Dear Readers:
Twenty years ago I went through a hot spell of writing erotica during the summer. I emailed them to a man in the midwest that I met on the internet, back in the days before the World Wide Web, when that was a rare and wild thing. That man is known as “Hubby” in my posts.
Here’s a sample. Enjoy!
-Sassy
Sun, Jul 10, 1994 at 12:23 AM
The diner
He sat on the high stool at the counter of the diner out on
Highway 15. He travelled all over the world, ate exotic food
with sophisticated women, but sometimes he just had to have
good, old American homestyle food. He could cook amazing
dishes, but had never mastered pot roast or meatloaf or pie.
So he ordered the special – pot roast, mashed potatoes and
peas. Hmmm – better be careful to save room for pie. His
mouth watered as he glanced at the freshly baked wonders in
the glass case. He took in the people seated around him –
truck drivers, farmers, teenagers and a business woman. Wait,
a woman in a suit? She stuck out. She’d taken over the far
end of the counter with papers and a lap-top computer and a
yellow pad. She was eating the special and reading a paperback.
He squinted to make out the title. Holy shit! It was his
collection of erotic essays. Yikes. Then he remembered no one
would know. He’d made it that way. Made life easier. But at
times he just couldn’t resist talking to someone reading his
stuff. Before he could consider the consequences, or lose his
nerve, he spoke to her.
“How’s the roast tonight?” He queried.
She looked up, surprised and unsure he’d spoken to her.
He smiled and looked right at her expectantly.
“It’s wonderful, as always. Nothing like Bea’s roast.”
she responded, almost drooling over her plate. He wondered if
she came here often, but knew better than to voice that hopelessly
trite question.
“How’s the book? I know his stuff, pretty good read.” Oh,
he’d done it now.
She glanced at the cover and smiled sheepishly, adding,”It
is one of the few things that takes my mind completely away from
work.” She sighed so deeply he thought he felt the air move around
him. It made him even braver, or more foolish.
“Is it the stories or the sex that does it?” He blurted.
She colored slightly at his bluntness, then waxed poetic on
a subject she’d obviously given a lot of thought.
“I think they’re inextricably linked. At least the way he
writes it. You get so caught up in the people and the place and the
magic. He notices such amazing things and describes them so well,
the sex just fits right in. It’s not jarring or forced like in so
many bestsellers. I often wonder if they’re written by a woman, or
a man/woman team. They are so tender, yet so…provocative.” She
glanced up, rather non-plussed to have carried on so.
He had nearly spit out the mouthful of water he’d sipped
when she’d mentioned them being written by or with a woman. He
usually considered it a compliment, but tonight he was tempted to
tell her how wrong she was. He didn’t blab often about that. His
agent had a fit whenever he breached the security of the pseudonym
they had worked so hard to create and protect. But he couldn’t
resist tonight.
“I wrote them, the essays.” He confessed to her.
Her eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t question his statement.
That was unusual.
She seemed to ponder her next question very carefully.
“I’ve always had a thousand questions after reading each story,” she
admitted rather reluctantly.
“Like what happens to the people afterwards?” He asked. She
was offended that he thought she’d want to know something so ordinary.
“No. No, I meant, well, I want to know about the author.” She
glanced away, visibly more uncomfortable now. He sought to reassure
her.
“Well, I have to be very careful what I say, security and all
that, you know. But you seem trustworthy. Why don’t you ask, and
I’ll tell you whatever I can?” He offered carefully.
She was relieved and accepted his offer with a nod. The waitress brought
his dinner, and he motioned to her to set it down at the end, so he
could sit next to the lady in the suit. The waitress looked
astonished, but complied. The lady didn’t even bat an eyelash as he
settled in where he could see her, at the corner of the counter.
“My real name is Nick,” he said, hoping she’d reciprocate.
“Sally. Pleased to meet you,” she added gracefully and
reached over to shake his hand. He grasped her hand and had the
oddest sensation, as if he never wanted to let go.
They ate pot roast together and she asked him challenging
questions about his writing habits and inspirations and probed the
fiction/non-fiction line that always terrified the publisher’s lawyer.
She stroked his ego so guilelessly. He felt ten feet tall by the time
the pie arrived. She was frank and funny and had no qualms discussing
even his raciest themes. She blushed a lovely shade of pink, but
that was the only sign that they weren’t discussing the weather. He
realized about half way through the pie that he wanted to take her
home with him.
Despite the themes in his book, he was rather shy and not really
prone to one-night stands or even affairs. He tried to pretend to be
one of his braver characters, a trick that had worked in the past, and
invited her over for a nightcap. She politely refused in a way that
managed not to bruise his ego. But it made her realize the lateness
of the hour and begin to gather her belongings. He asked for her
phone number, but she smiled sadly and declined. Maybe she’d see him
her again sometime, she offered. He wondered if she was married.
Just his luck. Now he’d have to eat here every night, waiting for
her.
She paid her bill and waved as she left. He beckoned the
waitress. It took forever to get the bill, which she pressed in his
hand and then ran back to the kitchen. He looked for the total and
saw it was scratched through with these words scribbled below, “On the
house. Tried to fix her up for ages. She eats here every Thursday.”
He was dumbfounded, but pleased. Nothing like a little well placed
help just when he needed it. He plunked down a huge tip, and whistled
as he headed out the door.
She wasn’t surprised when she found him sitting in a booth
the next Thursday, typing on his computer, obviously waiting for
her. They had a lovely dinner, the meatloaf this time. He gave her
one of his unpublished stories to read, and gloried in watching her
face as she read each word. She made several comments his editors
would envy, then asked him some very personal questions. He asked
her some in kind, and she answered almost everything, except any
clue to where she lived or worked. It frustrated him, but he
understood her reticence. As the hour grew late, he frantically
searched for a way to be alone with her. As they were paying the
bills, she mentioned she’d be out of town next Thursday. His heart
fell. But then she added quietly that she was planning to eat
there on Tuesday instead, if he wasn’t busy and wanted to join her.
