Up For Review:
The Womanizer, Chapter 1 (MF nosex)
This story contains explicit descriptions of sex between consenting adults.
This morning my father called and invited me over for dinner. My father and I get together every Tuesday, and today is Friday, so I know he wants to have one of our serious talks. My father is a formidable man: a successful businessman, a former city councilman, and a scratch golfer. A serious talk with him is enough to scare the bejesus out of anyone. As I hung up the telephone, the back of my neck prickled with anticipation.
When we have our serious talks, the subject usually concerns my future. "Robert," he will say, "to be successful, you must seize the initiative. When I was your age, I already owned my own business. If you want to make it in this world, you must create your own opportunities." Lately he has taken to adding bullfight analogies. "You need to reach out and grab the bull by the horns and wrestle it to the ground." I know he is trying to tell me something important, so I watch him carefully. "Can you do that, Robert? Can you grab the bull by the horns?"
I will nod and tell him, yes, I do not expect success to fall into my lap, and I know it must be worked at. And my reply will seem to satisfy him. But to tell you the truth, I have no idea what my father is talking about. As he talks about bulls, I search his face, looking for some important, hidden meaning. But I cannot for the life of me understand what it is.
All I know for sure is my father is not pleased with the life I lead. I am twenty-nine years old, and during the day, I do clerical work for a small, unremarkable engineering firm. And at night, I pursue women. My father considers me a good-for-nothing womanizer. And I cannot say his evaluation is far off the mark.
The only respectable thing about me is my job at Green's Engineering. Although respectability is important to me, I cannot take my job seriously. Herb Green, my boss, would have been no match for my father, and I am sure if they had been competitors, Green's would have sunk into bankruptcy long ago.
I do not enjoy my job. Sitting in my cubicle, as the minutes drone away, I do little except daydream about my girls. As I enter sales figures into the bookkeeping spreadsheets, I think about Erica's silky smooth skin and her soft lips, or about Angie's slender fingers and the smell of her hair. And the moment the office closes for the day, I rush out to meet Erica or Angie or Nicole. Or if I am lucky, perhaps I will meet someone new. Like last weekend, when I made the discovery of my life: Lydia.
The ultimate goal, of course, is to get them into bed. My whole life revolves around getting women in bed. Towards this end, I am a schemer.
Don't get me wrong! I am not one of those reptiles hitting on strange women in bars. I cannot imagine how those men do it, flitting from girl to girl, a different one every night of the week. Instead, my sexual relationships are the result of long, careful explorations. It is not unusual for me to take three months from the time of our first date until I finally get into a woman's pants.
Honestly, I would rather not work so slowly. Going months without sex is murder on my nerves. In order to get the quantity of sex I need, I typically have three or four women on the burner, each one at different stages.
Juggling these multiple relationships is not easy. Over the years, I have discovered that careful planning is crucial. I must go to great lengths to keep Woman A from ever meeting Woman B. If necessary, they may be allowed to know that the other exists, but if they should ever meet face-to-face, trouble invariably follows.
I have tried the simpler approach of seeing just one girl at a time, but I cannot take the months of abstinence. How simpler life would be if I could jump into bed with a new woman on the first day I meet her! But this is not possible, because women have set up numerous roadblocks between me and my ultimate goal.
Ironically, their own willingness is rarely the problem. I have made an unscientific study of modern American females, and I believe I have discovered a pattern. There is a Four Date Rule: if, after four dates, she still likes you, you are in like flint.
But for me, four dates are not enough. Before I can fuck a woman, I need to know her complete history. I need to know where she was born, the name of her third grade teacher, the make of car she drove in college, why she quit her last job. It is not each individual fact that is important - it is the entirety, the complete collection that is everything. Otherwise, when you are fucking her, you realize you could be fucking anybody. You look down and see her under you, and it could be Aliesha from Santa Clara or Brenda from New Hampshire. Without knowing the facts of their lives, they are nearly indistinguishable.
And these are the roadblocks women use against me. As I press her for the details of her life, she stares at me like I am an alien invader. She is filled with distrust, as if she cannot believe I really want to know these things. I swear, sometimes a woman would rather give a man a blowjob than give up the name of her childhood cat.
In spite of my careful plotting, I usually have sex long before I am truly ready. There is still too much unknown when I give in to the pressure. The secret gropes and quick kisses drive me crazy, and before I know it, I am lying in bed with a stranger. I am forced to continue the discovery process in parallel with our sexual relationship.
And later, when I finally learn everything I need to know, there is nothing more to do. Our dates turn into long, awkward silences. We fuck each other politely, out of a sense of obligation. We finally bore ourselves to death, and we part amicably. When I suggest we stop seeing each other, there is always a look of relief in the woman's eyes.
I drive my shiny new BMW roadster into my father's driveway and park at the curb. My car is another thing my father disapproves of. It is an impractical machine: fast, small, and expensive. He cannot understand why a man of my means would spend so much money on mere transportation.
