Cindy came in when I was in one of the two stalls, stained panties around my ankles, swishing toilet paper over my wet cunny.
She stepped up to the door and giggled. “Are you okay in there?”
“I will be,” I said.
She put her face up to the space between the door and frame. “Ohmygod, Amanda, you weren’t kidding.”
Now, neither of us were lez. But when I came out of the stall, and Cindy asked to “see,” I leaned against a wall, then lifted my dress and let her not only see but feel for herself. After kneeling down, she slid her finger inside my panties. “Holy crap, you’re still wet!” she gasped.
It turned me on when she did that. And when she brought her tongue into play, I began to moan. It seemed to excite Cindy, too. “Feel good?” she asked.
I’ll say it did! She did it like a real pro, so good that she could have brought me to climax. I was THAT horny after being with Nathan, doing something that was totally out of character for me. But then I said, “This feels great, Cindy, but we better stop. This is a little too weird for me, not to mention that somebody could barge in here any second.” Cindy agreed.
When we climbed into Cindy’s van for the trip home (she also lived in Pennsylvania), I had to admit that I was glad we came. And if Nathan didn’t call me, I was going to call him.
Nathan
Living in Baltimore, the Corn Husk mixers were a hike for me, which is why it took me over a year to get motivated to come back for a second time. I was psyched, ready to meet someone new after a recent breakup and my divorce before that. But then, when I got there, my enthusiasm waned. I was tired from working that day and then hitting the gym afterward. Plus, I didn’t see anyone that made me want to climb out of my lazy comfort zone.
Well, there was an exception. I had my eye on this cute lass in a red dress. She had shortish blond hair and great legs. She had a fair complexion, looked Polish-American to me. Those Slavic calves, thick and shapely. The lady in red. It made me think of the song and the movie. She looked bored, almost disgusted. It was obvious she didn’t want to be there, so I wondered why she was. She sat next to a tall brunette, presumably her girlfriend, who looked like she was having a good time. Should I ask Red Dress to dance?
I didn’t have to. She asked me when the DJ played the song Crazy. This surprised me because not once did I see her look my way. When she introduced herself, I gave her a smart-ass reply, told her my name was Nathan Detroit. Kind of a coincidence because she was a native Detroiter.
We were never lost for conversation. Not when we danced to Crazy, our only dance of the night, and not afterward when we sat at her table, sipping wine and getting more personal. I found her not only cute–cute AND sexy–but engaging. She kept her eyes, a light blue, glued to mine. She listened to what I had to say. I liked her voice, too. Soft, almost breathy, but not pretentiously so. And by the way, her dad, deceased three years, came from a Polish background. She confirmed same when I asked. “Wright is an Americanized version of Wronkiewicz, my dad’s birth name,” she revealed. “He changed it when my oldest brother was born.”
My ex-wife and just about all my former girlfriends had been to college. Not Amanda. Ordinarily, this might have bothered me, except I knew she was smart. Knew it from her job description. She had taught herself the latest office software from Microsoft, even before her company sent her for training classes. She tutored her colleagues at work, she also told me. Impressive. And she read a lot. Mostly popular novelists, including James Patterson and Stephen King. “I must have read about ten of King’s books,” she said.
“I read too, mostly non-fiction,” I said. I had tried reading Stephen King but couldn’t keep all the characters straight.
When I was ready to leave, she walked me out to the parking lot. We exchanged phone numbers. Then we kissed. Actually, we did more than that; we made out. I had never made out on the first date, let alone the night I met someone. Like our conversations, it felt so natural. First-time make-outs can be comically awkward. Not with Amanda. We got close enough to where I could feel the curvy contours of her well-proportioned body. She liked the way I kissed. “You do that very well,” she said. And then she added something that no gal had ever said to me: “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, Mr. Detroit. But I’m soaking wet.”
That line alone produced instant arousal. ‘And maybe I shouldn’t tell YOU this, Miss Wright, but…’ No, I kept that to myself. Her line was verbal eroticism at its finest. Telling her about my boner sounded crude to me, the verbal equivalent of those idiots who send pics of their dicks to potential mates.
Understatement of the year: we parted that first meeting on good terms.
That Monday, Amanda called me. “Playing hard to get, making the girl call you,” she joked.
The conversation flowed. No awkward silences. Lots of joking. And no second guessing what we both wanted, at least in the short term. Was she a keeper? Wasn’t sure then. We both liked the group America, and it just so happened that they would be in concert at a college located roughly halfway between Baltimore and Shrewsbury. “We’ll have dinner and then go to the concert,” I proposed.
She was onboard with that. And she chose the restaurant, Dominick’s Italian Kitchen. “You’ll like it,” she assured me.
She was on the parking lot, standing by her white Buick Regal when I pulled up in my maroon Honda Accord. She sure looked hot in that sleeveless, above the knees yellow dress and sandals. Me, I stuck with jeans and a white short-sleeve V-neck.
We hugged, then went inside and got a booth. The décor was typical for an Italian eatery, including wall murals depicting scenes from the Old Country. The lighting was a bit too bright for my eyes, but I didn’t complain. Like she had said, the food was good, the veal cacciatore we both ordered, the salad and the sauce, washed down with iced tea and red Merlot. Pasta is pasta–it’s the sauce that makes the meal, and Dom’s sauce was magnifico. Ditto for the salad dressing; it turned ordinary greens and tomatoes into something special.
Back on the parking lot, she said, “Look, I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, but I made reservations for us at the Quality Inn nearby. For after the concert, of course.”
This babe didn’t play games or mince words. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t shy about letting me know, a guy she barely knew and apparently wanted to know in an intimate way. Sooner rather than later. Putting my arms around her, I said, “I love your kind of presumption.”
Before moving her car to the street, she took a backpack out of her car. “A surprise for you later,” she said.
“A gift for me?” I asked.
“Yes, but don’t try to guess. You’ll see it in due time.”
Leaving it at that, I drove us to the concert. As expected, college kids made up a good portion of the audience. But there were also, like us, quite a few baby-boomers who’d been fans of America when these kids were still in diapers. Sister Golden Hair. Ventura Highway. Lonely People. Tin Man. The group performed them all in fine form.