by B.Y. Parsons
I was working out at the gym with my best friend Marcie. We were checking out the guys lifting weights, when I asked her about the new man in her life.
She told me her boyfriend, Daryl, was studying yoga with a Zen master. "He's got me doing breathing exercises and chakra merging. It's an incredible high," she gushed, describing the elevated state of consciousness they achieve when making love. Apparently, once he's in her, he barely moves and they can go on like that for hours! I believe the correct name for this is coitus reservatus. Marcie called it "Tantric bliss".
"Different strokes for different folks," I shrugged, unable to share her enthusiasm. "Call me a Western vulgarian, but all that Eastern stuff about spirituality and elevated states of consciousness doesn't really light my fire."
"No?"
"Nah."
"What does?"
"I like my sex down and dirty, shameful and salacious. Or should I say 'liked'," I groaned. "Seems like such a long time ago."
"Don't worry, Andrea. You're gonna meet a guy soon who does that down-and-dirty stuff you crave."
"Me? No way."
"Mark my words!"
"What am I doing to find him? I don't even have a search strategy for Gawd's sake. Nope, I'm afraid I've grown cynical about true love in my old age."
"That's a natural reaction to your divorce. How old are you?"
"Thirty."
"Lots of time. You'll get over it."
I shrugged, unconvinced.
"Now tell me - I'm dying to know - what do you mean by shameful and salacious? What's that all about?"
"My lips are sealed."
"Why?"
"Too embarrassing - way too embarrassing."
But it's where this story begins, dear reader, so I'll have to tell you. Thank goodness I don't need to do so in person - I'd never stop blushing!
I've always had a 'thing' for blue-collar roughnecks. Go figure. An upper class Jewish-American Princess, Harvard graduate, gets all hot and bothered imagining herself being ravished by a denim-clad dude with a high-school education and a crucifix on his chest! I used to have the hots for a Polish guy who was my auto mechanic. He had washboard abs, a barrel chest, huge hands, and an accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. Every time he fixed my Porsche, I'd imagine him lifting me up by the waist with his greasy paws, plunking me down on the hood and having his way with me.
Can you guess what happened when I hired Rosie - the Italian Stallion - to renovate my house? I prowled his workplace - my kitchen - like a tigress in heat, purring my appreciation for his carpentry skills while ogling his sleekly muscled body. When I tell you the lengths I went to entice him, you're gonna think I'm a tramp! But spare a smidgen of sympathy for this poor little rich girl. I hadn't shared my bed with a man in over a year and I was feeling sorely deprived.
Two years ago, Nathan and I bought this gorgeous old house that had seen better days, planning to fix it up. I hoped that renovating the place would fix our marriage as well, but that turned out to be a pipe-dream. When he finally departed last May, I felt relieved and deflated. 33 Bridle Path Road was all mine to do with as I pleased, but I was too depressed to lift a finger. We filed for divorce and I stopped calling myself Mrs. Steiner, but mother kept phoning to put in a good word for dear Nathan.
"You're making a big mistake Andrea! Don't give up on a fine Jewish businessman. He's smart, hardworking, a good provider. There are more important things in life than your husband's sexual prowess, you know. Go to a therapist. Work it out!"
I have no doubt Nathan is smart. A good provider too. But hardworking? The guy inherited a small fortune and made it a big one speculating on grain futures. But don't get me started on him. I'm here to tell you about Rosie an' me!
Living alone in that great big house, my sex-life was reduced to finger fantasies. I fixated on shameful and salacious encounters with blue-collar studs - endless variations on a theme.
Yours truly, the Tease, is feeling restless. I saunter into a small-town bar packed with lumberjacks fresh from the backwoods. I'm the only gal in the place. I climb up onto the pool table in the centre of the room, unbutton my blouse and waggle my ass in time to a country tune playing on the juke-box. A crowd of leering jacks gather round, cheering me on. Carried away, I strip right down, doffing my panties and tossing 'em to my favourite hunk in the front row before fleeing to the ladies room. Afterwards, the guy comes up to me in the parking lot, pulls my panties from his pocket and waves them around for all to see. "You've been a bad girl, Andrea! A very bad girl! If I were your boyfriend, I'd smack your ass till you couldn't sit down!" I blush furiously as his mates crack up laughing.
Here's another favourite:
Yours truly, the Tease, is feeling restless. With hubby out of town on business, I stroll down to the waterfront docks at dusk on a hot summer day, wearing a revealing halter top and skimpy short shorts. I'm flirting with a bunch of longshoremen coming off shift when one of them says: "You're a bad girl, Andrea! A very bad girl! If your husband knew you were down here dressed like that, I bet he'd smack your ass till you couldn't sit down!" I blush furiously as his mates crack up laughing.
