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I had mixed feelings about meeting Brita at the coffee place. On the one hand I was horny but this was dampened considerably with her late night escapade at my apartment. True, she did convey in a backhanded way that she might have wanted to have sex with me–straighten out my chakras–but her underlying motivation for all this was, to me, suspect.
The POS Axel, who was in the background, sounded to me to likely be a prime motivator for her actions, at the very least her drinking, if not sparking her urge to fuck somebody “just to show HIM”. Another factor to me was, separate and apart from whatever might have touched her off, the fact that looked for a solution whilst drunk on her ass, also raised a red flag. Nevertheless I made the commitment to meet her so I followed through.
‘Le Café Sucré’ (The Sweet Coffee) was a sickeningly posh Coffee Bar. Rococo is defined as; an exceptionally ornamental and theatrical style of architecture, art and decoration. O.K., I need not attempt to describe or explain ‘Le Café Sucré’ any further. And the coffee? Imagine all of the maddeningly complicated concoctions that can be ordered ahead of you in the line at your favorite coffee bar, triple it, and you still might not have enough for their menu. I didn’t see anything on their menu that would pass for “Black Coffee”…not a “Café Noir” in evidence. It might have been in fine print somewhere, but I missed it. I ordered a sparkling “designer” water and waited for Brita to show up.
Brita came in looking much better than the last time I saw her; she could hardly have looked worse. She wore black..and I mean ALL..black–jeans, sweater, boots and a beret–all black. She looked like those old something-niks from ages ago…very retro..vintage in fact. Her pale skin and blond stood out in contrast to her black outfit. A remarkably beautiful woman, she!
Her order only took her two sentences to make, perhaps a record for brevity in that place. I didn’t wait for her order to get to the table.
Brita looked at me with what I judged to be a “cool” expression, then again, she is Scandinavian and that just may have been her usual look.
“Drummond,” she asked…well…icily, “why did you come here today?”
That took be aback, I thought perhaps she had a memory lapse. I answered, Well, Brita, as best as can recollect, you asked me to meet you here today to talk about…some things. Am I missing something?”
“That’s not exactly what I mean, Drummond,” she said as she examined my face, “it seems to me that, had I been the one so put upon and embarrassed, I would want very little to do with the person who put me through that. So, again, why did you come today?”
“You know, Brita, THAT is a very GOOD point!” I said as I pushed my chair back and started to stand up, “what an interesting place this is. Good-Bye!”
I wasn’t about to subject myself to some conversational “jujitsu” where she would try to turn the tables on me. Either we were going to talk plainly or it wasn’t worth the $15USD I just spent on that sparkling designer water.
I was halfway out of my chair when Brita said, “No, Drummond, no…please…sit down…please… sit down. I’m sorry if I got us off on the wrong foot. Please sit down.”
I took the lead away from her, “Brita, let’s set down some ground rules here. Primarily, I am not here to talk about me. And you have apologized more than once for you behavior the other night. So, really, I just want to know what the hell was/is going on with you that would cause your behavior. Just call me curious…O.K.?”
“Well, then, you’ve answered my question,” Brita said looking self-satisfied, “that’s really all I wanted to know.”
I knew my frustration was beginning to show. I snapped back, “Good, then. Game, set, and match! You got your answer and I don’t have even the slightest hint of what you were and are up to. So, if you don’t mind, I have a Sunday crossword puzzle that needs work back home. Do you know an eight-letter word for Good-Bye that starts with an ‘F”?”
She was quick to answer, “Fuck off? No, that’s two words and only seven letters, eight if one hyphenates it..but then…why would one? Before you bid me ‘farewell’…yes that’s eight letters…Let me apologize again, for the other night, for today, and for my manner…I’m sorry but it’s the only one I’ve got. Now, don’t go…please…”
I lowered myself back in my chair and said, “I’m listening…”
She leaned toward me, “Drummond, I can give you an explanation but I can’t give you an excuse. I came here, as Hildegard has probably told you, because I just finished going through a contentious divorce. My ex-husband, Axel…I think you heard his name…was quite content to live off of my earnings while contributing very little to our common livelihood other than an occasional win at the race track.
There was very little he contributed to our relationship other than occasionally some passable sex. That even went missing when he brought home an STD that he contracted from one…or maybe more than one…of his girlfriends. ankara eryaman escort That was the proverbial last straw for me. I filed for divorce.
