I introduced you to Alan the Boilermaker in my previous post. After our first date, which ended in a delightful-yet-public kiss on the sidewalk in front of my house, Alan proved to be a consistent and flirty communicator.
What woman wouldn’t want to hear after a first date that she’s smart, personable, and gorgeous?!
He has greeted me in the morning every day since that first date, but he doesn’t demand too much of my time in his communications – he’s in a job where he can’t text most of the time – and he also knows I’m busy. Unlike my friend Madeline, I can’t stand it when someone gives me a daily play-by-play and expects constant contact. Frankly, at this point in dating someone I also need to keep some space because otherwise, the first moment I go silent one night because I’m on a date with someone else, it would be rather obvious.
We landed on the time of our next date, and he said:
And the only answer to that question is – YES, and YES.
We texted throughout the week, and talked one night. It was perfectly nice, and a wonderful respite from the bullshit I was dealing with in my work life, and with Tony. It felt wonderful, frankly, to have a man be interested, communicative, and available.
The lasagne night came. He arrived early so hung out at the bar we had our first date, until I was free. He showed up at my door with food and flowers. He greeted me with a kiss – absolutely delightful – and I showed him in.
For the next several hours, I felt taken care of.
It’s hard for me to be strong and vulnerable at the same time. I don’t like needing anyone, frankly. I get thrown off-balance when a man wants to do things for me. I don’t really know how to accept help, to let someone pamper me, as I feel it somehow diminishes my kick-ass-woman side. So when Alan said “you look really tired, why don’t you sit and I will prep the salad”, I told him “no thank you” when I could have easily just sat my butt down at my kitchen island and watched him work.
I fussed with the cheese plate and making a salad, the lasagne heating in the oven, and we shared a bottle of wine and talked. He kissed me occasionally, and it was very very good. We ate by candlelight – his lasagne-making skills proving more than competent – and then retired to my couch.
When he said “would you like me to give you a massage?”, I found the strength to succumb.
I’m so glad I did.
Alan is very good with his hands. He seems to enjoy touching me as much as I enjoy being touched. He is very strong. I kept thinking – oh my god, I’m being seriously seduced. First the food, and the flowers, the offers to help, the kissing, and the touching…
It shouldn’t be a surprise to any of you, then, that I took him to my bed. Of course, we joked about simply needing more space for him to give me a “proper” massage. But I was quite content to give it all up to him on the second date – certainly not a huge shock, but not something I’ve made a habit of doing recently.
He undressed me, put me on the bed, and then proceeded to massage every inch of my body. He learned quickly that coiling his fingers in my hair and tugging produced satisfied intakes of breath. He noticed that pressing his mouth hard on the back of my neck caused my body to rise up to meet his. That curling his fingers into my hip bones made me breathe even harder.
So when he flipped me over, after what felt like hours, I was a willing recipient as he plunged himself into me.
He came quickly, but his orgasm lasted. His moans were compliments in my ears.
He was embarrassed he didn’t last longer, saying it had been a while and I felt too damn good. I was too blissed out to really care…and hoped the next time it would be even better.