One day I found an intriguing woman online with the handle, “Boxer-Ballerina.” I dropped her a little note about her unique pseudonym. She replied that same day, saying that she was a long-practicing ballerina who had taken up kickboxing – for exercise, of course. But I found the combination a little unnerving. Not being prone to assault, I wasn’t worried that she could defend herself.  It was just about the least likely mixture of hobbies. Who combines such things?

Marybeth was a decorator and apparently well-off, since she claimed to be moving to a high-end apartment complex in Stamford, where she said she had made a deposit on one of the penthouses. I told her I’d love to hear more about her in person, and she replied that she, “hadn’t yet met a man who is really into listening” but that I could prove it after telling her about myself.

I wasn’t really looking for that kind of a challenge on Match, but since I’m actually a pretty good listener, I decided not to worry about it. Plus, she was pretty, a Penn grad with reasonable writing skills and didn’t seem to be your typical housewife-cum-decorator. Oh, and she sent me a PS email saying “you’re very handsome.” It closed with a warning that she was easily distracted, so “if you and I ever meet, build in another fifteen minutes so you don’t get pissed.” Another odd comment.

When I asked her about her Match experience, she wrote “I find myself trying on different hats like Cinderella and her shoes.” She garbled the simile, but I just substituted “men” for “hats” and took the point that she was in sampling mode. She said she wasn’t sure she had ever had an adult love and had no idea where she wanted Match to take her. In this confusion, she was in good company.

She also talked a fair bit about her interest in technology – a Mac she hadn’t yet figured out how to use, and a high-end digital TV she was waffling on, trying to decide whether or not to wait for the next generation. But she claimed to know I was a techie from my phone number, which was a lucky one in that it ended in double zeroes, like some corporate main number. (I had worked the AT&T rep over mercilessly looking for a memorable number, and we were both astonished that this one was available). And then she shared hers, which also ended in double zeroes.

We connected by phone and made arrangements to meet the following Saturday night. She said she wanted to explore Stamford, so I made reservations at a place near my apartment. I texted her directions to my place and she responded about having to dry her hair before jumping in the car.

When she called fifteen minutes later, I was expecting another Match-style last-minute blowoff. It’s remarkable how much more willing people are to drop you on date night if you haven’t met face-to-face yet. I’d had a couple of such late cancellations, and this seemed to be yet another. 

But no, she called with an entirely different issue. She said that the power had gone out in her house just as she went to dry her hair, and that it was soaking wet. I thought that I sensed a novel new disappointment technique, and quickly moved to head it off, saying, “Well I’ve got a hair dryer, why don’t you dry it over here?” To my surprise she took me right up on it, saying she’d be over in twenty minutes. Really!?! 

So, my first date with Marybeth was both unusual and one of the most pleasant surprises I had experienced, at least with a respectable woman. When she buzzed my apartment and I headed down to the front door to let her in, I was met by a tall, attractive blonde in a black stretch unitard outfit, showing ample cleavage. Her still-soaked hair fell in a tangle over a magnificent set of breasts, not yet concealed by the little black jacket she had over her arm, which she hadn’t wanted to get wet. All I could think was, Ohhh Jackpot!!

I led her up to my apartment, and showed her the second bathroom, where I’d left out my hair dryer (last used years before. I prayed that it wouldn’t blow up.) Ten minutes later a goddess-like woman with long flowing silver-blonde hair emerged, and we headed out for the restaurant, almost as if she had already spent the night.

Over dinner I learned that she had been a ballerina as a teenager, and that her power-broker father had ridiculed it as a complete waste of time. She also described being completely flat-chested in those days. As I pondered the unlikely late-sprouting of the bosom she was currently sporting, she read my mind (eyes?) and said, “so I fixed that issue.” Indeed, it seemed like she had paid extra. 

What she could not fix was one of the most thoroughly down-trodden egos that I have ever encountered in my life. In addition to ridiculing her ballet, her father had convinced her that she was stupid and unattractive, apparently in some misbegotten attempt to toughen her up for his own harsh world. She had a fairly ample nose that had also been fixed, so perhaps early on he had seen too much of his own ethnic visage in her. Whatever treatment she had endured, it was devastating. For a beautiful, buxom woman, she seemed almost bereft of self-esteem.

Her conversation was literally ridden with self-deprecation, so far beyond being amusing as to suggest a moderate psychosis. She related how her husband, a classic Long Island Jewish American Prince, had picked her up on the beach in East Hampton. He just walked up to her towel on the sand and started a conversation – not sitting next to her, mind you, but looming over her, with crossed arms. It was ominous, aggressive body language that would blossom in their relationship.

