... our erotic memoir

“A story told is a life lived. Once I tell it, I must let it go.” - Chinese proverb.

[If you want to jump directly to the hot scenes, look for = Stockings =]

“That was a horrible first date. I’m really sorry about that, Ali.”

=== Two months earlier === Introduction ====

The instructor called out for Alimay Anders — she raised her hand and confidently called back, “Here,” in a soft, yet angelic voice. Alimay, now you have a name. Aware only of the intoxicating perfume she dispersed with every head move, I lost track of time and barely heard anything the instructor said. Minutes later Alimay’s spare pen quietly hit the floor. That was my opportunity to carpe stylus.

As I plucked it, my face came within an inch of her steamy ribs — hardly an accident. As I tried to hide my tumescence and return her pen, I tapped her shoulder and smiled stupidly. She was annoyed. Her squinty eyes told me she hated instigating another fanboy who’s only interested in her body — she knows how beautiful and sultry she is. What had I done?

I expressed concern about her harsh expressions and how I hated to see such a beautiful face spoiled. She sent darts at me until she recognized that I wasn’t seriously flirting, but trying to make her smile.

When she saw her pen, her annoyance dissolved. “Oh, did I drop that? I can be so clumsy. Thank you, Al.” OMG! She caught my name and remembered it. Why were my pants twitching? Oh, yeah. Self, calm your breathing.

What do I say? “What a beautiful face.” NO! Not that. I’ll whisper close to her ear and breathe her in as I answer, “N-no problem, Alimay. This looks expensive and I wouldn’t want you to lose it.” Play it cool; back off and pretend to take notes. Her right eyebrow went up. Class ended. We reached the aisle together. Now what? Still cool. Ahch! She touched my arm!

“Thanks again for saving my pen, Al. It’s not just expensive, it’s a special gift from my fiancé. He’d be upset if I lost his precious pen.”

What is she telling me? Hard to miss that she’s engaged — message received. But she’s still touching my arm, lingering, making me dizzy. Is she flirting? With me? Her partially open and breathy mouth is fascinating, especially how she licks her lips while staring at me. Bewitching! My pulse raced and my breathing sped up as I imagined the impossible — sucking face with this beauty. “Well, uh, if I knew it was that valuable I would have kept it for myself or sold it on the black market.” Grin, fool, so she knows you’re kidding. Oh oh. She’s too quiet.

“I should have known you are a comedian, Al. Thank goodness. I’ll see you next class. Bye.”

She squeezed my arm. Definitely flirting! As she sachets away, my dick notices and it is trying to follow that tiny, but shapely ass as it sways and the rest of me resists. I choose not to hide my tent and ignore the others around me since I can’t look away. She’s looking over her shoulder; she can see my bulge; she’s giggling. Ohhhh. Warmth flushed through my body. What did she mean by “comedian?”

After a night of pleasant, lusty dreams, I was able to play it cooler over the next days despite the late Spring heat wave. When I saw her, I just waved and walked away. In our next Psych class, she was more friendly than expected. “Did I offend you, Al? You seem to be ignoring me. I hoped we could be friends since most guys just want to get in my panties, assuming I’m wearing any.” She grinned.

BOING! Friends? No panties? She’s messing with me. She’s engaged, so any slim chance I might have had is gone. Friends? I suppose. Did she just glance at my tent? “W-w-well, you can hardly blame them — panties or not. It must be such a pain to have everyone tell you how beautiful you are every day. So you won’t hear it from me. What a curse. You have my sympathy.” Did I go too far? That lusty mouth is lightly gasping; that tongue is licking my lips in my dream.

“Ha! Funny man. Thanks for the compassion.”

That broke the icy facade she kept up with everyone else. She ignored my stiff, throbbing compliment, as I’m sure she gets that constantly, though one eyebrow raises every time she glances at my groin. We compared notes and studied together in the student lounge and settled into a stage between acquaintance and friend. It turned out that despite her elegance, she was just twenty to my nineteen.

Relieving myself after our sessions had to be enough. After a few weeks of bragging about her fiancé, Jay, and her plans for her elaborate wedding — to keep me at bay, I presumed — her demeanor changed and cooled. That distancing annoyed me, but just being near her was worth the heartache.

She confided that she was also frustrated that even with her pull at Ma Bell, she was having trouble getting her phone listing name changed. Currently listed as Alimay Sara Anders, since she was marrying Jay Smither, she didn’t want to be listed as Alimay Sara Smither due to the unfortunate initials! I nearly busted a gut trying not to laugh. She slapped my arm, “It’s not that funny,” she grinned. Despite the embarrassment, she sighed then laughed. Her comfort with me was becoming an irresistible attraction. We even signed up for the same summer class.

Bragging changed to bitching about disagreements. I consoled her and listened without offering advice. I’d learned that lesson a hard way a year earlier. The upside was we got closer physically as well as emotionally. Sitting side by side, I neatly took slight advantage of her pain; I gently touched her hand or lower — on her stockinged thigh. That made me feel guilty, but a stiff dick has no conscience.

