Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating (16 page)

BOOK: Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating
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Kissing was an indication of what was to come. I
liked to make out more than I liked to have sex. Intercourse was just the
physical act of copulation to me, but kissing was more intimate. Through this
easily overlooked gesture I was able to gauge how far and what type of
relationship the woman and I were going to have.

It brought to mind Meghan Boston from college. She
was a freshman with an endearing innocence. She was already an established
runway model by time I met her. She towered at six-foot-one, weighing in at
about 107 pounds, four pounds too heavy, according to her agent. Meghan had
several tear sheets from various magazines such as
Seventeen
and
Vogue,
having already worked in Milan and Paris.

Her problem was that I hated how she kissed. Looking
back on it, I should have understood her inexperience, seeing as though she was
only a sixteen-year-old college freshman who scored an astounding perfect score
on her SATs. She frenched sloppy and wet. Saliva would trickle down my chin and
onto my shirt. It would have been more hygienic for her to just spit on me. Nevertheless,
it turned me off and I had to let her go because of it.

Gorgeous tenderly placed my hands on her perfectly
augmented breasts. A lot of guys don’t like implants, but I could care less. If
you could afford them, then do whatever makes you happy. I decided to drop my
hands a little lower guiding them past her hips and run them up the inside of
her buttery thighs.

As my hands made their way back up to her assets,
they made a brief pit stop at the small chasm that split her two legs. She made
sure to cock her legs wide open for me, welcoming me to take things to the next
level.  I tickled her labia with my index finger and pressed firmly on the
top of her clit with my thumb. It didn’t take long before a river of expectancy
stream down my forearm and a delirious moan called out from deep inside her cave. 
“Oh,Dapper.”
  

Then her voice took another tone and turned
naughty.  “Enough of the foreplay.”  She turned the tables on me and insistently
ripped my clothes off, popping every button off my Ralph Lauren oxford shirt. 
“Don’t worry about that, honey.  I will buy you two more.”

I pulled her skirt up over her head, revealing the
most perfect body I had ever seen.  “To tell you that you looked good for your
age wouldn’t do you any justice. You  looked good for
any
age.” I
gawked.

“Thank you, baby,” she smiled.  “All the yoga
and Pilates must have paid off . I also toured with the Dance Theatre of Harlem
back in the day.”

  She felt the need to give me her resume
so I let her.  It makes them feel better when they can proudly recall a
time when gravity wasn’t necessarily the enemy.

I laid her down on the white leopard skin in front
of the fireplace and worked up a lather between her legs with one hand as I
gently coaxed my hard-on with my other. 

“You’re so fucking hot,” she moaned. 

When both of us were ready I effortlessly pushed my
thickness into her famished pussy. She gasped. And so did I. She had the
tightest pussy I had ever felt and I could feel its walls stretching and
pulsating against my throbbing penis. She had no kids and an ex-husband who
didn’t bring it like he should have to thank for it. She was also careful not
to have sex more than once a week because she didn’t want her shit all beat up.
After about twenty minutes of fornicating in every position from cowgirl’s
helper to the wheel barrow, she finally had enough.

"My God! Are you ever going to cum?"

I hadn’t had sex in two years and I was going to
savor the moment.

I finally came like a freight train and by the
bucket load.  Three years, two months, and twenty-seven days of forced
celibacy finally over, just like that.  I rolled off of her and onto my
back, satisfied. In no time, she rolled on top of me ready for round two. However,
I was slow to answer the bell.

“That was incredible. Let’s do it again.”

"Whoa, Momma! Unlike my boy, I don't take
Viagra."

"Well, maybe we need to call him over here,
too. I've been with two men before. Have you?"

"No. I haven't been with one man before, thank
you very much."

"I'm surprised.  You said that you lived
in LA, right?”

 What's with these chicks? It's almost like
they want us to be gay. I jumped up and started to get dressed. She thought she
offended me. She actually did, but I didn't let her know. Searching for an
excuse, I came up with the most popular.

"No. Of course not. But, I’ve got to get up
early tomorrow."

She stood her perfect body up, kissed me, and then
lit a cigarette. I gaped at her statuesque outline.  She was perfect in
every sense of the word. Powerful, rounded shoulders and flawless traps
supported her delicate, slender neck. Her trim obliques, flat tummy and streamlined
thighs highlighted the rest of her physique. She had the lines of an Italian
Maserati.

"I like you. Actually, I like fucking you and
I'd like to continue, if that's okay with you?" she said.

"I've got no problem with that." Shit,
what man would? That was the cool thing about fucking an older woman because
they had already been through all the bullshit and knew the game. It was about
them getting their shit off and not being alone. They just wanted someone to
respect them, be nice to them, and go out to dinner every once in a
while.  Usually she will pick the check up anyway so how much will it
hurt?

“I’ve got a lot of money, Dapper, and no one to
share it with. All this could be yours if you want it.”

How many times in my life had I heard that?  Once
upon a time that was appealing to me, but not anymore. I wanted my own shit. I could
take care of myself and the only requirement was that you be able to take care
of yourself. Nothing in life is free and all these cats running around living
off of women were going to have to pay the piper one day, whether it be giving
her a baby or having to listen to her bullshit— both of which I am not with.

I didn’t even catch her name. I didn’t ask either,
come to think of it. I didn’t want to know anything about her or her past. I
just wanted to have fun. That’s what I was about. If you want to have fun, then
I’m the guy you’re looking for. If you are searching for more, then I’m
probably not the guy for you. I decided that I would call her Mrs. Robinson.