What had ensued was a marriage that her father, naturally, disapproved of, because the young man was neither well-born nor well-off. But he was smart, ambitious and very persuasive, well beyond the point of simple manipulation. Even in divorce, she said she could refuse him little more than her body. He continued to loom large in her life.

I took all this in stride, with only the occasional “I’m so sorry” comment. It was actually genuine concern, considering the rough life I was hearing about. She in turn seemed almost surprised to have met an empathetic guy, not revealing the slightest skepticism about the motives behind my loyal attention to her story.

We hit it off and had a great time, at first delving into each of our backgrounds and then moving on to what a mess Match.com was, and the wide variety of maladjusted characters that we both found there. We each had more than one horror story to relate, in stark contrast to the good time we were having together. We clicked well enough that when I suggested heading back to my apartment for a nightcap, she readily agreed. (Ohhh, double jackpot!)

Once in my apartment, we didn't even make it to the couch. After quickly pouring a pair of wines, we cheered and then kissed, and then struggled to find landing spots for the wineglasses as we grappled and fell to the carpet. She seemed as starved for physical attention as I was, and before long I started in on her boobs, which were of a proportion I had never encountered in my life. 

Large and extra firm, I later learned, are the hallmarks of breast augmentations. Impossibly firm, in fact, to the point of unreality. I’d never felt anything like it in my life. Plus, despite the mud-wrestling style of our first encounter, she refused to expose them to the light. So I had to imagine, with my hands, what they looked like. This took some time.

So, after a considerable period of tactile exploration, my hands moved downward, without resistance. And I was surprised, no, astounded at the level of humidity that I encountered around her privates. She wasn’t just moist, she was absolutely soaked. Her black unitard felt as if she had spilled wine all over it, from belly button to knees. She was literally sopping wet. 

Typical guy, I just took credit for getting her all lathered up. I did wonder a bit afterwards about the copious flow of her excitation. But in the moment, it was simply, “This is great! I can’t wait to get her into bed.” But that was premature for a first date, and she was not reciprocating in the slightest with my aching mid-section, so after a while we started to run out of steam, legs entwined on the floor, panting, her uni- leaving a healthy wet spot on my trouser leg.

On the phone the next day, discussing our urgent grappling, she asked if I noticed how wet I had gotten her. It seemed a way-premature topic to discuss, obvious though it had been. I said “Yes, it was lucky you were wearing black.” 

She replied, “Actually, that was by design.” And then in a tiny little voice, barely audible, she added, “You see, I’m a squirter.”

I almost didn’t know what she was meant. I’d seen some porno depictions of female ejaculation, but didn't think they were real.  I’d never encountered anything remotely like it in over thirty-five years of exploration. Frankly, like a lot of guys, I thought it was an urban myth, not a true physiological phenomenon. I didn’t know what to say, beyond “Coooool.” I mean, you had to like the novelty of it, but at that point I had no idea of the complications it entailed for sex.

In fact, we never really discussed it again in any detail. It was just a given in our romantic involvement, almost like a third nipple in some completely different spot. Not unworkable, just novel. Or so it seemed as I pondered it afterwards. I really had no idea.

So naturally our next date was up her way in Fairfield, so that I could see the house that she had expanded from three-thousand to almost ten-thousand square feet, something of a parallel to her own chest. What else about this woman might have been wildly enlarged? I thought. It turns out that the house sufficed my imagination. Like her boobs, I’d never seen anything like it in my life, even growing up in Greenwich Connecticut.

We’d eaten locally, and she was wearing a smoking hot miniskirt that had me going from the first second. And of course, there were also her boobs, barely contained in a tight sweater. It’s a funny thing about boobs and men: while you’re imagining getting your hands on a spectacular pair in the flesh, it’s hard to think about anything else. It’s a good thing for men that we’ve evolved biologically to multi-task in the hunt. Otherwise when a great looking body interrupted our pursuit of survival, we’d literally fall down. Until modern times, that could be fatal. Now it’s just a big transfer of power to the female side of the ledger.

Her house looked like a regular four-bedroom center-hall colonial from the front, but with modernistic wings on both sides. It was doubled in square footage in the back, with a kitchen the size of my apartment, a formal dining room that probably sat fifteen people, and a family room attached to the kitchen replete with giant screen TV, numerous speakers and scattered objets d’art. In the center was a sunken coffee table, a fixture rather than furniture, surrounded by pillows in a recessed floor about twenty feet across. There was some kind of artistic project laid out on the glass table top. 

