After finishing my brief affair with Justine, I made a date on Match with an Italian-American woman from Rye. She had initially winked at me and had a nice studio photo, but I was chatting with a half-dozen others, and I forgot about her. She sent me another email, trying again. We chatted briefly online, and she suggested a call and get-together. 

Our first date was in a trendy bar in Greenwich, full of Eastern European women hunting for investment bankers. Carla was a classic Italian girl, pretty with fortified dark brown hair that erupted from her temples, and wise old Mediterranean eyes that were as sharp as they were sad. She seemed to have a pretty nice body, as well.

Carla was a self-described touchy-feely type, and before long she was giving my forearms lingering feels. We were sitting on stools at the bar, angled toward each other. Before long I had my legs wide apart, enclosing hers. Then we switched to shoulder-to-shoulder, with flirty little bumps back and forth that became more and more frequent. 

The bar had a low ceiling and awful acoustics and was oppressively loud. So she had to lean into me and tilt her head to hear to what I said. Eventually I took advantage of this posture for a gentle, open-lip kiss on her cheek, just in front of her ear. Tingles, I'm sure. A couple more of those and I kissed the top of her shoulder, which was firm and tanned. She told me later about THOSE tingles...

So, within an hour we were getting worked up at the bar, oblivious to the throng three feet away. It was a classic Public Display of Affection, a favorite of mine at the time. It's almost better than getting laid. Going from "Hi, nice to meet you" to sucking face in just an hour or so. I don't know whether it was just the validation of my own sex appeal or the beauty of a woman allowing her desires (for me) to show in a packed public setting. Pretty much the same thing, I guess - it's all about me. God, I loved it when I could make it happen.

Before long I was sucking on her ear lobe and drawing a sharp little in-breath as my hands wandered the top of her ass. Soon, we were kissing passionately, pausing only to wave off the bartender, who was kind enough not suggest we get a room.

 

Just as I'm letting my hands wander even further, she paused to finish her wine and ask the barkeep for a glass of water - grasping for self-control, no doubt. She backed her upper body away from me and said, “You're bad, you're dangerous, this has to stop.”

I said “I agree,” and kept going. I nuzzled her cheek again, and whispered into her ear “Maybe we want to go back to your place.” And then in a flash she realized she was in a near-slut situation, and abruptly declared things done. She offered to pay the bill and I told her not to worry about it, but she left pretty quickly, not angry or indignant, just a little flustered at what almost happened. 

So, the next day we switched to text, and made plans for dinner the following Tuesday. I was angling for something near her place for a shot at an invitation back to the ranch. The exchange of was rife with potential trouble. My background thoughts are in brackets. 

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HER: Tuesday works. What do you have in mind? [You must have a good idea]

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ME: I hadn't thought about it further than seeing you again. [LIE] Something down your way?

 

HER: That works. Dinner?

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ME: Yes, dinner is good [if you pick up the tab this time] though I don't know Rye all that well. [DODGE] What would you suggest?

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HER: We could go to Ruby's Oyster House, so I can have my trusted bartender there to act as my bodyguard. [Sure, that’ll keep you safe.]

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ME: Love seafood, and I guess I'll have to pass the bartender test sooner or later...  [Do I care? No.]  7 pm?

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HER: That works...you had best be on good behavior w Turner... 

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ME: I never make the first move... [CHALLENGE]

 

HER: are you sure? I don't think I did...

 

ME: Oh, Ms Touchy-Feely, you were all over me, don't you remember? (my hands, at least...) <whistling smiley>

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ME: Don't worry, I'll be good in front of your enforcer... [Not]

 

HER: Maybe looking into your eyes and touching your arm a bit too much [and don't forget leaning in heavily...]

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ME: Classic tripwires for a romantic like me... [Finally, the Truth]

 

HER: Will keep it as a "note to self!"

 

So, my dangerous personae notwithstanding, we agreed to meet again.

I called her later to confirm the date and get directions, and she expounded that I'm bad, very bad, and wondered aloud about the wisdom of seeing me again. It's a great little game. I wasn't much of a lothario in high school, and had girlfriends for most of college, so when a woman gets leery of my seductive talents, it's kind of a tickle. 

Of course, I played it up, turning every other innocent phrase into a sexual innuendo. I spouted questionable wisdom, like suggesting that all she really wanted was to get banged. She objected to the word but not the idea, so I knew I was onto something. She began to question the wisdom of seeing me again. I could only agree. 

Finally, when it was all set up she said, “Oh, I know what you're doing - it's all about being near my place so you can come home with me.” I was impressed that she recognized this move.

But I told her, “Listen, I know this whole routine. You revealed way too much (your words) on the first date and so you have to prove you're not easy this time around. So, we'll meet on your home turf, I won't make the first move, nothing will happen, you won't bring me home, and there's no way we'll make love.” 

She agreed and repeated the terms as if they were her own.