He clamped down his shout of joy, and they agreed on 7 pm.
He got up to walk her to her car, and took her arm as they strolled across
the parking lot. He took her key and opened the door gallantly,
then dragged her into his arms. He kissed her gently and lightly,
at first. Then let out his raging desire for her in the blaze of
tongue and teeth and pressure. He held her so tightly, he knew she
could feel the effect she had on him. But in only a few minutes,
she pulled away, climbed quickly into the car and drove away. Damn,
damn, damn. He’d lost his touch. He hadn’t waited this long for a
woman since high school!
He met her on Tuesday, and convinced her to join him again
Wednesday before her trip. He never got further than a passionate
kiss at the car door, but he kept hoping. She knew he was frustrated,
but pleaded with him to be patient, that it wasn’t him but her past
that made her so cautious. He thought of following her home, or
nosing around in her briefcase when she was in the bathroom, but
knew that wouldn’t solve anything. It might even scare her away.
So they ate meat and potatoes and pie, and he took whatever she could
give, and gave her more than he’d ever given any woman. He began to
think unprecedented thoughts like marriage, children, a house in the
country. He kept telling himself it was too soon, and she wouldn’t
even tell him her last name. He’d seen it on her card, tucked in a
pocket of her open briefcase – Sarah Rogers. He wondered who’d
started calling her Sally, and why there was no initial. But he had
not asked for fear of revealing his snooping.
Finally, after nearly a month of homestyle dinners and
in-depth discussions, and kisses at the car, he sensed a change in
her. She began to touch him more often during dinner, and even
showed up with a sexy story she had written, a barely disguised
fantasy about them. She went much further in her imagination than
he’d ever gotten with her. He was glad she couldn’t see his lap
while he read it. It was good, especially since she admitted she
had never penned anything other than business reports before this.
He began to hope, really hope that she would relent and let him into
her life.
One evening, he got to the diner in the midst of a terrible
thunderstorm. He parked next to her car, and noticed her sitting in
it, head down over the wheel. Probably waiting out the storm. He
motioned to her, and was taken aback by the terror in the face she
raised to him. He jumped out of his car and ran around to her
passenger door, which was open by the time he reached it. He plopped
down and calmed his ragged breath, brushing the huge raindrops from
his face. She raised a finger to catch one running down his cheek,
and traced it down to his chin. He shivered uncontrollably for a
moment at the contact and the unfamiliar look of raw desire on her
face. He grabbed her hand and pulled her off balance across the
seat, pressing his lips to hers and gathering her in his arms. She
joined him in the dance of their tongues, and her hands were as busy
as his, teasing and testing the feel of his arms and chest and
shoulders.
She pulled back again and he thought he might strangle her
for stopping when she whispered, “Come home with me. Now. Right
now.” He stared at her, unsure if she had said the words he longed
to hear or if he had finally lost his mind. He blinked and took in
her lovely features, then nodded his head.
She gathered her wits about her as the rain slowed slightly,
then started the car and drove as if the devil himself was after her.
He pressed a hand to her leg and watched her, not noting the route.
He had no idea how long or how far they drove, but he wasn’t surprised
when she pulled in to a swank condo building and parked underground.
She seemed very nervous, but happy as she took his hand and led him
to the elevator, then into her modestly decorated unit. The moment
she closed the door, he pressed her against it and kissed her deeply.
They started to remove each other’s clothes in a frenzy, honoring
each new area of exposed flesh with a tender touch or soft kiss.
Finally, she took him to her bed. They held each other tightly,
overwhelmed by all the dreams coming to fruition. They both
realized this was not the time for pretty words or creativity.
They’d had weeks of foreplay leading inexorably to this moment.
They were both too close to the edge.
She reached over him to get a foil packet out of the bedside table,
and helped him put it on. He rolled onto her and felt her skin everywhere
and his rock hard sex on her stomach. She guided him
to the place he had wanted to be since soon after he first saw her
eating pot roast. He marveled at the tightness of her, even
though it had been clear in their discussions that she had been
alone for a long time. He waited for her to move, then began the
thrusts that would push them both over the edge too soon. But he
couldn’t hold back. He felt her body respond, and pushed deeper.
He lost all control and she met his every stroke, raking her nails
down his back and pressing his ass to her. He let go and felt
the flow pulse from deep within him, into the thin barrier between
them. He imagined it gone, and the picture pushed him completely
over the edge. He felt her trembling and bucking, pleased she had
joined him in ecstasy.
As the best afterglow of his life overtook him, he felt as
if a million questions he’d held inside had been answered without
even having to be asked. He chided himself for assuming that
finally consummating their relationship would mean anything other
than another step in the long road of their lives, but he knew in
his heart that it must mean there was a chance for their lives to
be lived together. Something he suddenly realized he wanted more
than anything. He said a quick prayer that she would feel the same.
For the first time in weeks, he could wait to ask her. He let
himself drift, with her head on his chest and their legs intertwined.
When his strength began to return, he kissed her hair and she looked
up at him with a look of such pleasure and peace that he thought his
heart would burst.
“Stay. Please.” She whispered as she kissed his neck.
“Forever,” he answered poetically. She smiled sweetly and
they drifted off in each other’s arms. Where they belonged.
Seriously, you should write more stories & sell them on Amazon. I think you’d be great at it.
Thanks EP! I was surprised how well this one from long ago held up!