Now, in my country, as I suppose it is in most states here, the spouse who is the least capable of supporting herself, or himself, will be awarded money for support. My wasted space of a husband did that and there was a long battle to determine how much that would be, how long he would get it, and how it would be paid. I set up an annuity to fund monthly payments to him, with one larger lump sum payable once a year.
It was all well and good until Axel found a way to raid the annuity and exhaust its funds entirely. And then he had the temerity to re-file with the court an application for increased support payments. Then began another round of litigation which resulted in my having to establish another annuity, one which could not be converted to a single cash value or transferred to another person.
Somehow, he managed to tie his payments up in a business lawsuit. Now he is hounding me for money again. And here comes another lawsuit from him against me. He knows that I have made a lot of money from my career, that I have invested well, and my “separate property” as it is called…of which he is entitled to nothing…can be frozen by this next lawsuit. He wants to talk to me about it. I will not. It’s blackmail! This despicable man will be the death of me.
Does that give you any idea, Drummond, of my general state of mind?”
“I am very sorry to hear about all of that, Brita, and, yes, that is a lot to deal with…a lot to bear. But what caused the explosion of the other night? Was there something more. Worse?”
“You are a very perceptive man, Drummond. In fact there was. I am 36 years old. Stop! I don’t want to hear any of that, ‘my dear you don’t look a day over 26’ crap. I’m 36! I had this idea that I could start a new life after Axel which would include getting married and having children. But, before I started a campaign for that, I decided to have myself checked to see what, if any, residual problems that STD that Axel gave me might have. Two days I got a report from my OB/GYN that destroyed my dream. I was beyond devastated.
I got drunk, not something I ordinarily do…actually I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve done that…but not like THAT night. In my mind was the idea that the doctor was wrong, that if I had sex with somebody, I could prove him wrong. That translated into my wanting to have sex with you…whether you wanted to or not. It was really a ‘recency’ decision; you were the last person I saw who I thought might be worth having sex with. I remember that much…the rest of that night was a blackout…I really have no memory beyond picking up that six-pack of beer.
Again, this is an explanation…no justification…certainly no excuse. I am sorry you had to go through all of this and I am humiliated that it happened at all.”
I detected tears welling up in Brita’s eyes. I felt for her. But I hardly knew what to say. We sat there at the table for several minutes not saying anything to each other. I threw some money on the table to take care of the tab I opened, and some for a tip.
As I got up to leave, I said to Brita, “Thank you, I understand now. I wish all the best for you!”
“Wait! Wait, Drummond,” Brita said, “will we see each other again? Sometime?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said simply, “Who knows?”
I felt doubly sad seeing Brita at that table by herself, a beautiful woman like that, so alone and so sad. But I didn’t turn back. It seemed to me then that it was the right thing to do.
So, it was BANG! Karen and Conchita–well maybe more of a “bloop” considering how it turned out. But then another BANG! The Gloria fiasco. And then BANG! Desi leaves. And Finally BANG! Brita blows up. Joining a monastery was beginning to look like a viable option for me…well…all except for that celibacy thing…are monks allowed to masturbate? Probably NOT!
Hildegard kept me amused, though. After that revelation of the “Night of the Brita” that she was actually getting it on with somebody, I had license to tease her about her sex life.
Her favorite line came to be, “Oh, Mr. Drummond! Who are you to tease me? You have more sex than anyone I’ve ever met!”
Somehow, in the back of my mind, visualizing Hildegard giving her senior boyfriend a blowjob would make me cringe. But if only she knew how little sex I was getting, she’d change her tune.
Hildegard and I didn’t talk about Brita. I didn’t mention her and Hildegard rarely did. When she did, it was something like, “Brita opened another showing last week. It was nice.” or, “Brita is back from Scandinavia now. It was cold there.” or, “Brita moved out of that apartment. I never liked it. She has a nice house now.” I never responded to these. I thought it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.
6:00PM on a Friday night. The markets escort sınırsız çankaya are essentially closed. Besides I was tired of scouring sites for obscure information about companies who might be showing promise if they release an IPO. No Football to watch, No basket ball to watch, Baseball is stultifying to watch. No sex, no prospects. I’ll be damned if I was going to that meat market bar–I treasured my hearing too much. “The Grind” on a Friday night? How depressing is that; a bunch of losers playing games or reading Dostoyevsky on tablets.
