Nerve

All weekend, I was distracted by the thought of the upcoming date with my new online girlfriend, Mitzi.

It was exciting to think that we would be meeting, and mind you, it was pretty well understood that we would be meeting for sex.

She reads my blog, so my sex life is literally an open book. And she had disliked much of what she read. I had to wonder: what if she disliked sex with me?

We had discussed this, of course. I knew what she liked: good solid sex, deep and easy. That’s fine. I can serve vanilla.

But if I’m delivering vanilla, I want it to be creamy smooth melt-in-your-mouth ain’t-no-better-flavor what-did-you-put-in-this vanilla. It should be vanilla that makes you remember why you liked ice cream in the first place.

That’s actually a tough challenge for a first date, particularly with someone you’ve never met.

Any chef worth his salt can whip up a five-course meal; it takes someone near and dear to make a grilled cheese just the way you like.

She needed something tasty. A recent bad experience with a guy had led her to a phase of detox: no sex until it felt better. Our encounter was to be the breaking of her fast.

I had heard both sides of that story. Mitzi and I met because her guy had exchanged emails with me. I had not met either of them, but he wanted to bring her to one of my gatherings.

They tested the waters of group sex with another couple, and it went very badly. They broke off as a result.

He had told me she was a bitch. She had told me he was a jerk. Heck, for all I knew, they were both right.

I had to put credence in her exchanges with me. She seemed a level, careful person.

As our date approached, she asked to change plans a little. Rather than meet Tuesday afternoon, could I come Monday night and perhaps sleep over?

I am the least spontaneous of people. Due to the kids and work, my life is scheduled well in advance. I had plans on Monday evening, but I could come after, if elevenish wasn’t too late. She was fine with that.

A sleepover as a first date . . . gosh, I so rarely leave my home for sex. This was a big step.

On Monday evening, I stuffed my overcoat with my toothbrush, some condoms and a flask of bourbon—the essentials for a sleepover.

She was watching David Letterman when I arrived. The show memorialized Johnny Carson. This is big stuff, and a little distracting.

She was as cute as her photos, and we talked as we had online. It was very reassuring to get to know that the person behind those first glimpses was indeed genuine.

I glanced around her apartment, adapting this view to the context of place established by the photos she had sent me.

That mirror was the one she used to photograph herself in her panties. There was the mirror she used to photograph herself in bed. There was the bed on which she had squatted in a transparent nighty as someone else photographed her.

I had read many of the books on her shelves.

She really liked kissing. I really needed a bourbon. She got two glasses. She could use a snort as well.

As the room was filled with tender feelings and true love—those of Letterman for Carson—we drank and kissed.

I sat on her lap, kissing her and holding her face. I removed her shirt. I pulled down her bra to kiss her nipples. She squirmed down on her sofa, yielding to my lips. I discovered a navel piercing.

I took down her pants. I took down her panties. There was her pussy, so well described by her in so many instant messages that I had tried to ignore.

I sucked her clit. She told me what worked. She got it. She orgasmed in girlish moans.

I was still fully dressed.

She suggested we go to her bed. Maybe on a second date, I demurred. Okay, see ya, she said.

I undressed and went to her bed. She told me to scoot over, as I was on her side.

I would have done the same.

We kissed and fondled. She sucked my cock, getting me good and hard. She retrieved a condom from the nightstand, telling me that it came to her from her grandmother.

“Your use you granny’s condoms?” I asked.

“The table, silly,” she laughed, handing me the condom.

A moment later, I was in her, and filled with that rush of fucking. A few moments later, I was limp.

Okay.

These things happen.

We make out some more. She touches me, she goes down on me . . . I am hard. I am back in her, thrusting, kissing . . . and I lose it.

Conan O’Brien’s voice filled the room.

“Can we turn off the television?” I asked.

“Of course,” she says. As she does, I down a gulp of bourbon.

I was nervous.

I wanted this to be good. And here I was, limp and tired, after midnight, in a stranger’s bed, trying to give her the best sex of her life.

I did the smart thing and told her I was nervous. I don’t know any other route out of that predicament.

She was nervous too. We talked, we tipped our drinks, we kissed.

We fucked until four am.

Sometime after eight, we went back at it. We fell to sleep afterwards.

Around ten, we did it again.

As I sucked her breasts, she asked why most men just lick her tits when she wants them suckled. Good to know. I lost myself on her nipples.

I was on her, slow and deep as she had told me.

“I want you to cum,” she said. I had not. “I know you want to please me, and I am pleased. You need to have pleasure too.”

I kissed her and fucked. I came.

We lay in bed for a while, talking. She offered me her shower, but I preferred to leave smelling of sex.

She turned on CNN and made cheese toast.

Her dog needed a walk, so we headed to the street. We kissed goodbye at the sidewalk.