She mentioned that her teenage daughter was upstairs, “in her apartment.” Not room, mind you, but apartment. Apparently it was just down the hall from Marybeth's ballet studio, which turned out to be about a thousand square feet all by itself. And downstairs there was a rambling, almost eclectic living room, with grand piano and expensive looking furniture and fixtures.

 

It seemed that her husband had hidden most of the couple’s money offshore, which was apparently substantial, and had simply left her with the house and furnishings. She said it cost her $1,000 a month just to air condition the place in the summer. She popped a bottle of champagne, her beverage of choice, and we continued the tour.

As we ventured across the expanse of the living room and arrived at the grand piano, I paused the house tour and grasped her waist from behind for a more personal visit. I kissed her neck and cheeks for a bit and elicited the requisite goose-bumps before resuming my exploration of her chest. She seemed to like it from behind, and made no attempt to turn around, instead putting both palms on the lid of the grand – like “ten fingers on the fender, ma’am” – and granted me unfettered access to her body.

With no spandex in the way this time, I was quickly into her panties, which were already wet to the point of dripping. I mean really dripping wet. I pulled them aside and she had an almost continuous flow of liquid dribbling from her crotch, to the point where I instinctively cupped it in my palm for a moment, trying to keep it from wetting the floor. When I realized the futility of that move (plus the fact that it would soon require both hands to do a proper job) I gave up and let her just soak the marble floor. 

After a few minutes I looked down and the puddle extended out beyond her feet, even though they were somewhat splayed in receptivity to my ministrations. The little pool of love juice was probably two feet wide and expanding. (I’m not exaggerating – it was nuts.) At least she had instinctively kicked off her flats at the door. Even my ankles had been splattered, and my boat shoes, well, I figured they were used to being wet. 

After a few more minutes, we heard her daughter’s voice upstairs and broke the water works episode. She scurried into the kitchen for a towel, quickly mopped up the passion pool, and excused herself for the bathroom to tidy up. I noted that her mini was silver, which like the leotards would not show a wet spot. 

Then I was stricken with the sheer terror of being introduced to her daughter with a raging hard-on. Fortunately, that fear quickly rendered it limber enough to conceal in my khaki shorts. Perhaps her daughter would think me particularly endowed. Or worse, she might be accustomed to the effect her mother had on male friends, and simply pretend not to notice. 

Fortunately, it took ten or fifteen minutes for her daughter to descend from her aery, with a cute little friend in tow. By that time the floor was cleaned up and we had composed ourselves, and introductions went without a hitch. Her friend was also about fourteen, and still in braces. They had planned to go to a movie, with the other mother driving. Presently they flitted out the front door, leaving us to our champagne, and Round II. 

We knew we had at least a couple hours, so there was no hurry. We moved to the living room and chatted about nothing in particular while lounging on a modular couch the size of a semi-trailer truck. We were cozied into the cab at one far end, and when I started to run my finger up the inside of her leg, slowly, from the knee, she suggested a tour of the upstairs. The house, that is. I suspected that the leather couch was not waterproof.

It was fairly certain that her bedroom would be upstairs, and that this part of the tour would likely end there. But first we gazed at the expanse of her ballet studio, with a row of windows looking out on a brackish stream shaded in willows – another metaphor, perhaps – as well as her children’s twin apartments, replete with skylights and elevated lofts in the peak of the house, with vast walk-in closets below. I think she said they were around five hundred square feet each, and far posher than anything I had ever lived in. 

​

Her bedroom was like a theatrical presentation of heaven. It was decorated from floor to high ceilings in white on white, and was very plush. Her bed was massive, California King perhaps – if there is no larger size – accessorized by all manner of pillows, from tall supportive ones to smaller decorative squares. She plopped the champagne bottle and her flute on a rococo side table and melted into the pillow pile, beckoning me to join her with an open, welcoming pose that said, “Come and get it.”

I needed no further invitation and was up and on her in a gentle flash. This time, there was privacy, so I quickly got to experience her bosom fully revealed. To my surprise, they didn’t look even remotely real. I hadn't had much experience with enhanced boobs at that point, but I had imagined them to be fairly reasonable facsimiles of a natural glandular configuration. Not so, as it turned out.

For starters, they stood up and out even when she was fully reclined, as if we were on a space station and the artificial gravity had failed. And there was no wiggle or jiggle to them whatsoever: they were just uniformly firm and inflated to about twice the pressure of a normal breast.

Worse yet, apparently the operation, when as radical as was the case with Marybeth, severs a fair number of nerves leading to the nipples, rendering them relatively insensate. She seemed to get no pleasure whatsoever from my fondling, pinching or sucking on either one of them.

