The Not So Invisible Woman Read Free Page B

other than eating lunch.
    If you enjoy sex, and you've got a busy job and two growing and very nosy sons, then you have to work to slot in a session. I've always been resourceful when it comes to finding sex slots and, following my divorce, I had to be. It's not easy juggling a full-time job and the second full-time job of single parenthood. Some women like shopping in their off-time; I like sex. It makes me feel beautiful, it keeps me healthy, it's fun and it's free.
    My noontime destination had been Rio's, a naturist spa not far from my office, where, after a quick steam and sauna, I would scout the premises until I found a man I wanted to fuck. Factoring in flirting time, a.k.a. foreplay, normally I could get laid and wash my hair and be out of there in under two hours.
    But then my workload increased and suddenly I found I had no time for a sandwich, much less sex. Plus my receptionist caught on to my lunch-time gig, since I frequently arrived back at work with suspiciously wet hair. No longer feeling free to leave the office for long 'meetings', I came up with the idea of the breakfast break.
    Sam was the inspiration for this idea.
    Like most of the men in my mobile, I met Sam online after putting an ad on Swinging Heaven. One of my regulars decided to get serious with another woman, creating a vacancy on my dance card. By necessity, I turned to my handy website. Some women pine for one serious boyfriend; I prefer a half-dozen regulars. That way, I never go without. Guys in their late thirties and forties (my preferred age group) are extraordinarily busy. But when you have six men on speed dial, one is always available when another drops out.
    As usual, in my subject header I put the three initials that mean the most to me: VWE. That's short for very well endowed.
    The next day I scoured through the one hundred or so responses I received until one caught my eye. Presumably all the men who replied were VWE, as requested, but few got right to the point. Sam did. I liked that. When one is on the lookout for a regular fuck-buddy, brevity works best. Too many men write three-page emails telling exactly what they'll do if given the chance to meet me. They never will. Just as the Hollywood exec wants a movie synopsis that can be summed up in thirty seconds, I want a prospective date who can sell himself in thirty words. That shows intelligence – they're smart enough to have figured out the demands of the sexual marketplace – and it bodes well, because in addition to my big-cock fetish, I can't meet a man with whom I can't hold a conversation.
    Sam told me his age, location, and cock size. Well, he didn't give a measurement, exactly, but noted that he was VVWE. That extra 'V was all the information I needed. Finally, a man who understood exactly what's required.
    I pulled up his pic. It showed a black man in tight white briefs, with big shoulders, pronounced abs and muscular thighs. He had one hand around a long hard cock, which protruded about five inches above the waistband of his briefs. VVWE indeed.
    'You're cute,' I wrote. 'Free on Friday night?'
    He was.
    We arranged to meet at a wine bar just up the road from my house and, rare for such first meetings, Sam turned up on time.
    He was shorter than I'd expected – about my height, five feet six inches – but looked exactly like his photo: fit, muscular, handsome. He had a squarish face and angular features. He wore jeans and a pale-blue polo shirt under a heavy leather jacket. He kissed me on one cheek, then took off his woollen hat and exposed his closely shaven head. He smiled warmly.
    We ordered a bottle of Chardonnay and, as an icebreaker, I asked him whether he'd had any strange experiences on Swinging Heaven.
    'Who hasn't?' he laughed. His accent was middle class, London inflected, educated.
    'OK, you first,' I said.
    'Which one do you want first?' he said. 'I have quite a few.'
    'Your most extreme,' I said.
    'Well, I was once asked over by a guy who wanted to