Sex versus intimacy. Clara and Paulo had only been going out for six months, but "we had fallen deeply in love," she says staring out of a steamed up Philly cafe window last December. "Our love making was always passionate, and after," she explains, "we both seemed so close."Â
"I had been with several men before Paulo," Clara says almost pridefully. "But I'm 38, not on a husband hunt, but getting to that point where I want more than simply to be lusted after." And lusted after I was sure she had been. Clara was runway model tall, with thick fashion red lips, and long dirty blond hair that rained down, tumbling over her breasts. Her skin had an olive glow, that complimented her glistening bright green eyes. Thinking back to when Clara might have been single, I was certain she had been the most stunning one in the room.
"But then the other night something caught me off guard," she said staring again out of the window without the confidence she displayed about her prowess past. "My sensual lover, who always took me into his arms and literally 'made-love-to-me' became one of my old tricks. We had had a late dinner and lots of rich red wine out with friends before we walked back to his place. I could tell he was a bit tipsy—so was I. I slid my hand into his and cuddled up closer to his shoulder. He was so hot, I could feel his muscles through his blazer and overcoat. I couldn't wait to get him home and let him take me. His apartment was pitch black when we arrived. The sound of his keys hitting a small side table in the entrance way was loud in the silence. Then he started, 'Take off your fucking clothes and put your pussy on the edge of the bed.'"
Clara lit a cigarette, which on her looked cinematically sexy. Her eyes narrowed and her confidence came back as she blew out smoke and cocked her head. "I got it and went along. But no man was going to out 'top' me. In the dark, I grinned devilishly and allowed the romp to begin—giving him anything he barked out he wanted from me. It was an aggression I had never imagined he had in him. And by the end of the night he'd managed to have me exactly where every guy I had ever had wanted me—propped up on all fours with my ass in the air ready to give all of it up. I took it—a lot of it, for a good long session. It was great, actually. But a few orgasms later (mine) and I lay back on the bed listening to him snore, I had already moved on."
Then with that same devilish grin, Clara smashes out her cigarette in a clear glass ashtray, looks up to my eyes and says, "I love a good fuck—but these days, I want the face time—with eyes looking into me while we're intimate. Then maybe, after a time, long after we really start to get to know each other—we can begin to get filthy."—M.T.