Get the picture? I'm fascinated by guys who do hot, dirty and dangerous work, and after work, they do hot, dirty and dangerous things to me. Shamed for being a tease, I'm aroused by my shame. Then I come as I picture myself over my workingman's knee, getting a good hard spanking for being a brazen exhibitionist. Night after night, vivid scenes, leaving me wet with wanting...
Solitary sex has its virtues. It's perfectly safe no matter how rough your fantasies are. You're free to imagine doing things you'd never do in real life. No woman ever got pregnant or caught the clap by masturbating.
The only problem is that you're there all alone! Surely 'doing it' - however you fancy doing it - is all about human contact: the rough rub of his chest hair on your nipples, the musky scent of his arousal, the rumbling groan in your ear as he comes. Finger fantasies can be entertaining, but they're no substitute for the real thing. I was thirty years old with a libido that went into overdrive when Nathan left. Prolonged celibacy was unbearable! Yet I didn't care for the bar scene and trolling the net seemed too dangerous, so my prospects of finding a lover were bleak. Sadly, love seemed to be just a four-letter word. But that didn't stop me from fantasizing nightly about being taken firmly in hand by the blue-collar roughnecks of my wet dreams.
On a hot day in June, I got fed up moping around and decided to tackle my two biggest problems - a charming old house in need of repair and a starving libido in need of an alpha male's attention. Thumbing through the Yellow Pages, I found Rosario Parucci's half-page ad: "Carpenter and General Contractor. Specializing in Home Renovations. Work Guaranteed. Free Estimates." There was a picture of him standing in the middle of a renovated kitchen. The room was almost as handsome as he was! I picked up the phone and dialled. He didn't answer in person, but as I listened to his smooth baritone voice on his message machine, I got such a rush that my brief request for him to phone me sounded embarrassingly breathless! But he soon did, and we arranged for him to come by the next day.
When he showed up, I did my own free estimate and concluded that Rosie was well equipped to meet my needs. Five foot eleven (perfect for a gal who's only 5'5" in high heels), barrel chest, trim stomach, jet black hair, with a curl falling over his gleaming grey-blue eyes... Sly grin, deep laugh, easy manner, he seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.
After five minutes of friendly banter, my remaining reservations were melting in a pool of abdominal lust. As he promised to fix my place "from top to bottom", mine began tingling in anticipation. Impulsively, I hired him on the spot before we'd even discussed my plans for the kitchen, much less my schemes for the boudoir. Yet when he showed up for work the next day, he must have sensed my intentions. I was wearing tight jeans that hugged my rear curves like a second skin and a half-open blouse that served up my nearly-bare breasts like baked apples on a platter (courtesy of an upstanding demi-cup bra from Lejabay of Paris). My designs would have been clear to a priest - and Rosie was no priest.
But was he a saint? I thought so at first, as he studiously ignored all my enticements. Don't construction guys whistle at good-looking gals who saunter by their work sites? Aren't Italian men renowned for pinching female bums that hover within reach? Hoping he'd give mine a pinch or a friendly smack, I bent over to fetch a pot from a bottom drawer, blocking his way. But I came up empty-handed - or rather, he did.
Despite my seductive provocations, Rosie remained a perfect gentleman - reserved, polite and unfailingly punctual. His truck would pull into the driveway at 8:25 and by 8:30 sharp he'd be hard at work. Breaking for lunch precisely at noon, he'd resume work at 1 o'clock and quit at 4:30 on the dot. He was so honest and dependable that I gave him a key to the side door and stopped setting my alarm clock. When I heard him downstairs in the morning, I'd know it was 8:30. Lying in bed listening to him working away down below, I would imagine him lying between my legs, working away down below. I spent my days in wanton distraction, dreaming up schemes to make Rosie my roughneck.
But try as I might, I couldn't seem to ruffle his routine or tempt him to make a pass at me. My risqué banter fell flat on its face. What was going on? The blue-collars in my fantasies were never this stiff.
Then it dawned on me that Rosie wasn't a saint, asexual, or overly shy. He was treating my attempts to seduce him as a war of wills! With extraordinary self-discipline, he kept his nose to the grindstone. With extraordinary chutzpah, I kept trying to distract him.
One day, I dressed up as an oversexed schoolgirl and came prancing downstairs in a pleated tartan miniskirt and thigh-high stockings. He looked up, grinned, but said nothing and went back to work.
I flopped down on the couch in the living room browsing the morning paper, wondering what to do next. In a few minutes, he came by on his way into the dining room where he had set up his workbench. I eased my skirt up, giving him an eyeful!
He stared, but kept on walking and then busied himself cutting boards on the bench.
In my sweetest voice, I asked, "One day, Rosie, would you show me how to do that?"
"Sure," he amiably agreed. When he glanced over, I rolled over onto my tummy to give him a peak at my curvaceous backside. "Andrea," he growled. "You're gonna regret doing that if I get so distracted I cut off a finger and bleed all over your furniture."
"Oh Rosie," I teased. "You wouldn't do that. You're such a well-disciplined guy."
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