What my father does not understand is that girls love fast cars. There is a sense of magic in a fast sports car. When I am with one of my new women and I reach a critical point, the point where there is that first awkward moment, when she may drop me like a crumpled ball of paper, I like to invite her out for a drive. Seeing my aggressive car never fails to excite her. I know some roads where I can drive fast, our shoulders bumping with the force of the turns. With a sideways glance, I can see the sparkle in her eyes, and then I know I have her.
But just try to explain that to my father!
He sits on his front porch, reading the newspaper and drinking iced tea. He sees me climb out of my car, stands up, and strides out, greeting me with a smile and a firm handshake. Since retirement, my father's hair has gone pure white, and he looks more dignified than ever. There are deep laugh and frown lines around his mouth and four or five horizontal creases in his forehead. It is hard to believe we are related. When I am his age, I know my skin will be as smooth as a child's.
He looks me in the eye, his gaze strong and confident. "How are you, son? It's good to see you."
He hands me a section of his paper, and we sit quietly and read.
Sitting here, scanning the editorials and the sports scores, I feel a prickle of pleasure. I look around. Lordy! I can imagine myself living this life! How wonderful it would be, sitting on this porch on a fine spring evening, drinking iced tea and reading the newspapers. Is this what I should be striving for? I cannot imagine a stronger sense of satisfaction. I think about Erica and Angie and Lydia - is it possible that my pursuit of women is a ruse? Have I been deluding myself all these years? Are all these women keeping me from my true calling?
It would be a simple thing to give in to my father's wishes. When I took a position at Green's Engineering straight out of business school (a job I applied for only because they happened to have a representative in the placement center on the day I was there), my father was filled with a secret pride. "He's a traitor to his old man," he told people, but he said it with a wink and a smile. He imagined me snatching the reins of the small company and spurring it on to a mighty gallop. But when Green's plodded along at its old, steady trot, my father was not quite sure what to think of me.
I consider the possibility of quitting Green's and working in my father's company. I know he would love to see his own flesh and blood in charge of his old business. What would our dinners be like then? I can imagine his sly smile as he accuses me, "So, Robert, how has the destruction of my once mighty empire been going?" And I would reply in kind: "We have been very lucky. It looks like I brought sound business principles into practice just in the nick of time!"
And finally, just to ensure that everything was understood in the manner it was intended, I would lower my voice, staring at my fingernails, and let my father know about the latest problems. "I am having trouble with one of our suppliers, Dad. I am considering switching over to TCT. What do you think?"
And my father would nod and say something vague about TCT twenty years ago but admit he hasn't kept up on the latest news. Later, as I was leaving, he would clasp his big hand on my shoulder and smile. I trust you, son, he would seem to say.
It is an enticing possibility. And while I am unsure if such a change would be for the better, I believe I am up to discussing it with my father. When dinner is announced, I am almost eager to go inside.
When my father and I get together, the evening always follows a standard order of events. First we will enjoy our meal. As we eat, we will talk about the news of the day, or politics, or the ails of modern society. The serious discussion will wait until after the dishes are cleared. Unlike many other such days, today I can hardly wait! I am fully prepared - anxious, even - to discuss my future with my father.
The sun drops low, and we abandon our porch for the dining room, where my father's housekeeper, Claudia, serves the meal. Unless there are visitors, Claudia and her son eat with my father at the table. When company calls, however, Claudia is relegated to the kitchen. Claudia is an excellent cook, something my father suspects is true, although he is not truly aware of it. Claudia loves to cook but hates to serve. You can read it in her face as she pours the wine, or when she picks up the dirty dishes. My father is oblivious to the snapping contempt in her glare. Although she has worked for my father for years, I am sure Claudia will leave him some day.
When my father and I finish our meal, Claudia quietly clears the table, her teeth clenched, and retires back into the kitchen. When we are alone, my father lights a cigar and puffs up a cloud of fragrant smoke. My knee bounces as I wait for the discussion to begin.
Much to my surprise, the subject of the day is not my future. Instead, we talk about his neighbor, Kate.
"You remember Kate, don't you?" he says. "Did you know she has moved back in next door?"
In fact, I had not known, and the news is a surprise. The Cunningham house had sat vacant for more than a year, and I never would have dreamt that Kate would move back.
"She says she's fixing the place up," Father says. He takes a long pull on his cigar. "But she just sits in that house for days on end without seeing a soul." He gives me a meaningful look. "She needs to get out some."
We do not talk directly about Kate's parents. My father is uncomfortable speaking of scandal, and we approach such topics in a roundabout way. The Cunningham suicides, only one month apart, had been the talk of the town for weeks. First Kate's mother, and then, just as things were calming down, her father. There had even been some lurid coverage in one of the national tabloids.
"Have you talked to Gary?" I ask. Gary is Kate's ex-husband. He is also a top salesman at my father's company, a real up-and- comer, and one of my father's regular golf partners. Kate and Gary were married for about three years, before her parents' suicides turned Kate's life upside-down.
My father nods. "He is worried about her, but what can he do? The divorce is final. She is not his responsibility any more."
We sit silently for a few minutes. I use the silence to think about Kate and the way she had arranged for her parents' funerals, how she had settled their estate, how she had handled all the well-wishers. At the time, people marveled. "Can you believe that Kate?" they would say, shaking their heads. "She is a rock."