“Well,” I thought, “I’ve always got my crosswords. I need a six letter word to describe my life, starting with F. Yes, that’s IT…’FUCKED’!”
Well, you probably guessed it, there was a knock on my door. I didn’t want to answer it. I could play “not at home” like I do on Halloween. I almost yelled out, “Go away! He’s not living here anymore!”
I got up anyway and opened the door. Yes–and you might have guessed this too–Brita was standing there, scrubbed and glowing, carrying two large paper grocery bags.
“I’ve found out something about you, Drummond,” she trilled with glee, “you, Mr. Drummond are nothing but one big softie. Yes, a softie…softie…softie…softie! The second thing I found out is that you have never had an authentic Scandinavian meal!”
I wasn’t astounded so much by Brita showing up, I suppose I had been hoping for that, but telling myself I wasn’t hoping for that, it was the way she showed up–vivacious and lively. And she was right, I had never in my memory had a Scandinavian meal. The “Softie” issue I would have to explore with her later.
Brita set up some candles on my little dinette table, set the table, served up the food, and lowered the lights. There were a couple of meat dishes–beef and pork–some potato dish, a noodle dish, green beans, some delicious bread, and a crispy cookie desert med grädde, (with cream). We had a tasty but light beer to drink along with the food. I was hungrier that I thought.
Brita cleaned up after the meal; she did all of the dishes by hand. All of the leftovers went into the fridge.
We settled in on the couch sipping on the tea that Brita brewed for us. Brita kicked off her shoes and was sitting sideways with her legs pulled up underneath her. She leaned into me and kissed my cheek while she stroked my hair. Where all this romance came from, I had no idea.
“Drummond, I’m going to tell you a secret,” she said softly, “well, not the entire secret. After our contretemps at Le Café Sucré, I convinced myself that you were a cold-hearted, uncaring, and unforgiving man. That haunted me for a long time. But I found out from a someone, not to be named, that my impressions were erroneous. They said that in their experience, that you are in fact a kind hearted,generous, loving person. I made up my mind to put that to the test.
Our dinner tonight resolved many of those doubts I had. I knew you were charming from our first meeting. I had an interest in you which, much to my chagrin, ran aground on some underlying problems that had nothing to do with you. Well, almost nothing. I can’t deny that having sex with you was on my muddled mind that awful night where I made such a hash of things.
Now, top that off with my regrettable performance at Le Café Sucré, and I can’t blame you for distancing yourself from me. Were I in your shoes, I would have done exactly that myself. I tried to think of ways to approach you but nothing seemed to be right. It seemed to me that my continuing try to explain things to you would only intensify the problem. I was at a total loss.
One day not long ago, two things happened. By chance, I met someone whom I have known for quite a while, we are fairly good friends actually, and we were comparing notes about men we have known…you know, like girls do…or maybe you don’t know that…but trust me all girls do. In any event, your name came up and I happened to relate that you and I had some difficulties and it was likely that I wouldn’t be seeing you again because of our disagreement. They said that was not like you at all and there must be something else going on to create that situation. I took that to heart and began looking for a way to approach you again without opening old wounds.
The second thing that happened was that Hildegard off handedly mentioned to me that your dietary habits were deficient and that what you needed was a good “Scandinavian Meal”. Well, I put two and two together in hopes of putting the two of us together. We did have a lovely meal, didn’t we?”
“Well, yes we did, Brita, a lovely meal,” I warmed to the conversation, “the food was delicious and you are marvelous company. I can’t remember a dinner in my recent past that has been so delightful. Thank you!”
Brita leaned toward me and said quietly “That person who I talked to… the one who knows you…she said something else…do you want to know what?”
I nodded my head.
Brita gave me a peck on the cheek and said, “Well, she said that she çankaya eve gelen escort bayan has never had better sex with a man as she had with you. Her exact words were, ‘He fucks like a stallion’. Well, do you?”
We never made it off the couch. Everything we could do in bed, we did on that couch. I was glad again that I only had a neighbor on one side of me, and he was hard of hearing. Who cares what the neighbor across the way thought.
