I met the Irish Musician for a drink late night one Saturday. I’d been committed to some sort of Art event with Kinky Phd Mom earlier, and he had a gig in Berkeley. I played wing man while she chatted up the owner of a sex club… because she can find them anywhere, texting Irish Musician that I was a running a few minutes late. Which was fine, he said, because he was still putting away equipment.
When I arrived at the overly loud sports bar—the closest you get to a “local” on his end of the main drag we both live off of— there was a cold pear cider waiting for me. He was drinking Guinness. We couldn’t, I don’t think, hear much of what either us said over the loud boyos guzzling a last one for the road or the shouting of the potential for the football match ups to be played the next day that blared out of the TV whenever there was a break in the Led Zeppelin. Guns n Roses came on at one point, and we agreed in our approval. And them somehow fell into a conversation about The 39 Steps. Which we both loved. Which was enough for us to leave, and walk the 4 blocks back to his apartment.
I don’t think we kissed on the way. Maybe? I’ve found that going home with someone without even kissing, with only a conversation and a drink, where we establish some intellectual agreement…. Works pretty well for me. Of course, we both knew what we were there for: sex. A little on the rough side, a little on the kinky side, a little on the D/s side.
He lives in a rather large apartment—larger than mine. Shared of course: he is 30ish and the rents and real estate are outlandish in this city. It has a large living room, a dining room, a kitchen, three bedrooms, all nicely away from the living area, 2 bathrooms. I asked to use the bathroom and he sent me to the “girls room”: full of cosmetics. I peeked in the “boys room”: clearly used only by him. The privilege, he says, of being the leaseholder, the one who’s lived there the longest. A few times there have been male roommates, but he likes having the bathroom to himself. I suspect the girls also keep the apartment cleaner, even thought it is clearly I.M.’s space: the bookshelves his visiting father built, filled with his noir novels and mid-century records.
It’s cold in his living room. The fireplace is laid with a fire, but unlit. So many of the apartment in San Francisco were built without central heating, you’d think we lived in LA. Newer places, places Google-ers and other new money have bought or flipped, have been refurbished to be centrally heated, but really, you can manage with a space heater for a month or too. I have a fireplace, and radiant heating in my bathrooms and kitchen, and a space heater I actually use, but I don’t have dot com dough, just frugality.
A lot of these boys don’t even turn on their space heaters. It does cost, and I suppose sex warms them up enough. It’s only a month or two, after all.
He fetches me a glass of water and somewhere in there we kiss, and kiss, and kiss. He says “I like the way you kiss”, or “You’re a really good kisser”, or something like that, I don’t remember because I am kissing him again, because Lord, is he a good kisser.
We hear noises and giggling from one of the back bedrooms, and he says he expected his roommates to be asleep. I smile, and shake my head: I don’t care, at least I don’t unless they want to join in: this time at least I’d like to be alone with him. I look up at him—he’s just under 6’2”, lean in that boyish way that makes it seem as though he might grow some more, yet. But muscled, too, strong. I like looking up. At 5’10”, this sometimes greatly reduces my dating pool, but I’d rather look up, at least a little. I crane my head and he fists my hair into a ponytail and yanks on it hard, bending to kiss my neck.
“Take off your shirt” he says
“Out here?” I stutter.
“Yes. Do it.”
So I do. I fumble with the tie at the back of my silk blouse as he sits down on the couch, leaning back, assessing. I assume he is hard, or getting there, but it’s hard to tell with his pants, which are sort of drape-y. And he held is body a little a-ways from mine when we were kissing; crushing my chest, to his, but our lower bodies kept a part, still strangers.
Fucking shirt won’t untie. Mentally I blame my cold fingers, but don’t want to say anything out loud, to sound recalcitrant. He quirks an eyebrow at me. Impatient? Or trying to figure out if I’m nervous? Or both? I rip the shirt over my head in frustration, only to have him say “Take off your bra”.
My breasts look fucking beautiful in my beautiful bra, but they are saggy: I am 40, and I breast fed. Also, the light is on, even if it’s low…. He must be able to see my stretch marks. From being pregnant. And it is freaking cold.
Just then, there is a tumbling sound from one of the bedrooms, and then more giggling.
“Your roommates might come out,” I say.
“That’s part of the thrill,” he says. Oh shit, oh sweet jesus. And, just like that, I’m drenched.
I take off my bra, standing before him, twisting my arms behind to present them to him, looking him in the eye. He motions me closer and I come to him, and when he orders it, I present first one and then the other breast to him to suck on, to lave at, to bite.
He sounds out of breath when he says “Lets go in my bedroom”. Thank god. At that point I probably would have fucked him on the couch, even in the cold, even with the threat of interruption. Or maybe because of it.