ASL Part 11

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They never resemble their photographs. ‘Sexyman’ Tom’s  voice suckered me in. Like warmed honey over fresh waffles, the thought entered my head through my ear but felt like it took a detour,  sliding down my throat and on to my nether regions. Smooth, viscous and overwhelmingly tempting, it rooted me  to the spot.

I imagined Tom eating me, exploring the various scenarios. How would he begin? Would he gently pry my pussy apart with his fingers, hopefully large and powerful fingers, or dive straight in with his mouth? My lips tingled slightly.

On the telephone, he came across as a confident man. They all do. Their voices take on a can-do tone.

“I’d like to see you as soon as possible. It’s around two now. How about six?”

I swallowed, my hand trembling slightly. “S-Sure…I mean, can I call you back? I’d like to double check my schedule. You see, I’m still at work,” I said with a slightly lowered tone.

“Oh sure, darl.” His gregarious voice overrode my inner logic. Paul would have to make do with a microwaveable dinner or, what he preferred, dining out at the pub with his friends. Life couldn’t be easier.

“Look. Why not? Where would you like to meet?” I coolly asked. “It’s best to get over the nerves and anticipation. No?” I sounded as though I’d done this numerous times. Well, I did it once. Fucking strangers speaks of verve and impulsiveness with a slash of silliness, but I didn’t care.


We arranged to meet at a suburban restaurant. Its fancy name rang in my mind and as I waited at the table, feeling somewhat awkward refolding the red napkin before me, I avoided the waiter’s glance. Ten minutes skated by and as I rechecked my watch, I gave up on Tom arriving. I’d been had. Stood up. Thoughts collided: humiliation brandished my cheeks with waves of prickly heat while my bold inner half brazenly stood on the mole hill of denial. Then the door opened and the man entering glanced at me with a knowing glance.

My first thought was ‘woah!’ A web moniker tends to exaggerate. Tom’s income definitely reflected his dress sense, right down to his custom designed shoes. Crocodile. As for the rest of him. He could have taken a central role in an Ian McEwan novel; average in face, expression and demeanour, his soft physique confirmed his aversion to gyms. He turned toward me and grinned. His smile lacked star quality, failing to illuminate his face and balance his crooked nose, small close set eyes and protruding lips.

We were meant to ‘meet for adult fun’ and as I sat, eyes relatively stunned, I focused on the moment and the extravagant menu before me.

The waiter took Tom’s cashmere coat and returned to escort him toward my table. It was too late to mumble a garbled excuse and dash. There I sat, adventure girl. My smile froze in place and Tom’s eyes focused on my lips. He seemed to be pleased after his minute inspection. Men of his aesthetic limitations can be like that and tend to gravitate toward features they themselves will never have.

“I’m happy to meet you. Tom.” He extended his chubby hand toward mine.

“Same,” I said. “You’re a little late.”

Tom shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s part and parcel of the job, darlin’.

A macho man, I thought. Acknowledgment with no apology. How striking. Others would call it refreshing, but I loathed the liberal sprinkling of the word. These days, everything takes on the qualities of a zingy soft drink. It’s ‘refreshing this’ and ‘refreshing that’.

I decided to match his verve. “You’re not like your profile.” But he did have a fuckable voice, even though voices cannot be fucked. I could close my eyes. I’ve never stopped to consider or count the attractiveness of all the men I’ve slept with, but Tom sat at the top of the average pile. Never one to utilise the word ugly to describe people, I had to concede this time. If Tom’s features had to be summarised on the basis of their asymmetry, and his demeanour was factored in, complete with his burps and ungraceful tooth picking, then the word would have to suffice.

He ordered his steak rare and relished his selection of red wine. I couldn’t deny the appeal of his food choices. Paul was so goddamn picky about everything. In restaurants, sauces had to be served separately. Tom didn’t care for hoity-toity niceties.

“Here, have some,” he raised his fork.

I gazed at the thick chunk of bloody meat and evaluated it as an offering. Semi raw, I felt as though I was seated in the presence of a hunter. Accepting his meaty offering was symbolic of so much more. From our conversation – Tom raved more about work – I gathered that he had lived for work, that his stature provided him with a daily sense of pride and confidence but such things didn’t necessarily translate to much in the dating game.

“I didn’t marry. No offense, but women want a lot. It’s not enough that I earn a significant amount, they want more and more…and a twelve inch cock!”

I smiled. “That’d be a little uncomfortable.”

Tom guffawed.

“Not that I’m revealing anything from experience,” I added, clumsily bumping my dessert cutlery.

He stabbed the air with his knife. “Uh-Uh, you can’t run from that. Go on, tell me about your preferred cock size. We’re friends. Besides, we don’t have to see each other again so it’s less embarrassing.”

Bolstered by the wine and the tasty morsels before me, I nodded and gathered the details of my sexual wanderings.

(2 B Cont’d)

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