There’s a myth that gentlemen* shouldn’t compare women. That’s nonsense. Maybe a gentleman shouldn’t compare women with other gentlemen, but even that is stretching it. There is one thing that a man, gentleman or not, must never do–I emphasize NEVER do–is compare a woman, or women, to a woman to whom he might be speaking at the moment. I think there is a clause in most “Death and Dismemberment” insurance policies excluding injuries resulting there from.
(*This categorically does NOT apply to women comparing men or women. They do it all the time, without let or hindrance. In some women’s circles, it is mandatory–or very near it. I suspect it has something to do with survival of the species!)
But take a wine connoisseur, for example, does not he or she not distinguish between a red wine and a white wine? One goes with fish and the other with meat, so the rubric says. But a Cabernet and a Pinot differ from one another, as do a Chardonnay and a Chenin Blanc–that is discussed. And, really more to the point, one Pinot is compared with another Pinot and one Chardonnay to another Chardonnay. There is a “Gazillion” dollar industry based on nothing but that.
So, STOP IT! Every man and every woman compares their sex partners, perhaps not with each other, but certainly to themselves. Gentlemen, close your eyes, though I’m sure you won’t entirely; there’s always that crack between your fingers that you look through. And women, well, this will be nothing new to you.
Brita and Desi:
Desi was tall and willowy, almost 6′(1.8m+); Brita was 5’8″ (1.7m+), 4 inches (10cm) makes a big difference–ask any woman. Both were about the same weight but distributed differently. Desi had firm small-ish breasts, a slim waist, and sleek hips. Brita’s breasts were larger and fleshier, her waist was bigger, and her hips larger as well. Desi’s curves were “sweeping”; Brita’s curves were…well CURVES! Desi’s hands were delicate, like one might see on a violinist. Brita had almost “man hands” but, then, she wasn’t just a designer, she actually did a lot of her own woodworking–at least on the prototypes. When Desi was on top of me, she felt light as the proverbial feather. I couldn’t forget gravity when Brita was on top of me…she was a force!
As for that indelicate issue of having sex–well, indelicate to some–this is where it is more like comparing one Pinot to a Chardonnay. The differences are there and real but, as the old joke goes, Q: What was the worst blow job you ever got like? A: FANTASTIC!
So, with Desi and Brita it was more a matter of form than substance. Both were orders of magnitude beyond fantastic lovers. As an example, Desi was mostly playful and delicate–a nibble here a tickle there. That’s not to say that she couldn’t be wildly passionate when stirred or, be demonstrable in the depths of her orgasms, but on the whole, Desi was more gentle than not.
Brita, on the other hand, was your quintessential, stereo-typical, Viking! If she were wearing a sex-themed T-shirt it would read: No holds barred, no quarter given, no prisoners taken! Don’t get me wrong, sex with Brita was not a wrestling match but she was definitely an “E-Ticket” ride! Aggressive? Perhaps sometimes. I would like to call her “Assertive”, that tones it down a notch or two. She knew what she liked and wasn’t bashful about asking for it. By the same token, she was not beyond pleasing me however I wanted. We both had some agreed no/no’s and we respected them. But Brita was inventive and passionate and satisfying and had her patient side, too.
So, which one was better than the other? No, you’re not going to get me on that one. (Besides, Brita and Desi might be reading this someday.) Let’s just say both were FANTASTIC!
But let me give you an example of where sex with Brita was different.
Anal sex has always been, if not a taboo for me, something that I looked on a distasteful. Brita didn’t. She introduced that gradually into our repertoire of activities. She suggested it, let the idea sink in, and found a way to make it less unpalatable. She started by saying that her anus was pleasurably sensitive and my stimulating it added extra pleasure for her when I was inside her “doggy style”. She brought some lube to bed and applied that to her ass herself. Little by little I got accustomed to that and saw how much pleasure she derived from it. Finally, she said that my using a condom might make it easier for me to do. That worked out well. So, now anal sex with Brita is more than occasional because I can see where she enjoys it.
Now, the converse with me had never been true. Man of the world that I was–or at least, thought I was–I had never had any form of anal sex performed on me…period. As the cliché’ goes, “I am not gay; I don’t have anything against being gay; just don’t get gay with me!” Yes, one might say I was “Narrowly Broadminded.” Especially when it came to my asshole.
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