No doubt, she saw my slacks bulge and twitch again, but she never commented, just lingered. My swelling must have validated her needs — psych 101 to the rescue. Pulling her against me for a reassuring hug gave me great comfort too, especially as I watched her skirt climb up her sexy, shapely legs and my cock climb with it. She is enjoying teasing me far too much. Maybe she isn’t so prim and proper after all?

==== the date ====

I don’t know why another bride-to-be wanted to date me and not get serious. But nearly a year later, I met May and I learned that she was hugely pissed with her fiancé when she walked in on him having sex with another woman and a couple in the same room; he wanted her to join them and be part of a hard swing. That was enough to make her want to date others, but not enough to break their engagement. Not much later, she dated me and then broke off her engagement. Two years later, she would be my first wife.

After at least a week of seeing her smudged eye makeup and her distress over conflicts with Jay, Ali said she was thinking of splitting up with him. I wondered to myself if her real story were about his cheating. I only knew that I wasn’t going to pursue her or threaten her engagement. She said he complained about her excessive makeup on her pale, rosy skin and her modeling. She was committed to both. With her night job, she wasn’t available to him when he wanted a quickie. I didn’t need that nude image of her with anyone but me.

“He doesn’t support me or listen to me — like you do, Al. And we’re just friends. He insists he’s liberal — he takes nude modeling photos of me, that’s fine — but, he likes showing them to his friends, while I’m there and without asking me. He says he wouldn’t mind if I wanted to date someone now or after our wedding.” BOING! “I don’t believe him. Sometimes I think he just wants to fuck others or for me to fuck someone else while he watches and takes photos. Isn’t that creepy?”

Is this a test or a seduction? She’s asking for an opinion. Is she testing me? Do I offer one? “Well, Ali, maybe that’s a fetish or just a fantasy. Sharing naked images of you might be showing his pride in you, or getting a thrill in exhibiting you. As long as he isn’t doing it to demean you and you agreed, is that bad? Did you ever share that you might be an exhibitionist or ask if he is one? Wanting to watch your mate fuck other men, or women, is a common male fantasy. Some guys need to be a cuck. Women with the same fantasy are called cuckqueens. Yes, they exist too.”

“Me, an exhibitionist? Hell no. Why would you say such a thing?”

My lady doth protest too much. “I wasn’t saying you are. That’s just a way to open a more intimate conversation with him. Ask if he thinks you are one. As a gorgeous runway model, you must have to make quick changes off stage with other models and many eyes watching you strip. Be honest with yourself first. Do you enjoy letting strangers see you naked? Do you prolong being naked? Then ask how he feels about that.”

“Hmm. That’s very insightful. Let me sleep on that. How about we grab dinner and find a quiet place to chat on Friday? Eight p.m. sound good?”

Though I quickly snapped my mouth shut and tried to mask my racing heart, I took a moment of stunned silence. Did she just ask me out? My sexy, hot ‘friend’ wants to spend alone time with me? “Uhh, sure. Sounds perfect. Just give me your address.” Way to play it cool, dummy! Friday is so far away.

It was hot all day Friday, so I had the top down on my sports car as I raced home to Brooklyn from school to prepare for my ‘casual’ date with my engaged beauty. She dominated my thoughts and my hopes for a deep kiss or more so I can’t remember that drive. That was unusual since I’m an extremely focused and aware driver, especially when I wore my sports car. After dressing in a simple, yet mature way, in a style I knew she liked, I headed back out to Queens.

Arriving early, Ali kept me waiting many minutes until she was ready. “Oh, you’re early. I haven’t put my face on yet so don’t look at me. I look hideous without my powder and paint.” She dashed into her room, hiding her rosy face. I knew fishing for a compliment when I heard it. I was thrilled I was right — she didn’t need any makeup to look beautiful. She just wasn’t ready to hear that. Maybe she had an overbearing ‘stage mom’ who drilled the need to pile it on?

“Oh ... my ... God! You’re right. Hideous! I’m blinded. Are you serious? You are beautiful naked — your face, I mean.” For now. Several minutes later she emerged all dolled up with the usual thick makeup, bright red lipstick, well-coiffed hair, and a scarf.

Despite the lingering heat, knowing how fastidious Ali was about appearance, I reluctantly put up the top and windows of my Triumph TR-3. She always started in warm weather with half a quick crank, but that warm night, she cranked slowly. The ammeter read deep discharge while cranking then normal until I turned on the lights. Instead of showing a balanced charge and compensating for the current drain, it read some negative charge. That was something to check out the next day, I thought.

When she saw me put the top up, she smiled and nodded at me, “That is very considerate of you. Thanks for thinking of me. I never saw the top up before.”

“Thanks for noticing. I figured you’d want to keep your hair in place — at least until after dinner. Then the top and windows go in the trunk, where they belong and your scarf may come in handy.” The car once again is cranking very slowly. This is not good!

“Let’s go then!” She seemed tense, distant and angry, but not at me. We zoomed off to a decent Italian restaurant in silence as her mood sombered and she stewed.

