I wrote this story one summer for a cyber lass who was bored on her summer vacation while waiting to start college. She was a dancer and I became a summer-cyber diversion for her foot loose pleasure.
Clueless Chloe
When she had first moved to New York, Chloe hadn't got a clue. Well, who has when they are fresh out of an exclusive small liberal arts college with a major in Modern Dance and a minor in Arts Administration? But Chloe seemed particularly clueless-so much so that none of her relatives or friends would even bet a dime on how long she would survive there. There were no odds to be taken, no books to be run. In every one's opinion but her own she was doomed to immediate, if not sooner, failure. But she didn't fail. She left, yes, but she didn't fail.
I had linked up with her in a bar. The usual meeting at Happy Hour: a drunken woman and a protective male who hoped he might get lucky. She told me that she had just relocated from New York, and that she was a dancer and that everyone had predicted how it wouldn't last. "They think I am clueless," she had blurted out into a Campari and Soda - not the usual drink in these parts, "But they have no idea just how clueless I am."
She waved her empty glass high in the air, sweeping it over the bar, vaguely in the direction of where she last remembered seeing a bartender and I raised a finger indicating to Joe that I would pay. "I can't take any more Vodka," she explained. "I should think not," I said, smiling hopefully.
She paused as we waited for the drink, and then said, "I was so clueless." And not being able to resist a joke at her expense, I said, "How clueless were you?" She answered with that cheerful insobriety that turns from laughter to tears between picking up a glass, hand shaking as it spills a little, and touching a quivering lip to be returned hurriedly to the bar as the sobs start.
But that didn't happen. Instead she blinked stared ahead and said, "I was so clueless that I thought that if ever I met my dance God, Mark Morris, he would immediately sign me up for his dance company." "That's not so bad" I replied, "No," she answered, "except that I thought he would marry me as well!!!" She burst out laughing and added, "I couldn't grasp that all those handsome and interesting single males really did not find me or any other female attractive.
It was by reconciling myself to their homosexuality that I learned my big lesson in reality. All my life men have come on to me. And I couldn't accept that gay men wouldn't until I heard two of them-so-called friends-, joking about my curves and all that FLESH. I was devastated" I resisted telling her that she was beautiful, as I am straight and I was sure she expected it, but before I could think of a suitable platitude with which to placate her, she went on," They called me a BREEDER!"
At that point she adopted that stupefied look of the utterly beaten and decided to get a cab home. Of course, I made a feeble attempt to take her back to my place, but she had been long enough in New York for me to know that I was not in her league and she was not yet in mine; she had youth on her side, but I had patience on mine.
As we waited for the cab she added, "And the guys who did like me were snakes. Boorish stockbroker types who liked a bar down near Walls St. where they soaked themselves in alcohol after a day's trading, and hung their ties on the rafters as trophies to there exploitive profits. The women hung their bras out too, as if they were double-value trophies of capitalist victory. They certainly weren't sexy. Well, the last time I was there I hung up my used tampon and was told never to come back.
I didn't even try thinking of an answer to that. Luckily the cab arrived. As she got in I gave the driver $20 and pressed my card into her hand. Then I went back to the bar wondering if I would hear from her, or when she would return to my favorite watering hole. I need not have worriesd, for with what I call the "O'Luck of the O'rish" she had left her Prada handbag under the bar stool, abandoned with a Pashmina shawl that lounged with sundued elegance near a pool of Vodka mixed with Campari.
I scooped up the shawl and clutched her handbag,heady with the buzz of excited anticipation. The shawl was soft, so soft, and perfumed with light extravagance designed to enhance the wearing of sparse lingerie with subtle colors, thin straps: even without the texture and odor, its colors seduced me-coffee, maroon, mauve and magenta tones swam along the odor for her lingerie choices.
I rushed to the bathroom. The perfume intoxicated my groin, swirling around to make my crotch tingle and bulge its hopes. My penis was heavy with longing and hopeful with desire. Rushing passed the backs of pissing guys, I locked myself behind the stall door.
The old wash room; had not been renovated from the days when the tavern had been wood-paneled and respectable. The place was originally built for travelers in the days before cars. It still had abandoned stables out back and tiled floors.
The bathroom faucets gushed noisily and the toilet on which I sat still had a wide wooden seat. I rubbed her shawl on my face as I hastily undid my pants and groped for my half-hard cock. It was comforting to touch and familiar in its more than soft, less-than hard state of fruitfulness: almost as ready to pluck and eat as a fruit filling with juices.
I fumbled for her handbag and reached inside, one hand squeezing my cock's nub-end and sticky-fingered as I tormented its urgency. There were others in the bathroom outside the stall. I wanted to gasp and make long moans, but dare not.
My silence excited me even more. I put the shawl around my shoulders and let go of my dick to see open the bag fully and look inside. I saw a little make-up bag and a scrap of paper.
I looked at the paper. It was just a torn page from a small spiral notebook, but in her darling handwriting: her own beautifully shaped letters and curves of personal statement had formed a list. I thought it was a shopping list, but all it said was "Conn. Coll. Smith. OU. NYU"
I thrust it back a reached in again. My cock was demanding my strokes, my touch, my rub, the grasp of imminence and explosion. Someone called "Will you be long in there?" I choked, breathed out a silent pant and said, "Nah...be right out."
I felt a sharp edged card in the handbag, and tugged it out. It was a theater stub. "Lion King". I ran its hard serrated edge along my cock, knowing she had touched it, enjoyed it; treasured it for knowing her fingers and hands upon its surface and sides.
Then I saw her photo. I grabbed it in a delirium of success and saw her again; the one I had longed to be with. The one who had laughed when I thought she would cry. The one who had left me wanting more.
Someone banged on the door "Hurry up in there." He yelled, "I need a dump." I stared at her, taking her in with one glance. Knowing her as if forever. My desire understood every curve and line of her; every mood and hope of her; her panting arousal; her wetness; her grasping; her sleeping; her leaving. In a glance she was my lover, my Cleopatra; my Helen; my goddess. She was my garden and my ocean, my mountain and my desert. She was the galaxies at my beginning and the end.
"Jeez!! Get your butt in your pants will yur!" yelled the gruff voice. "Coming," cried, laughing aloud, stuffing my pants with my member in full glory.
Closing the handbag, hiding the shawl under my coat, tucking the bag under my arm I gasped "I'm coming" with irony, joy and frustration, pleasure and angst as I rushed out passed the crapper and into the bar, knowing that I must leave at once to visit the CasBar and find my darling slut, Faith if she was working this shift.
I hurried to pay Joe. "If that chick I was talking to calls about her things, tell her I have them." I blurted. I gave him my card and shakily wrote the cell phone number on it.
I tipped him even more than usual and in a dither ran to my car, praying that the bouncers at the CasBar wouldn't recognize me and throw me out again before I got inside, and longing for Faith to be in full swing and ready for my lavish attentions.
How I stopped at the ATM and got the cash that Faith's allure would demand, I do not know. But somehow I made it onto the highway, wrenching at my cock as it tangled with my boxers, wrestling it through the slit in my underwear and my jeans zipper while rubbing her shawl on it, taking care that the precum that glistened under fastly passing lights, did not soil it too much.
I was wishing I could rub my cock with her damp panties and feel her juicy crotch cum mingle with my squirting load, and finally was able to gasp and moan, shout and yell with the pent-up desire of a wild stallion in its first coral. I knew I would keep her image alive while I played with Faith, until I could get home to bed and take it to me in greedy solitude and eternal lusty partnership: both hands free.
END OF PART ONE
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Submitted by:
neptunus
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