And then, a few months later, it all fell apart. She left Gary and rented a studio apartment in a seedy part of town. There were several embarrassing alcoholic episodes, rumors of numerous affairs, and even a minor run-in with the police. People were shocked but understanding. After all, look what she had gone through. If you can't cut loose after something like that, when can you?
She eventually committed herself to a treatment center, where I lost track of her. Now, apparently, she has moved back into the house she grew up in.
"Whatever happened to you two?" my father asks.
I shrug. Whenever I talk to people about Kate, they always ask whatever happened to us two. They say it with a wink and a nudge, but they are mistaken about the extent of our relationship. Kate and I dated off and on through high school and even went to the senior prom together. But we were not serious. Our dates consisted of silent dinners, usually followed by a movie. I only tried to kiss her once, a botched attempt that left us both embarrassed.
In high school, there were no two people more different than Kate and me. I was the ambivalent son of my father, living from day to day without accomplishing anything remarkable. Kate was the dark, brooding beauty, her head downcast, looking up through her thick lashes with a menacing stare that froze even the most confident boys in school. Even then, people sensed the danger in her. When we were together, we were an odd pair.
"You should go see her," my father says. "I think it would be good for her."
My father is a caring man, and he feels fatherly towards Kate. He thinks I can do something for her, cure her of whatever funk she has got herself into. But my father gives me too much credit. All I do is work, sleep, and chase after girls. What could a man like me do for a woman like Kate?
Even so, I agree to go see her. I might not accomplish a thing, but I must admit, it would be nice to see old Kate again.
But now there are more immediate problems to deal with. Kate is merely a task to attend to, a line scribbled in my appointment book. But my life has taken an exciting new turn. Lydia, lovely Lydia! I cannot keep my mind off Lydia!
Like all men, I have my fantasies, although I believe mine are not typical. In my ultimate sexual experience, I meet a strange woman who, over the course of the evening, spills her life history from birth to present. As she finishes her tale, the sun is rising and we have wild uninhibited sex until we collapse in a tangle of sweaty limbs. My early teenage fantasies involved women returning from exotic adventures: Antarctic explorations, African safaris, or Himalayan retreats. Many a youthful masturbation session ended with the image of my dark-eyed adventuress staring into my eyes. As I have matured, so has the object of my fantasies; now I fantasize about magazine editors or managers of human resource departments.
The marathon storytelling has been my fantasy for as long as I have lusted for women. But at a young age, I resigned myself to the understanding that my fantasy would never go fulfilled.
But this past weekend I had the evening of my life. Her name was Lydia, and we met at a party. She talked non-stop through the evening, her voice with just a hint of a Georgian lilt. I watched her, enraptured, as she told me countless details of her life. This brunette beauty with ruddy red lips spoke of her grade school soccer team, and the way her brother teased about her boyfriends, and the time her father once bought six cases of motor oil, and her mother's infatuation with Kyle Petty, the racecar driver. The stories poured out of her like a fountain. As I listened, my knee jumped like a reflex.
After the party, I talked her back to my house, where our conversation continued long into the night. I plied her with bourbon and popcorn, and the stories tumbled out of her. By the time three A.M. rolled around, I had a spectacular hard-on.
But unlike my fantasies, when the climax of the evening should have arrived, our physical bodies failed us. Lydia fell asleep on my couch. My body ached at the voluptuous curve of her hip and at the way her cheek pressed against her hand. I yearned to touch her shoulder, give her a little shake and see her eyes flutter open with a smile. But my heavy fatigue left me too unmotivated to do anything but undress and pass out alone in my own bed.
The next morning Lydia left hurriedly, but I look forward to seeing her again. We have a date scheduled for Saturday night. And the urge to get between Lydia's long, tanned legs is as strong as a salmon's urge to swim upstream.
But I still have Erica, who I have been seeing for four months, and who I have fucked eleven times so far. Erica knows I see other girls and does not like it. When she is angry she clams up and will not say a word. I do not know if the quiet treatment is her natural response to anger or if she has figured out how much her silence agitates me. I already see our future in the cards: she will let me fuck her one or two more times, and then it will be over.
The second girl on the list is Angie, who doesn't like to talk about herself. Angie asks me questions, a doting expression on her face, and grabs my thigh. Resisting Angie is becoming difficult. But she is still largely blank, an empty shell behind a pretty face and curly blond hair. When I think of Angie, I get anxious. Will I need to dump her before I ever get a chance to fuck her? I need to come up with a plan for Angie, and I need to move her along quick. When I lose Erica, I need Angie to be there. And right now, the timing is all wrong.
Robert, how could you let yourself get into such a pickle!
There is also a new prospect, Nicole (a checkout clerk at the grocery store), who I have only dated once. She likes to talk on the telephone, which is a good sign. But with Nicole, it is too early to tell.
But none of them hold the promise of Lydia. I should be plotting about Angie, but my mind drifts to Lydia. Six cases of motor oil! Can you imagine that!