Her choice of turf was her favorite bar, a seafood place in Rye with the bartender who would give me a good looking-over and protect her honor.  I'd reminded her that I never made the first move - after all, she had done all the initial touching on our first date. But about thirty minutes and a wine or two into the date, she grasped my leg to emphasize a point and I said “Uh-oh, that was the trip-wire, you made the first move! I'm released from all my obligations.”

We laughed about it, but ten minutes later she leaned in and gave me a kiss, clear approval (to me, at least) for anything I have in mind, all the while saying "You're not getting laid tonight."

 

I replied, "That sounds like communist mind-control to me," and vowed to resist. 

She had a pseudo-designer burger for dinner, and mine was a too-well-done miniature swordfish steak special. But her fries were good, and they saved the meal, at least to the extent that I was paying attention to the food.

All the while her purported watchdog bartender did nothing more protective than keep our wine glasses full. He watched us exchange simple, early stage kisses - lingering, but not too deep, the type where your lips stick together a bit and then cling as you part.  In between kisses she spent a fair bit of time telling me how I'm not coming home with her, that I'm not getting lucky.

"You're outta here!!!" she said, on more than one occasion. 

“Sure, whatever you say…” I repeated, in a laconic sort of way.

Then she looked at her watch, and what do you know, it's almost nine pm! It seems she loves baseball and the Yankees game is on, and asked if I would like to come back to watch the game at her house? 

“NOTHING'S GOING TO HAPPEN - WE'RE NOT HAVING SEX!” she declared. “We're just going to watch the game. One hour, and you're outta there!”

It seems like a reasonable enough cover story for me. I let her pay the bill since I got the first one the previous Saturday night, and we trotted out to the cars. Hers was a hot little red Mini, with racing stripes and I wondered, Is this the locomotion of a restrained woman?

Naturally, home visits always start with a tour, which I broke up quickly with a deep kiss in the dining room, wondering to myself if bending her over her own furniture would be too much. I decided it would be radically premature, so I didn’t. But I was also getting the feeling that she was aware that I knew that all of her blather in the bar was just about making her feel okay about inviting me back. The game was on, and she even sets a time limit of sixty minutes before "I'm outta here." Which set me to thinking I've got about sixty minutes to get in there before I'm outta here. 

We ended up foregoing the Yankees game because she hds a new twelve-component high-end stereo-theatre TV system, from which she could only elicit a DVD movie replay. She got a bit frustrated trying to make TV appear and decided to take a potty break. I laid down on the floor in front of the multi-media extravaganza and tried to conjure the combination of buttons that would rouse the TV genie, not really caring whether it came through or not. 

Unsuccessful, I flipped back to the DVD and it's The Devil Wears Prada (I kid you not). When she came back with a couple of wines, she squatted behind me for a minute to watch the movie, with her knees overhanging my torso and skirt open like a garage door. I could almost feel the heat between her thighs without looking – it’s a reveal that just does not occur unwittingly with a woman. 

Then she stepped over me to try once more to find the Yankees game, leaving one leg behind me and affording me a kinky little up-skirt shot from my position on the floor. I let her fiddle with the components for a few seconds before sliding my hand up her dress to fiddle with her own components, which it seemed were encased in thick panty-hose. But she did not protest, and I thought, Well, that’s a good sign.

​

Then she said, “Let’s sit up on the couch,” and we re-positioned ourselves. As we sank back into the plush upholstery she leaned in to give me a kiss and doubled the bet with a mouthful of warm red wine. 

Thirty-five years of sucking face, and that was the first time I'd gotten a mouthful of wine. It was a surprise, and an encouraging one. Pretty quickly I was on top laying between her legs, grinding my crotch into hers in a classic teenage dry-hump. She rewarded me with lovely little female sighs and moans, ones that make it sound like I’m taking her, without actually making love. 

I started to feel her right boob and it had an odd squishy bag feeling – with a faint sound effect. So I rolled sideways to slip my hand back up her skirt. I found myself grasping the bullet-proof fabric of her panty hose, struggling to discern any womanly definition through the thick nylon at what seemed like a thousand pounds per square inch. 

So I made a detour back upstairs to free her of her bra, and it produced a fairly shocking surprise: a fake right boob, perfectly smooth with no nipple. I’d never seen a surgically repaired breast before – not in person or picture. She paused to explain that she’d had a partial radical three years before and had a clean bill of health. 

Here was the answer to that funny squishy bag feeling that I’d encountered when I’d groped the reconstructed boob earlier. Rather than linger too long in the check-up room, I grasped them both, evenly, and pushed her gently back down on the couch, and went back to work. I saw no need for a medical side-track on this train ride.

After more of sighs and moans the armored hose were going nowhere. With no apparent progress on the base paths of love, the energy sagged a bit. It seemed like both of us were feeling past the peak of the night's shenanigans, and we just lay there, side by side, breathing hard.

I’d seen this second-date movie before: no sex tonight, just a moist rub and a walk out the door. She even talked about getting out her own electronic stimulation – later, that is – and I thought, Oh, joy….

