On the way the to the Quality Inn, I asked Amanda why she lived with her mom instead of having her own place. She said, “Mainly, it’s because my mom is getting up in age, with medical issues. I’m sort of her caretaker. When I was married, she was in better health. She was my dad’s caretaker. He suffered with heart disease for about the last five years of his life.” She paused to look up at me. “I know it’s not the most convenient circumstance to carry on a relationship. I hope it doesn’t bother you.”
“It doesn’t,” I said. “It shows you’re a caring person.”
“Thanks. And look, because I live with my mom doesn’t mean I can’t get away for a few days or a week.” She shook her head and sighed. “Listen to me, talking about going away when this is only our first date.”
“Hey, it shows that you’re confident. I like women who are confident, who are secure enough and honest enough to speak their mind.”
She chuckled. “That’s me, all right, at least about the honest part. Sometimes it gets me into trouble.”
I didn’t explore that any further. Like she said, it was our first date. Also, my confidence quotient was up as well. First dates are supposed to be awkward, with periods of uneasy silences. That wasn’t the case with us. Here we just came from a rock concert and now were on our way to spend the night together. That Rolling Stones song played in my head: “Let’s spend the night together; now I need you more than ever…”
Amanda
I was never the stereotypical “good Catholic girl.” Like most stereotypes, I’m not sure that kind of girl even existed. But if she had, she wouldn’t have had sex before marrying (I did), wouldn’t have let a girlfriend rub her cunny in a public rest room (or anywhere else for that matter), and she sure wouldn’t be holed up in a hotel with a guy on their first date.
As to the latter, I wouldn’t have been with just any guy. And Nathan wasn’t just any guy. He seemed special and he made me feel special, not only because he thought I was hot, but because of the way he respected me, respected my professional status and respected the way I chose to care for my mom. I knew I was with a quality guy, and therefore I wanted to make this time with him as special and memorable as I could make it.
“Now, just sit here and relax,” I said when we got in the room. “I’ll be right out.”
“What–”
“Just sit here,” I repeated. “This bag contains that surprise I mentioned. You had asked me what was in it. Well, I’m about to show you.”
He did as I asked. Then I ducked into the bathroom to change into my ‘surprise.’ It was this sexy outfit from Victoria’s Secret. A red, see-through Teddy with black stockings and garters. After slipping into the black high-heels I had also packed, I primped a bit in the mirror, pausing to think if I should let my hair grow out again. I had worn it below my shoulders up until a few months ago. Then I asked my mom to cut it (she once did hair on the side), and I’ve left it just above my shoulders ever since. A guy at work thought it looked sexier.
Nathan didn’t focus on my hair when I strolled out. I giggled, thinking he looked so cute, gawking at me like a young teen boy seeing this for the first time. “You like?”
“Slightly.”
He slid to the end of the chair, watching me do a few pirouettes and other model-like moves. I felt hot and sexy because he made me feel that way. A little thisa, a little-thata, with emphasis on the latta…
I gave him an impromptu lap dance. Then, after straddling his lap, we got into some heavy smooching, vis-a-vis some equally heavy LGA. For the uninitiated, those letters stand for Loin Grinding Action, a term we used among my social circle in Detroit. My older sister Sheila taught me that one. To digress: One night, I walked into our living room and saw Sheila and her boyfriend Danny doing some intense LGA on the sofa. “Stick around, you’ll get an education,” Danny said. Danny–he was always making salacious remarks like that.
Back to Nathan and me. “You’re one delicious babe,” he cried. As if to make good on that, he pulled down the cups over my outfit and began slashing his tongue over my boobs. I inherited my mom’s boobs–large enough to where I had considered breast-reduction surgery. Apparently, Nathan didn’t have a problem with it, not the hungry way he was going at it, like he hadn’t been with a woman in many a day or night. Between his tongue action, he called me “luscious,” told me I smelled good.
We shared the hunger, because I hadn’t been intimate with anyone in many a day or night myself. But what I was doing wasn’t out of desperation. No lie, Nathan was the best-looking guy I’d ever been out with–and I’d been out with some handsome dudes. When I told him to “take your clothes off and stay awhile,” he didn’t waste much time. And when he did just that, I stood there, amazed that a guy in his early forties could look so good, six-pack and all. “Nathan,” I said, “you’re a walking billboard for how good one can look past forty.”
He thanked me, then said, “And you’re a walking poster girl for brainy, sexy secretaries.” He reached out and hugged me. “I mean that, Amanda. You really are.”
He seemed sincere, yet I still wondered if he meant it. The brainy part, I mean. See, no guy, including my ex, ever focused on my natural smarts. It was never important to them, never a priority. Tits and ass. That’s what mattered most to them. But then, who was I to judge when I went along with it, played the blond, blue-eyed sexpot for all it was worth. Frankly, I WAS kind of a sexpot back then. I thought of myself as a glorified floozy. And Nathan made me feel more floozified than usual–for no other reason than the extent to which I turned him on.