I Had Sex With A 21 Year-Old Stranger And It Was Game-Changing
Never judge a book by its cover.
Approaching the entrance to a night club I was far too be old to be seen near, several things ran through my mind.
Why was I, an educated, 31-year-old woman, here to meet a stranger 10 years my junior, who, for all intents and purposes could be a serial killer or a sicko? Just how ridiculous exactly, would I look making eyes at this newly post-pubescent man? And would I even find him attractive, or would I be left frantically scrolling my mental list of plausible excuses to immediately bail upon seeing him outside his online profile?
I’d already half-written the emergency phone call request text to my girlfriend when a pair of shoulders appeared in the haze of flashing lights and bopping early-20s hipsters in front of me. They belonged to a body facing away from me, but it was immediately obvious it was the body of a man. The shoulders cascaded down into a tight torso, emphasizing a V-shaped frame that stood tall and proud above the crowd. And then suddenly the body was facing me.
“Hi,” came a deep voice, punctuated by a smile that flashed a set of brilliant white teeth.
I did a silent internal happy dance. He was hot. Fuckable, even. I smiled back.
Half an hour later we were polishing off our drinks at the crowded bar and exchanging small talk about our weekend plans when he asked the question that had been underpinning the night’s activities.
“So… Have I proven I’m not a weirdo yet? Are we going back to your place?”
It suddenly became apparent his attractive exterior was not enough to seal the deal. He was definitely sexy, and seemed like a nice enough person, but I wasn’t really feeling a vibe. Bolstered by the mojitos under my belt, I wrangled up the audacity to put it to him.
“We haven’t even kissed yet. I’m not really sure if there’s chemistry between us.”
He looked at me for what felt like an eternity, slowly licking his lips as if using his tongue to sew together his thoughts, then reached forward and grabbed my hand firmly, pulling me up off of my seat, and leading me through the crowd toward the stairs to the lounge bar. His grip was confident; his fingers tightly interloped through mine, gently asserting dominance over my upturned palm, and his stride up the stairs weaving the two of us past partygoers at various stages of intoxication, assured, like he’d done this before.
Suddenly he was swivelling me around to a seat tucked into the corner of the darkened lounge area, and sitting down on an armchair to face me, pulling his chair in close so our knees touched. He swung his hand around to the small of my back, pulled me in close, and kissed me with the intensity of a highschool kid with five seconds to spare before his mom walks in the room. It was electric. I immediately felt an overwhelming desire to be as close as physically possible to him, and looped my legs over the top of his so that my feet dangled between his. He took my cue and slid his hand roughly beneath me, scooping me up in one fluid movement onto his lap, holding me tightly and kissing me more deeply. I began to ache for him. A kind of deep-down ache that made my legs quiver as he threaded his fingers through my hair and tugged back on it to ensure I knew he was in control.
Who was this man? He moved like someone much older than his young face belied.
I leaned in and whispered into his ear.
“You’ve passed the test. We can go home now.”
On the cab ride home, the electricity bouncing back and forth between our gently rubbing shoulders was almost too much to bear. I stifled the urge to begin undressing him and instead began to mentally unbutton his shirt; my gaze obviously giving me away as I let out a deep, hot breath, tracing my eyes down his shirt, and caught him smirking back at me.
I’d heard the warnings before, about younger men – that they’re too inexperienced, selfish in bed, and instigate way too many awkward, fumbly moments, none of which typically lead to anything more impressive than a one-sided climax. Nonetheless, I was in too far now, and so I locked eyes with him as he backed me onto the bed and began unpeeling the spaghetti straps from my dress with his teeth like they were his favorite meal, and needed to be savored.
From that moment on, every inch of my body was attended to with equal amounts of careful, measured enthusiasm until I could take no more and begged him to end the slow, erotic torture. Then, just like that, he brought me to climax as if I’d simply asked him to flick on a light switch, smiling smugly to himself as he watched me writhe in bliss.
That night I learned many things. First and foremost, that age really is just a number, as cringe-worthingly cliche as it sounds. Be he only 21 and largely inexperienced in comparison to anyone I’d been with before, there was no denying the fact my significantly younger partner for the night knew how to please a woman. Though the second thing I learned that night, is that great sex doesn’t come from having a hefty bag of crafty erotic tricks or gymnastic positions to call upon, or even from being able to pre-empt what the other person wants in bed. Rather, the best sex is borne from a willingness to listen, unselfishly.
Still high from the experience days later, I attempted to arrange a rematch, but after several seemingly enthusiastic text message exchanges, he disappeared. Regardless, the memory of that night has remained filed away in my erotic mental catalogue. Even though it’s been years since I’ve seen him now, I’ll never forget the time I took a risk, ignored the rules, and came away smiling. Pun intended.
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