Bossa Nova

After getting the kids to school and putting in a few hours of work, I have a date with Anna—our first since she phoned in to opt out of rough sex and anal sex as experiments gone awry.

I want her to understand that I am fine with that, and that I respect her preferences. I would like to make this work.

She arrives late. That’s okay, but it means we only have an hour and a half before I have to leave to pick up the kids. No matter, I’m not rushing.

I put on slow bossa nova music.

We sit on my couch and kiss. Slowly, gently. We talk. I am just as happy if this is how we pass the time. I like her, and I like kissing her bee sting lips.

She stands on the couch and does a strip tease, pretending to be a go-go girl. I’m not allowed to touch her. She is soon down to her panties. She shows me her various bruises and hickeys from our date two nights ago. She falls back into my arms, and we kiss.

She undresses me. I take the panties.

She reclines on the couch, her hands lifted over her head. I don’t take the bait. I am not holding back her arms. I kiss her, I gently touch her body. I touch her nipples, but only in passing.

The music is so soft and rhythmic. It makes our hips move.

When I am in her, I move with her body, and with the music. It is the gentlest, easiest union of bodies. We kiss and smile.

A song picks up tempo, and she pushes me back. She fucks me for a while, then pulls away. She tugs off the condom, and starts sucking me, her legs splayed on my thighs in a perfect split.

She sucks me hard, alternating with a tough hand job. She looks at me through the hair in her face, like a commando hiding in the grass. She is on a mission. I made myself cum last time. It’s her turn.

I give myself over to her, and offer directions now and then. That works . . . I’m close . . . more of this . . .

She gets her prize. I cum a fountain. She smiles as it happens, then does a go-go dance to gloat.

We cuddle and lay about for a while. I offer to get her off again, but she declines.

“You know,” she says. “My friends don’t know I am seeing you again. Neither does my therapist. They think I am better off without you.”

“Maybe you are. Does it feel good to be with me?”

“It feels good.” I’m glad, as I nestle in her arms.

Eventually, I need to leave to get my kids. I know she is going in the same direction, so I ask if she wants to walk through the park with me. She does.

At the door, we are in our coats, and she says, “So, we are on for Monday?”

We haven’t talked about a date for Monday, and I am not really thinking about it. I open the door to leave. “Maybe, I hope so,” I say.

She puts out an arm and closes the door. “Maybe?” Apparently, in the new configuration of our relationship, she owns Mondays.

“I can check when I get back to my calendar, but right now, I need to get the kids.”

As we walk, she sets a very brisk pace. I walk fast, as New Yorkers do, but it is tough to keep up. I lag behind. I don’t understand the rush.

She is a dancer and choreographer. There is no way she isn’t considering how the way she moves her body affects mine.

I am close to a sprint, just to keep pace. We are not near one another, so we can’t talk. I am essentially chasing her through Central Park.

I am relieved when we part ways near Bethesda Fountain.