 

 

 

 

 

We Don't Need No Water

 

It was after seven o’clock and I was behind the
register counting out the drawer to close up for the night. Mike had gotten used
to leaving me alone at night to hold down the fort, confident that I could keep
the sales numbers up and I could total over $11,000 today. It was the end of
the month and I was approaching $70,000 in personal sales, which would mean a
fat commission check on the fifteenth of next month. My cell rang and I ignored
it at first, not wanting to lose track while I was counting out George
Washingtons.

But then I noticed a familiar number. It was fuckin’
Green Eyes. I had a good mind not to answer it at all after she stood me up the
other night, but I was heating up with the ladies and I wanted to keep it going.

“Hello?” I asked faintly.

"It's me."

"Who's me?"

"The best sex you're ever going to have."

"Like I said, who's me?"

"How many girls do you know that are five foot
three, forty double D, black hair, green eyes, and a pierced clit?"

"Carmen Electra?"  I actually did
know Carmen Electra from when I lived in Hollywood.  She lived in the same
apartment building as me.  Then she landed Baywatch and the rest is history. 
That was the cool thing about L.A.  One day you could be a nobody and the
next day you could be on top of the world.  Just like that.

"Whatever! Dap, I know I've been unreliable. I'm
sorry. But I want to make it up to you. Is that okay?"

"I don't know. You've got a little too much
game for me." And she did. I was starting feel like a sucker and I hate
feeling like that. She had me wrapped around her French-manicured finger.

"Well, how about me, you, and my girlfriend
hook up at my place?"
Naaaaa. Stop bullshittin'!

But then she put her girl, Claire, on to say hello. She
sounded sexy too, which led me to infer that she was probably huge since that
is always the case.  But I determined that I would decide for myself when
I got there. 

Green eyes answered the door. She looked sensational
in her low rise True Religions and baby doll tee, drawing attention to those mammaries
I adore so much. “Wow! You got here fast. What, did you do take a cab?”

“Hell no. I ran over this motherfucker!” And I did. At
least I did from the subway that was located six blocks from her Prospect Heights flat.

I entered the apartment out of breath and she
introduced me to Claire. She was the exact opposite of what I thought
initially. She was a natural-looking sista with beautiful Hershey-colored skin
and the biggest, brownest eyes to accent her short, tangled locks. Green Eyes
really does have Jungle Fever, huh? It was always interesting to me how old
school names would find their way to the cutest girls. Names like Ingrid,
Helen, and Eleanor were some heavy names to carry around for a little girl. Luckily
for them, most would blossom into beautiful women who just happened to be named
Harriet, Martha, or Marjorie.

After a brief, bullshit game of Spades to break the
ice and a little puff of Purple, I entered a new frontier—sex with two women at
the same time who weren't prostitutes. It was always awkward for me trying to
make that move from the living room into the bedroom, but Green Eyes and Claire
were old pros.

Coolly, they both French kissed me simultaneously. Our
three tongues fiercely intertwined, each trying to “one up

the other. After
three passionate minutes of dry humping we made the move to the bedroom without
saying a word, careful not to break the hyperactive silence. There, each of us
helped the other disrobe. First was Green Eyes. She was as I had imagined her
to be, her kitty clean shaven like a little girl. Her ass and legs were thick
like she played lacrosse or field hockey once upon a time.  Nonetheless,
the partying and smoking and lack of exercise had already begun to take its
toll on the twenty-five year old and she started to thicken up.  She was a
sofa according to Caesar.  She displayed a tramp stamp of a shamrock on
her lower back and modeled perfect, natural double D’s. She must have been whom
Bode celli had in mind. Next was me.

The two femmes tore off my shirt, revealing my
carefully chiseled upper body. My shoulders were broad; my back was solid, and
my pecs were powerful.  I was narcissistically pleased when they looked at
one another with an obvious glance of approval. Their shea-buttered hands glided
over my hardened biceps and abs, careful to explore each and every indentation. 

I could see they fancied my inguinal crease, the suggestive
sexy line separating the upper body from the baby maker.  Green Eyes
licked the left crease as Claire licked the right. 

“Delicious” they said in concert.  The approval
the two vixens displayed was intoxicating and making both of my heads big.

Then it was Claire’s turn. She was wiry but athletic,
graceful and sleek like a Bahamian swimmer. Exceptionally leggy and lean, she
reminded me of a frog on steroids. Her muscle bellies were full and her coffee
skin was flawless. Her tangled locks showed her identification with her Caribbean roots while her pierced lip, navel, and clit displayed her openness and
nonconformity. She was all natural, sporting a small, triangular bush to
conceal her thick labia.

Instantly, we were all entangled with one another
into a mound of interracial flesh.

There was something about Blacks and Whites having
sex that was taboo, yet exciting. It was the contrast in skin tones. Everyone
like Oreos!

The session started out just like I had dreamed it
would be like. Both girls were all over me—licking my neck, biting my chest,
sucking my toes.  That felt really weird but nonetheless, they seemed to
be enjoying it so go ahead and knock yourself out.

I would lie between the two sirens and insistently
push their heads together, encouraging them to kiss. They longed to comply. Green
Eyes was passive and gentle. Claire was precise and dominant. She gave
direction that was clear and succinct as to what she wanted us to do. 
First she instructed Green Eyes to gently slide her hand up and down my shaft
until fully erect. That was going to be no problem.

Claire gave instruction like a collegiate rowing coach.
“Faster…”
Stroke
… “Harder…”
Stroke
.” She conscientiously never
let her raspy voice rise above a whisper. We were more than happy to
accommodate her hedonistic commands.

“Lay on your back, baby,” she instructed.  Green
Eyes stretched out on her back while Claire straddled, bucked and gushed her creamy
sweetness all over Green Eyes grateful face, forcing her to drown in her overflowing
nectar from the motherland.  Sharply she ordered me to ram my thick rod
into her girlfriend’s Garden of Eden at the same time. It was awesome…at first.

BOOK: Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating
5.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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