me to love cum. I don't know exactly how, but I could come just watching a guy ejaculate. Then when I saw the beautiful white liquid, I would get so excited I'd come again, harder. It got to the point that I could have orgasms by cum. It didn't matter what: seeing cum, playing with cum, tasting cum, swallowing cum."

I had died and gone to heaven. Now, what I would give to be able to give this woman what she said she seemed to want.

"In fact, I taught myself to deepthroat mainly so I could get him more excited, just to get him to come more. I mean in terms of the quantity of his semen."

"Now you're just jerking my chain. No pun intended - mostly," I said. This couldn't be true. She was like a man's jerk-off fantasy. Well, mine at least. When I used to be able to jerk-off every day, I'd sometimes fantasize about a pretty, naked woman looking at me with those "Please let me suck your cock so you can come in my mouth" eyes.

"No. It's the truth. Sometimes he even arranged for a bunch of guys to, as he would say, 'give me what I wanted: more cum.' I even got excited by it. I truly was addicted. I remember he'd put on some porn of women drinking large quantities of it from things and he'd ask me if I wanted to do that. I'd just about be coming watching these guys on the videos shoot and then watching a woman get to drink all of it. Well, that would put me over the edge. I would imagine what it would smell like and how it would feel on my lips and on my tongue and how it would taste. I could imagine the slimy stuff oozing down my throat. The orgasms just kept coming."

She stopped and looked at me.

Maya stopped reading too, looking at me with astonishment on her face.

"You are one kinky broad. I had no idea you were into this stuff. Playing with cum? Climaxing when a guy comes in your mouth?" She stopped and her expression changed. She added, "You can really deepthroat a hard cock? Really?"

What could I say? "Yes, yes, yes and yes," I told her. "It goes back to that guy Steven in Chicago - I don't want to go there now. Maybe another time. Maybe."

Maya continued reading.

"I can't believe I'm telling you this. This wine has really gotten to my brain. Other than a sex therapy group I was a member of for a while and the shrink I'm currently seeing, I've never told this to anyone. In fact, I haven't shared these details with anyone. I'm embarrassed that I could have become this cock-and-cum-crazed junkie. More than a few times I sucked off dozens of guys in the course of an evening and all of them came at least twice, although, to be honest, I didn't exactly suck all of them off. A lot of them just jerked off and came in my mouth." She paused, probably considering her honesty. Then she added, "But I drank more loads of cum in one of those evenings than many, if not most, women probably do in their lifetimes."

"Now I want to die," I said. "When I was younger, I could have given you loads of cum. You could suck me all night long and I'd give you four or five loads, maybe more. Big loads. Most of the women I've been with never really wanted it. Even the ones that were OK with it, rarely swallowed it all."

"Now you're jerking my chain. Five or more loads, and each one big? That's not possible. Is it?"

"It used to be for me. That's why I'm here, to see this doctor with this experimental treatment. If it works, maybe I'll be able to do it again."

"What an amazing coincidence that we met. Ironic really," she said kindly. "You probably would have treated me the way a woman should be treated. Sex would not have been one-sided, like it was with Steven. That was his name. He was my Svengali or maybe Machiavelli."

"It's true that I would have treated you the way you deserved to be. I used to enjoy sex immensely, but I also enjoyed the more sentimental aspects of affection. Because, what remains after sex, if you're lucky, is caring, sharing, tenderness... Love."

"If only," she said.

We gave one another an understanding look. Next we both picked up our wine glasses and toasted.

"To cum and to coming," she said.

"To coming again," I said.

We laughed and drank the rest of the wine.

It was then, as I was smiling at her, that I felt the faintly familiar discomfort in my crotch. I realized that for the first time in years I actually had a real, honest to goodness, not self-manipulated, hard-on.

Part 3. Night Moves

The dinner conversation continued in this vein. She told me more of the wonderfully sordid details of her complex sexuality. I told her more of my previous prodigious performances, including some explicit examples. We both probably had some doubts about the honesty of the others stories, but I can attest to the fact that mine at least were true.

Eventually, we had some dessert, a tarte Tatin, made the traditional way with apples. Of course, the tart was accompanied by more wine.

"There was this great little French pastry place near where I lived in Chicago. They made a delicious tarte Tatin. One time Steven thought I should try it with a layer of semen on top." She shook her head. "I can't believe that I did this. Or that I'm telling you about it. But after I developed my cum appreciation, well, let's just say that I found quite a few foods that go well with semen."

I had nothing to say but something like, "Uh huh" came out. What do you say when a beautiful young woman tells you this?

By the time we were ready to leave, we were both well sloshed.

So when we stood up I was surprised at how tall she was. I'm pretty short, at 5'7" but she told me she was 5'10" or so in her bare feet. She wore some sandals with heels that put her over 6 feet.

I let her walk in front of me as we were leaving the restaurant. In truth, I insisted that she walk in front of me. It gave me a chance to check out her body. Unfortunately, the opportunity was squandered on that damn big flowered dress. It did show her long lean legs, at least from her ankles to somewhere above her knees. They were lovely: strong, muscular, but long, thin and firm. They were a sight to behold.

When we arrived at the entrance, taxis were queued up in front of the restaurant. I was thinking that I didn't want the evening to end, even if it wouldn't end the way I'd have preferred.

"So, what now?" she said. "As I told you, I've been working on myself with my therapist and I don't want to go back down the path that Steven had taken me. But I'm having such a nice time, I don't want the night to end, though."

"Yeah," I agreed. Although her stories would have been fuel for jerk-off material for years, I had actually gotten to know this formerly, self-professed troubled woman a little. She was smart, funny, movie-star-pretty and exuded that kind of natural sexuality that seemed only to exist in movies.

The expression on her face appeared to be one of desire. I wasn't sure exactly what she was getting at, but that old adage about lemons and lemonade came to mind. What the hell, I told myself. Stop analyzing so much. Go for it.