that a member of the opposite sex failing to acknowledge my presence must be gay. Herein lies a fundamental distinction between men (the heterosexual kind) and women, according to me: women can admit failure and men like to put a spin on things so their self-image doesn’t take a hit.
Now, I absolutely do not have a problem with gay men. My problem , if it’s a problem at all, is that I really like gay men. I’ve had a few crushes on gay men, in fact, which, duh, never end well. Gay men are generally sensitive and caring; they usually have some aesthetic sense (or at least an awareness that style matters) and they aren’t averse to housework. In most of the ways that matter, a gay man is the perfect life partner for a woman who prefers brunch with friends and shopping or a movie to NASCAR and the Final Four. If such a woman, say me , were to become half a couple with such a man, the only issue would be for both parties to find outside penises to play with that aren’t attached to men, or god forbid, the same man who might disrupt the relationship I was having with my gay partner. On second thought, it’s too complicated.
It’s very sad that women don't arouse, in gay men, the kind of love and passion we crave. How could we? They’re gay. As far as I’m concerned, the only trouble with gay men is that homosexuality shrinks the field of eligible partners.
Let it go , I said to myself as I moved further into the Soup, shaking free of my intellectual response to the handsome déshabillé of the sexy stranger. What was left in its place was a slight tingling at the top of my thighs, which I took as a good omen for the Cliterati and finding our next book.
“Justine felt her vulva opening and closing, throbbing in anticipation. She was not a virgin—far from it—but she’d not had a worthy lover in months. So when Antonio began to unbutton her blouse, cupping her breast in his strong swimmer’s hand, her body began to respond without hesitation, her skin pulsing with electricity. She felt a moistness between her legs and every time his fingertips graced her forearm, her ankle, her neck—she groaned—not only for the pleasure she was experiencing as he touched her, but for those pleasures she knew would come. She’d imagined a lover like this, patient, sensual, and of unquestionable beauty; but to have finally found him in Antonio, a man ten years younger than she, was beyond her wildest fantasies. Justine’s hands drifted slowly, sensually down his back, over his muscular frame and taut skin, still moist from the swim from which she’d disturbed him. He inhaled suddenly, closing his eyes. Then, with more purpose, his hand reached down, finding the hem of her dress, and lifting it gently, he slid his warm palm up her thigh to her buttocks, which he held tightly in his grasp, pulling her body against his sex.
‘I want you,’ he said—
‘Take me,’ Justine murmured. ‘Please, I can’t’—”
“Are you finding what you’re looking for?”
I looked up to find a man staring down at me as I sat slack-jawed and cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the Soup. It took me a few seconds to get Antonio out of my head and focus on the man looking at me, a few seconds before I realized he was the guy I’d seen earlier—the good-looking one who’d treated me like I was FOD. He’d come back. Maybe he wasn’t gay. Maybe he was just metrosexual, whatever that was. Or maybe he worked here, in which case he’d know what I was reading—I mean, really know . He wouldn’t be fooled by the fact that I’d carried the books over to the children’s section in an effort to avoid detection. I quickly closed the book, and lay it face down in my lap.
It was then that I noticed that the tingling I’d felt earlier at the top of my thighs had turned to flat out creaming. My vulva was throbbing, just like I imagined Justine’s must have been, and I was glad I’d covered it because I was pretty sure
Now, I absolutely do not have a problem with gay men. My problem , if it’s a problem at all, is that I really like gay men. I’ve had a few crushes on gay men, in fact, which, duh, never end well. Gay men are generally sensitive and caring; they usually have some aesthetic sense (or at least an awareness that style matters) and they aren’t averse to housework. In most of the ways that matter, a gay man is the perfect life partner for a woman who prefers brunch with friends and shopping or a movie to NASCAR and the Final Four. If such a woman, say me , were to become half a couple with such a man, the only issue would be for both parties to find outside penises to play with that aren’t attached to men, or god forbid, the same man who might disrupt the relationship I was having with my gay partner. On second thought, it’s too complicated.
It’s very sad that women don't arouse, in gay men, the kind of love and passion we crave. How could we? They’re gay. As far as I’m concerned, the only trouble with gay men is that homosexuality shrinks the field of eligible partners.
Let it go , I said to myself as I moved further into the Soup, shaking free of my intellectual response to the handsome déshabillé of the sexy stranger. What was left in its place was a slight tingling at the top of my thighs, which I took as a good omen for the Cliterati and finding our next book.
“Justine felt her vulva opening and closing, throbbing in anticipation. She was not a virgin—far from it—but she’d not had a worthy lover in months. So when Antonio began to unbutton her blouse, cupping her breast in his strong swimmer’s hand, her body began to respond without hesitation, her skin pulsing with electricity. She felt a moistness between her legs and every time his fingertips graced her forearm, her ankle, her neck—she groaned—not only for the pleasure she was experiencing as he touched her, but for those pleasures she knew would come. She’d imagined a lover like this, patient, sensual, and of unquestionable beauty; but to have finally found him in Antonio, a man ten years younger than she, was beyond her wildest fantasies. Justine’s hands drifted slowly, sensually down his back, over his muscular frame and taut skin, still moist from the swim from which she’d disturbed him. He inhaled suddenly, closing his eyes. Then, with more purpose, his hand reached down, finding the hem of her dress, and lifting it gently, he slid his warm palm up her thigh to her buttocks, which he held tightly in his grasp, pulling her body against his sex.
‘I want you,’ he said—
‘Take me,’ Justine murmured. ‘Please, I can’t’—”
“Are you finding what you’re looking for?”
I looked up to find a man staring down at me as I sat slack-jawed and cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the Soup. It took me a few seconds to get Antonio out of my head and focus on the man looking at me, a few seconds before I realized he was the guy I’d seen earlier—the good-looking one who’d treated me like I was FOD. He’d come back. Maybe he wasn’t gay. Maybe he was just metrosexual, whatever that was. Or maybe he worked here, in which case he’d know what I was reading—I mean, really know . He wouldn’t be fooled by the fact that I’d carried the books over to the children’s section in an effort to avoid detection. I quickly closed the book, and lay it face down in my lap.
It was then that I noticed that the tingling I’d felt earlier at the top of my thighs had turned to flat out creaming. My vulva was throbbing, just like I imagined Justine’s must have been, and I was glad I’d covered it because I was pretty sure
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