This threw me for a loop, because the Boob Station is a mandatory stop on any man’s Mating Tour, typically affording both parties no small amount of pleasure. However, with classic female foresight she had already removed her panties, obviating a couple steps of the dance, and wasn’t complaining about her breasts being suckled. In any case, the flow of lubrication that I encountered rendered the entire point moot. She was ready to go. 

But unfortunately, not willing. She quickly made it clear to me that Date #2 was intended to be a playground, not the full ride. My playbook response to this objection is to selflessly render the woman so rashly turned on that she breaks her own rule and invites me in. So, I went to work, and got another surprise.

It seemed that the mechanics of squirting exhibit no small measure of hydraulic potency. Which is to say, the squirts have both force and volume to them. With my finger inside her, I would intermittently feel a strong watery pulse in the middle of my palm, forceful enough to tickle. It was like a point-blank shot from one of those five-and-dime squirt guns we used to play with in Junior High School.

It was the first time I ever created a wet spot in bed without making love. And of course, the whole process did not provide me with any sort of release whatsoever. Equity would have suggested some oral reciprocation, but she made no such move. I’m pretty sure she came, though I readily admit I was preoccupied with this observing new aquatic experience, so I can’t be sure. She was a ballerina after all and may have been an effective actress as well. 

So, after what seemed, both energetically and hydraulically, to be a climax on her part, we slowed to a stop, my hand soaked and dripping between her legs, with God knows what kind of pool forming underneath. In retrospect, I have to think she had a rubberized slip cover on the bed. You just can’t spill that much liquid with any frequency and maintain conditions to a tidy women’s standards.

I was reminded of the public humiliation in college of one of my fraternity brothers, an accomplished hound and a slob of epic proportions. As entertainment for one of our monthly house meetings, a brother had slipped into his room and removed the bottom sheet from his bed, which appeared not to have been laundered in years of regular sex.

 

When held up and illuminated with a slide projector from behind, the sheet revealed more stains than white space. Some of the dried wet spots approached a foot across, suggesting either acrobatics or insufficient female inertia to avoid a gradual migration across the bed. As I recall, the only recourse was to burn the sheet outside, which of course in the middle of a Maine winter left its own ironic little stain in the snow. It afforded a vivid retelling the next morning to passers-by.

So, I have to think that a fifty-year old woman who had lived with more than periodic wetness for most of her adult life would have taken all necessary precautions against anything remotely approaching the squalid example above. 

My bed, however, was a different story. I wondered if there was really such a thing as adult plasticized mattress covers. I certainly remembered them from my son’s childhood, but would I have to go to a hospital supply house to procure such protection for a king-size bed?

The answer, of course, was Bed Bath & Beyond, which has a solution for anything you can drop, spill or secrete. I was even spared the embarrassment of asking a clerk where they were, like a husband sent to the grocery store to purchase tampons. They were right there in the slip cover section, in all shapes and sizes. God bless BB&B. 

So, on the crucial Date #3, when lovemaking is in the natural order of things, I was prepared. We did the dinner and drinks ritual, repaired back to my apartment, and after a bit of couch action, retired to my bedroom. I undressed her slowly, first on top of the bed and then pulled back the covers to create a playing field. I tried some oral sex, of the soixante-neuf variety, just to get a closer look at the squirting action. She was cleanly shaven but balked at resting her knee atop my head to afford me a closer view. I suppose she considered herself something of a loaded gun and didn’t want to be pointed anywhere near my face. Probably just as well.

I got yet another surprise when we started making love. I could tell each time she squirted, not from the jetting sensation, but from the sense of diminished viscosity in her pussy. Periodically she would clench her belly muscles, and then get noticeably less slippery. Which proved – as said most of the documentation on the subject that I could find online – that it was an entirely different liquid altogether. It had a slightly acrid scent on my hand but was neither normal female lubrication nor urine.

As we tried different poses, I discovered a major benefit of making love to a ballerina: flexibility. With her back against the bedstead and a pillow supporting her lower back, she could literally touch her toes to the wall behind her as I pumped away from the front – and hold the pose! Tight does not begin to describe the resulting compression I felt. It was almost difficult to stay inside her with all the force bearing down on my unit.

So, our first lovemaking session was both acrobatic and drippy. With my earlier precautions, it left no lasting marks on my bed. But I did wonder if she had heard the slight crinkly sound of the plastic sheet as we tumbled around on it. No matter, there was no after-action discussion. She got up fairly quickly to leave, saying that she preferred to sleep in her own bed.

But as she got dressed she made the mistake of walking around my side of the bed and stepped squarely on the used condom I had dropped there, which of course squirted on the rug.

 

There seemed to be nothing but flowing liquid around this woman...