Sweet Potato

Pain. Pleasure.

My head hurt like hell.

My dick was being sucked.

My eyes opened, dry and shrinking. An unfamiliar corner of ceiling.

I looked down. An unfamiliar face.

She took my cock from her mouth. My cock, at least, was familiar. “Good morning. I hope this is all right?”

“Its very good, Sweet Potato.”

The night before, after weeks of emails, I met Sweet at the bar of the Ritz Carlton, an oak-paneled hotel room on Central Park South. At nice hotel bars in this zip code, the staff dresses far better than the patrons.

She was drinking white wine. I ordered bourbon.

“Why am I not surprised that you want bourbon, Jefferson?”

She addressed me as “Jefferson,” which, by the way, is not my real name. I didn’t correct her.

We had a drink and compared notes based on our shared emails, and her reading of my blog. We also sized each other up physically.

She is a good-looking woman, with a great smile and short cropped hair, chic and 1920s, like Josephine Baker. I guess I look how “Jefferson” is supposed to look.

She told me about her nights out with the girls, which included an evening at the Gaiety, a Village stand-by for seeing male strippers. She marveled at the routine there. The boys come out and strip, then go backstage and come out again, rock hard.

“Do they have a fluffer back there?”

“I’m not sure. I think they do it themselves, or amongst themselves, maybe.”

“But they are mostly straight, right?”

“So they say. Some of the dancers are regulars, some are just passing through.”

“All I can say is: hot, hot, hot! I still have all these singles that I procured to make tips.” When I went home the next day, that wad of singles was in my wallet. I don’t remember why.

We talked about my blog, but I was more interested in her life. We got another round.

Sweet has a full time job and puts in a part time job on weekends. She gets by by flying right.

But her inner bad girl survives the daily grind and the Sunday schooling that mark the days of her life by finding an outlet in her trips to New. It helps to find a like mind in my blog, she says.

Its true, folks. Behind the curtain of Jefferson’s Oz, I’m really a pretty normal fellow. She picked up on that.

Another round, she suggests? Let’s go over to the Whiskey Bar.

Two more. I am past my limit. Okay, so I don’t have a limit, but it’s clear that she is getting me pretty loose.

It’s okay. Her agenda.

“You want to go my hotel?” It’s all of two doors down.

“Let’s.”

We enter the lobby, and she suggests we hit the bar. I am fed two more whiskeys. We talk and talk. I like her. She is fun. And I am drunk.

I don’t know how late we fucked in her room. We just kept going.

Once I got my bearings the next morning, we were back at it. I listened as I pounded her. “You are going to knock all of that church out of me, I know it,” she said.

“Come to daddy,” I intoned.

A while later, she worried, “I am going to miss my shuttle. Oh well.”

A while later, she worried, “I am going to miss my flight. Oh well.”

She made the shuttle. I fucked her efficiently once I knew she was on schedule. We only had to send the housekeeper packing once.

As we parted, she said we are on again when you are in Chicago. I was last there in 2000, but I agreed.

Don’t forget to blog me, she said.

What should I call you? I asked as she got into a cab.

"Sweet Potato," she shouted to me.