“Now that we have that straightened out,” I said, “I’m ready for round two.” I lowered myself, my cock finding her pussy like a guided missile as she arched her pelvis up to meet me. It was a little longer and leisurely, but just as pleasant. We drifted off to sleep, not even realizing until the morning that we were lying in a wet spot.
We jumped out of bed in the morning and Monique won the race to the shower, which was unfortunately only big enough for one.
She came into the bedroom naked except for a towel wrapped around her head, but pushed me towards the bathroom when I tried to grab her.
“There’s no time for that now, besides, you stink,” she said with a smile, and I hit the shower.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and came out to find that Monique had ordered us a room service breakfast, and was sitting in a big fluffy robe sipping on a cup of hot coffee.
Joining her, we soon made short work of the food and were sitting there lost in our thoughts.
“So, what would you like to do today, Robert?”
“I thought maybe we could check out a nude beach,” I said, waggling my eyebrows.
She just laughed.
“What’s so funny? All my life I’ve read about how Europeans are much more relaxed about nudity, and I’ve always wanted to see it for myself.”
“Oh, you’ll see it,” she said, still laughing, “Europeans are definitely less body conscious.”
I didn’t catch her change of phrasing, but I was soon to have a rude awakening.
We obviously didn’t need to bring much. I put on some board shorts and an unbuttoned sport shirt, Monique wore a bikini bottom and a T-shirt. We threw a couple of large towels into a tote, some water bottles and lots of sunscreen. We put on sandals, wide-brim hats, and we were off to the beach.
As soon as we reached the beach I saw why Monique laughed. Like I guess most people who’ve never been to a nude beach I pictured a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue without the swimsuits. Well, the “without the swimsuits” part was accurate, but that’s as far as it went.
Probably half the people were over fifty, with big bellies, tiny dicks and sagging boobs, and that was just the men! Oh, there were younger people, some even quite attractive, but for every babe with her tits and pussy on display there were guys with their swinging dicks. I’d never seen so many dicks in my life, and I’ve been in plenty of locker rooms. On the plus side, I saw that I had no worries about the size of my equipment.
We found a relatively uncrowded spot, spread out our towels, stripped off and sat down. I noticed a distinct lack of tan lines on Monique; this was obviously not her first time. We proceeded to apply generous amounts of sunscreen. I had to be especially careful with a certain area. Monique tried to help me there, but it caused a rather embarrassing reaction.
That was when I learned some nude beach etiquette. Despite all the skin on display, sexual activity was strictly a no-no. Some of the guys were sporting erections, that was nearly impossible to avoid, but if the pressure got too great there was the ocean to either cool things off or to deal with the issue.
After a surprisingly short period of time I got reasonably comfortable, and started to act like it was just another day at the beach. Monique and I played in the surf and even played a little volleyball.
As it got close to lunch time, we decided that we had had enough sun, pulled on what clothes we had and hit a snack bar for a quick lunch before going back to our room.
A couple of quick showers to get rid of the sand, salt and sunscreen, and it was back to bed for some more sex, then we had to shower again before going out for dinner and dancing. It wasn’t our first time dancing, but I still basked in the glow of her compliments on my dancing.
We were actually too tired for sex, but still fell asleep in each other’s arms.
We shared a bed for the rest of my stay in France, and as much as I would like to say that we fell madly in love and she ran away with me, the facts are that we were fond of each other with a great sexual chemistry, but that was all, and when it was time for me to move on I sent her home to Paris with a generous tip and not a few tears.
I had no other real relationships for the rest of my trip, though I was rarely without a bed partner, and I was ready to go home.
When I came home I found out that Sheila had remarried. It had surprisingly little effect on me. I went about acclimating myself to being back home and trying to decide just what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
As much as I tried to keep a low profile, I was a prime target for gold diggers. I didn’t need to hire private investigators, they were pretty obvious, between wanting to go to the best restaurants, to sob stories about family members in need, to wanting to go on first-class vacations to exotic locations.
When I’d pick them up in a Nissan instead of a Lexus, and take them to a mom and pop restaurant, the disappointment was obvious on their faces.
My resolve was strengthened when I heard about Sheila’s divorce. Even though she didn’t have a prenup, her high-powered lawyers kept her from losing half her money, but it was still an expensive lesson for her, and she became more cautious. She even had a draft prenup ready before she got too serious with anyone so that she didn’t get swept up in the emotions of a new romance.
One thing that did pique my interest was coffeehouses. No, not Starbucks, think folk music, like when Bob Dylan and Joan Baez got their start.
There are few professional venues like the old Club 47 in Harvard Square left, but most are small volunteer-run places in church basements. Most of the performers are quite good, and I found myself attending at least once on most weekends.
The people I met were unpretentious, interested only in the music. They applauded politely at even some of the more amateurish performers who opened for the main acts or played in the Open Mics.
One of my favorite coffeehouses was the Harmony Hills Coffeehouse. It was one of the smaller coffeehouses, but it had a faithful following, and consistently had name acts, some even nationally known.
I found myself chatting with June Quimby during an intermission, and was surprised to find that she ran the coffeehouse. She didn’t act like she was some kind of big shot. The coffeehouse was a labor of love, and she deferred most of the credit to her crew of volunteers.
It was very much a shoestring operation. Performers required a guarantee versus a percentage of the ticket sales, which could range from as little as $300 to $1,000 or more, and she’d always be nervous if ticket sales were slow, sometimes they had to dip into their cash reserve to pay the guarantee.
I was thinking about how easily I could help them, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Also, I was beginning to develop feelings for June, and I didn’t want her to think that I was trying to buy her affections.
I decided to ask her to go see a local performance of Celtic Thunder, and she readily agreed.
I had a good feeling when she complimented me on my Nissan, and was impressed, but not awed by my choice of restaurant. While I could have easily afforded front row seats, I opted for the middle of the orchestra, and she was again pleased but not blown away.
I actually started volunteering at the coffeehouse, usually at the refreshment table so that I could slip a little extra cash in, and our dates became a regular thing. At first, most were at some of the other coffeehouses in the area, especially if there was an act that one of us wanted to see, but soon I discovered that her tastes were more eclectic.
At least once a month we’d be at the symphony, or the ballet, even a rock concert. I was again careful not to get too crazy with the tickets. One time when one of my favorite acts was performing I got choice seats, and when she raised her eyebrows I had to quickly explain that I got them from a friend.
It was after we had been dating for about six weeks. I walked her to her door, and leaned in for our usual good night closed mouth kiss, when she threw her arms around my neck and, for lack of a better word, attacked me. She thrust her tongue into my mouth and I was forced to respond in kind.
As we pulled apart, I caught my breath, then said, “What brought that on?”
“I was tired of waiting for you to make a move,” she said grinning. “I hope I wasn’t premature?”
I pulled her in as close as I could and kissed her at least as passionately as before. “Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, but I think we should continue this conversation inside,” she said as she opened her door and dragged me in, though I wasn’t exactly digging in my heels.
We stumbled our way to her couch and plopped down, never breaking our kiss, and soon our hands were wandering all over each other’s bodies.
I guess I was still moving a little too slow for her, as she began to unbutton her shirt and undid the front clasp of her bra, setting her breasts free. Though she rarely wore anything too form-fitting, I still had held her close enough to have a rough idea of her body. Nothing could prepare me for the sight of her breasts. They weren’t huge, but just right for her body, firm and perky with prominent nipples, which were already hardening.
I may be slow, but I’m not stupid, and as my hands started massaging her breasts, my mouth latched onto a nipple and she threw her head back and moaned.