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I use my clit to distinguish a rogue from a nice guy. The small bundle of nerves does the job for me. Seriously though, I sometimes think it’s either a genetic blunder or a conditioned behavioral response that originated when I was knee high to the neighborhood German Shepherd. I am drawn to rogues. They can be disheveled, corny, dirty, vulgar or dastardly bastards, I have a biological reaction that I can’t understand or fathom at the best of times.
Let’s just name give my rogue a name. I’ll call him Michael, in memory of my first rogue. Michael is a friend of a friend. He is worldly enough not to fumble in the presence of a wine list in a restaurant, smokes the occasional Havana for kicks and has such a way with women – myself included – that, no matter what our ages, we end up simultaneously wrestling with our standards, morals and libido.
He’s older, not on the athletic side and, as you’ve probably guessed, married. A married rogue. How roguish can one be? Single men may feign roguishness but married – highly sexed – men epitomize the very word ‘rogue’.
So I’m at an informal dinner at a pizza joint. I arrive, thinking it will be the usual mob. We have all finished from our respective jobs or, in my case, postgrad student lives, and look forward to a conventional evening. In fact, I expect a conventional evening as I’m not making any headway in therapy and I’m not on the lookout for a constant partner, when I see Michael. We don’t have a history of fucking but we do have a history of flirting -if there is such a thing as subconconscious flirtation.
He has a way of gazing at women and as I can only describe my own experience, I’ll be as plain as I can be. His very gaze undresses me without being overt. He’ll look but he won’t pair his gaze with awkward or sleazy words. He’ll remain mute. His eyes lazily take me in and I feel like I’m being inspected from within. When he looks at me, it feels as though his fingers are slowly peeling off my panties. As if that isn’t enough, his voice is like warm hazelnut chocolate. That’s what I think about when I hear his voice. I think about sucking and licking it. My brain fires off many crazy thoughts in his presence, so that I now know not to try to sound smart by firing off long sentences. I’ll only stutter.
His body will never be featured in GQ, nor will he be a Playgirl centerfold. He has the paunch that is typical for his middle-age. No, I’m serious. Few men resemble the dudes in Muscle and Fitness Magazine. Most men over forty sport bodies that are built for comfort, spooning and snuggling. Not bodies that speak of endurance, hardcore fucking and skin searing intensity. His height is his physical advantage, but his expressive face, that crinkles with every emotion, is the clincher.
By the time we’ve all finished stuffing our faces with pizza, I’m trying to ignore the sticky wet patch between my legs. I may not consciously entertain graphic fantasies at the pizza joint, but my sexual response isn’t operating via my cerebral cortex. It’s operating on a faster primal connections, possibly related to the amyglada, that rapidly fires ’sex,procreation,sex,’ leaving no time to analyze the issue. When it comes to primal responses relating to procreation, humans still operate like other mammals – without deep analysis (as indicated by the failure of abstinence education).
At the table, I feel Michael’s eyes and in some strange way, can feel his awareness of my heightened state. It’s as though he can smell my arousal and, like a cat that pounces on an insect, he toys with this idea by asking me questions he normally avoids asking. As a friend of a friend, in a completely unrelated career, he doesn’t know anything about my studies and I find that I’m immediately drawn to his laborer hands. Thick, strong and unnervingly large, his fingers drum the table as I shrug off responses that even I don’t believe.
In my head, logic is waging its own war against my primal sector. It’s like a conversation I had with my logical mother: “Don’t you start having sex at university, when you have a degree to complete.” Now that the first is complete, I have the second. Sex didn’t prevent me competing the degree, so my mother’s logic doesn’t have any basis, but in Michael’s presence, I know that it can all get messy. I don’t ask friends about him because I feel the tension each time. When the time comes for some of us to leave, I do take my leave. Despite his protestations, it being ‘too early’, we’ll go through the same scenario: I’ll open my wallet for him to reject the gesture, for me to thank him before heading out of the pizza restaurant, declining his offer of a lift home while making some excuse about an early morning.
Each time I return home to my trusty vibe, which I use slowly, to tease myself to a state of unbridled lust and only after I have satisfied that level will I go further and implant Michael into my fantasies. Naked, I’ll go through each ideal position, pretending that he’s screwing me. I’ll begin by facing the dresser mirror, imagining him behind me. Legs slightly apart, the shaft of the vibrator replaces his hand. At this point, I’ll close my eyes and convince myself that this is the better, hassle-free option, and then I’ll slide the vibrator into me, playing pretend fuck right there and then, before moving toward my bed and repositioning myself on my knees, with one hand on the bed board as I push myself back and forth until my buttocks ache and my clit screams. I’ll climax and remain still until the warmth washes all over me. I’ll collapse, happily sated.
This is enough, until the next time I see him of course.
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