a hat, a skip and a Venezuelan

She had told him he would recognize her by the hat. He asked what color. She didn’t respond.
She got there five minutes late, of course. He thought she had stood him up.
Since she had arranged the meeting her plans had changed. While she was deciding what to wear an old lover of hers appeared on her screen. He told her about a dream he had, luscious wetting dream. She laughed it off and told him it was good that he had good memory because it wasn’t going to get a rerun. He asked her if she was single and looking for a lover. Lovers. With an S, plural, she said. One isn’t enough, they get tired.
A friendly proposal, a friend. He looked him up on facebook, yes, he would do, and with an accent, how delish.
So she left to her dinner knowing that most probably it would be a dinner and then she would run to a party where she would cast another to satisfy her that evening.
She got to the restaurant and didn’t quite recognize him as he said hi.
There had been so many responses, so many pictures, of erections, hairy chests, stupid smiles, sunglasses, and whatnot, that she barely remembered what this one looked like. She knew he wasn’t the ugliest, and he was the one that had made her laugh the most.
She was there to have dinner with her first Internet date. Yes, wine, yes snails smeared in butter, yes a chocolate soufflé. No, not her address, no, not her number, no, not her last name.
She knew how to play men, she knew how to seem interested although she was getting bored by his talk. She knew how to turn a bit of information about her, a question, into a whole different subject and to twist it into something concerning him, something he wanted to say. In the end, men want to sell themselves and be listened to.
He paid, she smiled, took the rest of the soufflé and hurried to a party where she knew she could scratch the restlessness between her thighs.
She was definitely turned on by the Internet date, by the fact that she had a lavish dinner and had not even touched the hand of the man in front of him, and by the fact that her ex-lover had introduced her to a new lover.
She got to the party, talked, drank, laughed and kissed the new guy. No need for words. She wasn’t looking for a conversation. Her ex –lover was there with his girlfriend, he stared at the purple lacey bra strap that kept on moving out of her shirt. He smiled, he blushed, he craved her but couldn’t have her.
After a bit and too long, they met by the stairs. She and the Venezuelan. They kissed, headed for his bedroom, and within two minutes she was naked and he was between her thighs. His left thumb stuck up her ass, which was surprising, using the backdoor is always a bit of a tentative issue. His index finger inside her, and his middle one on her clit. Ah, big hands are delicious. His right hand was squeezing her nipple, he was kissing her all over. Yum.
She sucked him only enough to get him up and going. He craved him inside her. Now. Condoms, caresses. And orgasms.
She was quite loud, she didn’t care there was a party going on outside the door. She was there to enjoy herself. And she did.
Three positions and twenty orgasms later she got up, went to the toilet, got dressed and said she was going back to the party. He said he wanted to rest. She smiled. Ah, she was indeed untiring and didn’t want to cuddle, she wanted sex, not intimacy.
She returned to the party as glances passed over her, they knew where she had been the last twenty minutes and what she had been doing. Ah, jealousy is a turn on.
Her ex lover come up to her: damn, I’m really jealous, it was me who wanted to fuck you. Ah, she responded, that you will never do, go fuck your girlfriends brains out, you will never have me again, but your friend was delicious, he just needs to get into shape.
At that she finished a warm beer she had abandoned, and said goodbye, eating leftover soufflé on her way home.