The night we first met I was incredibly nervous. You may not have known it, or even picked up on it, but I was terrified. I wanted so much for you to like me, to find me funny and interesting and attractive, that my heart was pounding in my chest, making me nauseous. I was so scared that you would think me boring, or full of myself, or ugly, that I wasn’t able to eat a thing all day. Even my normal touchstone for relaxation – self-pleasure – didn’t help: the three orgasms I had before I left the house didn’t stem my anxiety one bit.
You see, whilst you came with no expectations, I arrived with high hopes. I knew I would like you; my gut instinct led me to believe that you would be warm and funny, as well as handsome. And you were. But I so much wanted to make an impression on you; so that you would like and know me for me, the woman beyond the sex fiend, that I was filled with nervousness.
So it took me hours to get ready to meet you; trying on a variety of tops and skirts so I could find something that would appear dignified, yet still sexy and appealing to you. And when we finally did meet, I worried that my top was showing too much cleavage and ended up having to adjust it most of the evening anyway.
Because I have such a well-practised façade, you may have thought me confident and relaxed that night, (and you certainly helped to put me at ease with your gentle, friendly manner), but beneath my giggly, self-assured exterior, my mind was filled with anxiety:
‘Don’t flirt too much because he’ll think you’re only after a shag. Don’t swear all the time. Don’t talk with your mouth full or spill wine on your top. Don’t show too much cleavage or he’ll think you’re cheap. Don’t talk about yourself because he’ll cotton on how self-absorbed you are. Don’t laugh too loudly at his jokes or you’ll seem too keen. Don’t look at his lovely smile and imagine his lips on yours. Don’t stare intensely into his eyes and lose yourself. Don’t imagine his long fingers deep inside you. Don’t look at the tufts of chest hair poking out the top of his shirt and fantasise about running your hands through it. Don’t try to picture what he looks like naked. Don’t wonder what his cock would feel like inside you. Don’t imagine waking up next to him, lying in his arms.’
Whilst I know now, that all these thoughts were an overreaction, back then it had been a long time since I felt there was a connection with someone, so for me, this date felt more important, more serious, than the other casual meetings I was used to. I felt sure that if you knew what was going on in my head, you would have been disinterested in me; and I was scared that if I let my guard down, you might find out how insecure I felt.
But with every minute that passed, of the many hours we were talking, I found myself becoming more relaxed with you. And when I clumsily stumbled as we walked and you caringly steadied my arm, I suddenly felt reassured, as if your physical guidance helped me to put my mind at ease.
So when we stood at my bus stop and you lightly kissed me goodnight directly on my mouth, I only hesitated for a moment before I leaned in to kiss you back. Though I was shy and nervous, feeling your tongue moving against mine made me feel like all my anxieties meant nothing: that maybe you liked me too.
But with your arms around me and your soft lips against mine, I soon began to feel myself losing control. I had to fight off the throbbing sensation between my legs as you held me tightly; I tried to ignore how hard my nipples felt, pressed up against your chest; and I had to stop myself from letting my hands wander down your back to your arse so that you wouldn’t know just how much I wanted you at that moment.
Because you see, if you had known how badly I wanted to feel your hands all over my body; if you had guessed the extent to which I wanted to explore your nakedness; if you had any idea just how wet I was, thinking about your cock inside me, you surely would have assumed I wanted to fuck you – which although at that minute was absolutely true, was not all I wanted with you.
So I hid my desire. When you subtly ran one hand lightly over my arse, I tried not to respond to your touch. When you let your fingers linger for a brief moment over the edge of my breast, I tried not to let my breath quicken in excitement. And when you kissed my neck and held me close, I did my best to not press myself against you in the hope of feeling your cock on my thigh.
Whilst I badly wanted to continue our intimate moment far into the night, I also wanted you to know that you would never be a notch on my belt; that I valued you more than that. So I left you standing on the street corner and made my way home alone, happy that we had both shown some restraint, but frustrated by the sexual tension this had entailed.
I’ve never told you that when I got home that night, I stayed awake wondering if you were thinking about me. I imagined what it might have been like, had you come back with me; how your body might have felt against mine. I hoped you were touching yourself because of me, like I was about you and that you got as much pleasure as I did in doing so.
Needless to say I didn’t get much sleep, which was a little problematic, given that I had to be on set a few hours later. But the four orgasms I had fantasising about you, put a smile on my face the entire day, which more than made up for the tiredness I felt at work.