So I started to get up, moving her open legs off my lap, when a funny thing happened. She arched her back and removed the armor, unbidden. It seemed we were not quite done yet. Despite the dulled energy I was quick to help, and we peeled them onto the floor. She revealed a thong and a pair of perfectly shaven cyclist's legs, which she delighted in showing off to me, while also permitting a prolonged gaze at the plush vee of her legs.

By now I was thinking it's open season. But almost immediately she brought up the old boyfriend whom she had revealed earlier in the night, and I had completely forgotten about. It seemed that unique among all of her lovers, he was able to find her "holy grail" G-spot. I speculated that the comment was like a competitive taunt, because a good part of our earlier conversations had centered on the once-in-a-lifetime sexual connection they had. 

So I took the bait and went after her privates with gusto, exploring all the little tingle spots and crevices with moves I'd learned from thirty years of trying to get laid in situations that could go either way. My philosophy has always been if you can get her to come first, who's to deny you?

Despite what I thought to be fairly deft moves, pretty soon she replaced my hand with her own, with mine just going along for the ride. This development was a novel thrill in itself – feeling how a woman pleasures herself, almost like a tactile sex instruction video. 

Remarkably – to me at least – she used a lateral back-and-forth motion, like a frantic little windshield wiper, not with the grain as seemed more natural me (and most men, as it turns out). I found myself marveling at this little revelation when suddenly she grabbed my hand and thrust it deep and moistly into her, apparently at a critical point in her progression. She seemed to come, and later confided that I briefly hit the spot. She suggested that we practice it again at another time. 

I'd like to say that this little dance ended in a skull-splitting orgasm for me, but it didn't. I made a game dive with my tongue at one point but was pulled up in the weeds, short of home base – no pussy-face on the second date, another apparent girl-rule. Asymmetrically, a blow-job seemed to be out of the question.

After we both lay panting for a couple of minutes, I started to get up. It seemed I was only to enjoy a gushy handful before being sent home with a raging bull of a hard-on. She rose along with me but instead dropped her pushed-aside thong to the floor and pirouetted to sit on my lap, bare-assed, for one more intimate encounter with my hand. I gave it another enthusiastic twirl, searching for her mystical G-spot. After a satisfying round I figured it was my turn at last, and I tried to flip her around for a quick entry. But she closed her knees and turned sideways instead, saying softly “Next time, next time.” Tragically, there would be no relief for me.

I really wonder, sometimes, how I would behave if I were a woman. A pussy is not just the gateway to sex, it’s the ultimate arbiter of time and place. A cock is like a hungry dog, sniffing at the door, trying to pry it open enough and push through. It goes without saying that a women gets to decide when sex is finally going to happen, but sometimes that decision can seem fickle, at best. 

Naturally, they're hoping to avoid the derision of sluttiness that might come from an accelerated mating process. It’s no small matter to let a man inside your body. But when you talk to women about their decision process, in those rare unguarded moments, they admit that they’re just as eager to make love as men are – sometimes more so. But there are far more ramifications for that decision for them than for a man, not the least of which is their reputation.

If I were a woman, I'd probably have been a slut for a while - maybe years. That would have been my Twenties.

The call from her the next morning was priceless, except that it woke me before eight am.

 

"What was I thinking?!?!” she brayed, “I was so drunk - I can't believe what I did! I did everything I told myself I wouldn't - I paid for dinner, I came on to you, I took you home, and I let you kiss me!" 

She also complained of a convenient memory loss after the first glass of wine. 

 

Thinking of my own lost opportunity for relief, I said “Don’t worry, I’ll make up something even worse to fill in your blank spot.”

She said, “I wasn’t sure we’d talk again because you must be running for the hills! But don't worry, I still like you and I'd like to see you again.” Sure, I thought, why not? It has to be my turn next time, doesn’t it?

She had to travel the following weekend, so the third date two weeks later was what I call, “The Virgin Date.” According to the Modern Dating Customs that I’ve observed, it was supposed to be a calm, largely hands-off meeting in a public place – a polite get-to-know-you-better affair without any further sexual escapades. 

Plotting otherwise, I invited her to a Champagne party in my building. My son was home so there was nowhere to shag, if perhaps she decided to break her own rules once again. But Carla barely shared in the champagne, was in no mood for shenanigans and went home relatively early. It was a bad move, because the buzz was off, and I’d found other appealing alternatives online. It was the last time I saw her. 

Until mid-summer, when I was on what would be a very bad date with a classic Jewish American Princess who insisted we meet at the very same Ruby’s in Rye. Knowing this was Carla’s haunt, I arrived early to reconnoiter, and lo, there she was, at the same spot at the bar having dinner.

 
I paused, trying to decide what to do. Finally, I went up and said hi. We chatted a bit, she asked what was up, and I confessed to another Match date.

 

She said, "So what happened between us?" My invented recollection was that I tried to contact her without a reply. She was sure I had blown her off. 

At that point my Match appeared at the door. All I could say was, “Oops, there’s my date – I'm outta here!” It seemed a fitting farewell.