It was a slow night, and I knew the owner, so we stayed at the quiet restaurant well past 11 p.m. and chatted. When we left, the car wouldn’t start. It clacked uselessly as much as the near-dead battery allowed. Ali stared at me intensely through squinted eyes as I smiled. “This car has a throwback surprise, my dear.” I dug into my trunk for the rarely used hand crank. She pointed at it and I laughed. The heavy crank fit through a tunnel in the radiator; I cranked once and the Triumph started right up.

Ali’s mood stayed consistently angry and didn’t break until we got to the school ‘swamp’ — our college lovers’ lane — where we could talk in private. She sat wringing her hands as I stripped off the top and windows. I sat and quietly held her hand and waited for her to speak.

As she sniffled, I tried not to stare at her slim and sexy legs exposed from under the tiny skirt, the garter connections to her stockings, or the white panties which occasionally peeked out as she moved. Many quiet minutes went by as I sighed and followed my fantasy. When I put my arm around her and she put her head on my shoulder, I held her hand with my left and let it drift to my stiffness. She noticed when I pressed it against me and pulled away.

“You’re just like all the others after all. Take me home. Now!”

“Of course, Cherie. If that’s what you want. Please don’t blame me for being aroused by your beauty. Resisting you has been very hard, as you felt.” I smiled to ease the tension. She was not amused. My TR-3 was unable to start, so I cranked her to life again and we started toward her home slowly and in silence. We didn’t make it there. My reliable car sputtered to a stop still miles from her home. That time, even cranking couldn’t get her back to life. It was after 1 a.m. on deserted streets so there was no one to ask for a jump.

What to do? What to do? I went to a phone booth nearby and called a friend — he didn’t answer. Calling a tow truck wouldn’t help if the battery wouldn’t hold a charge. My last option was to call my dad to rescue me. He found us about 2 a.m ... Ali was too distraught to chat with him, but his brows rose when he saw her. I drove her home in his Mustang. Still hoping for just a little kiss, stealing first base was out of the question. “That was a horrible first date. I’m really sorry about that, Ali.” She stomped up her stairs without a word. No bases that night, no hug good night. I totally struck out.

When I got back to my dad, he commented lightly about how hot Ali was. Despite having several minutes of silence while I let the Mustang charge my battery, I was too annoyed to say much. After twenty minutes or so, the Triumph started and dad followed me home. I put the battery on a charger overnight and fixed the problem the next day.

I figured that was the last time she’d talk to me. In fact, we didn’t speak for several classes. When I just said, “Hello,” she’d huff and turn away. My spirits sank with my shoulders as I began to mourn the loss of a friend and possible lover.

I recalled that her birthday was in two weeks, so my lovesick facet overtook my rational self and I hunted down an album I swore she’d love. Thinking with my small head, I drove to her place on her birthday, uninvited. All smiles, she had several people there and celebrating. When she saw me, her smiles turned to frowns. “What are you doing here?” A quick look around, and her pushing me away from the door, told me I still wasn’t welcome. I handed her the Bee Gees album with a bow on it. “Thank you, but I hate falsetto voices.” She shoved the album back at me and closed the door. Ouch!

Refusing to take the full hint and hoping for the best, I exchanged the Bee Gees for a Beetles album. When I tried to give it to her in our next class, she refused it. “I can’t take this from you. Don’t swap it for anything else.” The big classroom chilled around me. I accepted we were done even as friends and stopped greeting or talking to her.

Instead, I made inroads with a very, VERY pretty but highly affected and conceited woman, Ellie. She only deigned to speak to me since we were in two classes together and I teased her, but didn’t ask her out — yet. One day, Ellie ignored my car horn because, “everyone honks at her,” her words. She kept her long, blonde hair wrapped around the top of her head and always wore a short neck scarf, both in the current style of a stewardess. Always walking stiffly with strained elegance, she expected to become an entitled stewardess. Add a pound of perfectly over-applied makeup to her conceit and most men walked away after a second glance. Ellie was too much work even for me, so I gave up on her.

==== Stockings ====

Weeks after her birthday and despite all her sophistication and her resolve to ignore me, one day Ali stopped me and asked for advice about her stockings. She looked dour and annoyed. Someone, maybe Jay, told her that men found it sexy to see the lacy top of stockings and she wanted me to confirm. I did! But then I saw her stockings. She said she thought they looked gauche, but “OK, if that’s what you like...” She huffed and walked away quickly.

I had to shout after her, “Whoa, whoa, not like that,” and pointed at her slim legs. She stopped three steps up from me on a wide, concrete stairway which gave me a great view of her legs even an inch above her stocking tops. With much detachment and nothing to lose, I said, “Let me speak bluntly. THOSE are not sexy. They look like granny support hose with the lacy tops fallen to your knees. To be sexy, the lace has to be very high up your thighs. The upper end, in my opinion, has to be in the tapered dip above the biggest thigh muscle and within a breath of your vulva. It’s sexy because it tells us we’re getting very close to seeing your taboo pussy, or at least your panties. Of course, even plain cotton panties are sexy if they promise a peek at your camel toe. I thought all women knew that.”