A New York Fuck - Sex Stories

A New York Fuck

... it seems we were outnumbered at least five to one, maybe more. And while my photo left a lot to the imagination, my description of what I was like and what I was looking for was much less circumspect. I'm pretty direct when I want something.

Nineteen out of twenty messages I just ignored. The ones that felt like a twelve year old had written them. The ones that were clearly way too desperate. And of course the weirdos, so many weirdos. But, buried under the sea of chaff, was the occasional grain of wheat. Mr Jones -- Robert Jones, like that was his real name! -- was a grain of wheat.

He'd been polite. Complimentary about my profile photo, without being creepy. He'd said he'd like to get to know me a little, and added that he felt that we might have compatible interests. Displaying just a little class gets you a long way, especially when so few guys seem to bother to do this.

So, I'd messaged back. Friendly, if a little noncommittal, you have to be careful. And I got an almost instant reply, asking about how my day was going. Literally no one does that. He was different. Maybe he was a student of human psychology. Maybe he'd just thought about the best way to connect with a woman. Maybe it was really his normal personality. Whatever was going on, real or artifice, he obviously made an effort. And he was nice. That put him in a special category. The 'I'd consider fucking him category.'

The terms are loaded, but I'll use them anyway. I don't think of myself as ...

... easy. I don't think I'm a slut. But I don't attach the typical emotional baggage to sex. I like sex. It's fun. I like having it with different people. But I'm also fussy. There has to be a connection. The guy has to get me and vice versa. I'm not looking for love, but the sex has to be a bit more meaningful than just rutting. Not a lot, maybe, but a bit. Mr Jones seemed to be on the same page.

And early on, before we had got too far into our discussions, he told me he was married. Asked if that was a problem. I told him that if there was a problem, it was his not mine,his marriage was none ofmy business. What I didn't tell him was that a thrill had run through me at the news. I'm a selfish bitch, I know. Fuck sisterly solidarity, right? Until that moment, I'd not known that I had a thing for married men, I had never had occasion to think about it. But the sensations running through my body told me that his status made me more interested, not less. As I say, I'm a bad person.

I asked him if he was unhappy. He said that was private. I guess he had a point. But, over the next few days of chatting, I put together a picture of a marriage in decline. In retrospect, this was probably just wishful thinking, me trying to feel better about myself. It should also have been a red flag that I was maybe getting in too deep too quickly. But who ever notices these things at the time?

As if on cue, my phone bleeped. A message to say he'd landed. Before replying, I took a suitably silly ...