Gentle Touch

Two different women, on two different occasions, told me I was very gentle. Or very delicate, it doesn't translate so precisely; and this when I was touching their privatemost parts. I don't remember how I reacted the first time; I think I was rather surprised. My hands were wandering over her and I wasn't really even trying to arouse her. Months after that, after we had broken up and I reminded her of this, she told me I was being “heavy”. Did she have anything against remembering this, I wonder?

The second time it happened, I do remember how I reacted: I started crying. This made the second woman worried – had she offended me? I assured her she hadn't – I was crying because I was so moved, because for the second time it had been affirmed that what I had suspected to exist in me for a long time might actually be there. Though it had on precious few occasions to manifest itself in my daily life.

Neither of these women was my wife, I must add. The first was dark: a middle eastern mullata, the same smooth chocolate color all over, the pert round ass, her love of dancing, exposing attire and high heels. The second was whiter than white: squeeze her skin and it would be red for minutes. Blond, white all over, with the smoothest round and muscular ass. I'm not an ass man, but both of them had asses much more impressive than their tits. Both of them muscular women under their smooth femininity. The first was the color of coffee and chocolate, the second loved to drink coffee and eat chocolate and I loved to do it with her. I loved them both, and neither of them was my wife, though I was married ten years at the time and spent time with both of them during that tenth year of my marriage.

My wife didn't have an inkling of what was going on (maybe a very weak subconscious tail of a suspicion? Not more). She hardly had a more solid idea of what she was missing. My wife is a bit of a krechtz – zeuftz – sigh? - woman. In bed naked, suddenly this would bother her, that would bother her, her stomach too full or too empty. It took an extreme state of lust to free her mind of the clutter of such things, and then it would be nothing like the long and lingering lovemaking I had with my pair of opposites. When the itch hit her, it was hot and heavy and fast, and even if she came a few times it was over in half an hour or so and was enough to last for at least a week. When I tried to be gentle (or delicate? It doesn't sound right in English) – it soured on me. If I ran my fingers lightly on her back, she liked it so much it put her right to sleep. If I touched her there with my fingers or my tongue – it was usually too sensitive, or not in the right spot, or she wasn't in the mood. Or if she was fired up – she had to have me, fast, her way, and that was that.

Is it sad I wonder? It might be better than many marriages I know. At least the passion was there. I found my wife still attractive, at 37, an age when many women (especially as physically inactive as her) were fast approaching a decrepit state- their skin, their legs, their breasts – all losing their younger appeal. I don't know how attractive she found me - I could never figure out the code of her passion, what to do to make her horny. Either it was there because it came from her, or it wouldn't happen. The sight of her delicate back or her feminine thighs always aroused me, which often angered her, saying I was aroused only by her body. I would find myself apologizing, yet wondering if there was anything wrong with being attracted to her nakedness? Her irritation always saddened me – she knew as well as I did how much I looked into her eyes when we made love, and how I caressed her hair. My wife was never a one night stand.

With my mullata I required no effort at all: my touch would make her eyelids flutter, her eyes roll back, my touch would melt her. Yet she left me anyway. Madly in love with me for a year and a half before we ever touched, she was out of my grasp barely three or four months after our first embrace. But whether she stayed or not, I knew no man had touched her like I did, and probably wouldn't again for a long time, because she too was married, even though she was very young. And her husband couldn't touch her at all like I did. To the point that when we were seeing each other, sometimes she'd break out crying when he tried. Does it sound vain of me to speak like this? It shouldn't, because I'm only repeating what these women told me. If I had only my wife's comments to live on I would have been emasculated already, as I almost was when I chanced to meet these two lovely women. My wife once told me I was too gentle. How that hurt.

I must admit that my encounter in the flesh with the teutonic beauty was very short. We corresponded by this age's great equalizer, leveller, and destroyer of social conventions, the Internet. We corresponded for a few months, from different countries, and my unseductive chatter ( was it completely unintended? Plumb the depths of my subconscious motives, I don't know) convinced her to come and spend a weekend with me in London. She suggested it. I loved good coffee just as much as her, though maybe her attachment to chocolate is stronger than mine. Still – through talk of food, emotions, and oblique hints to sex – she suddenly suggested that we meet for an uninhibited weekend in London. I barely knew what she looked like – but her quaint and self-effacing description (“rather pretty than not”) convinced me. We had three days and three nights, and I never met a woman who came like her, such a sex fiend under that rather prim protestant exterior. I think she came around 20 or 30 times on that weekend.

Abruptly as all the adventures, it started one turbulent February shortly after my ninth anniversary, by October I was already sans both positive and negative, light and dark, relying once more on the intermittent desires of my wife for sexual release. And forever holding back from her, not letting myself go with her because she was so easy at hurting me offhandedly. And positively struggling not to scream at her: “two women told I'm so gentle, you don't even know it, you don't even know I have it in me!!!! We're growing old, we'll miss out on it all and you won't even know what you missed!!” I didn't say a word though. Because I knew the obvious: people rarely change, and if they do it doesn't happen like that.

But I had changed. Around my 40'th birthday, how banal. I had decided to have an affair. Not that it seemed so easy, but I had decided that I'd let it happen. So I'd started cruising the chats; putting ads on personal sites. Nothing happened. Then one day, I got an email from the mullata. She'd been my student for three years. A good student. I had found her a job. And then she wrote me. It was very understated – I forwarded the mail to my more experienced cousin for verification. He knew what she meant. The first time we met after that letter we kissed in the back of my car. The second time – we went to a hotel for an afternoon. Then things got hotter and hotter, till they scorched us both. I nearly lost my head, but she just lost her nerve. Why go into the details? The breakup lasted almost as long as the affair- I should say the 3 breakups. And I was very sad for a long time after that.

Then my white princess came along. The flatmate of a woman I met at a conference, and stayed in touch with. Somehow she connected us, and we started corresponding. It had started with food… coffee… a word or two about sex: then one day she wrote me: “what are you doing to me? All this talk of food and sex… I want to meet you”. We met. Food, sex and a lot of intimacy.

Our last day together … we walk all morning in the European autumn sunshine. The sunlight so soft compared to ours. Her clothes are very revealing, no bra. Holding her waist, I feel her feminine muscularity … a woman that runs 10 km. like it was nothing and climbs mountains in her free time, together with a doctorate in something. A shiksa. We go back to the hotel, both drowsy and horny. A small hotel in a tranquil square in London. The window is open, faint city noises in the distance, a sweet autumn warmth wafting inside. We do everything slowly. Peaceful and yet full of lust. My finger feeling her vaginal lips, caressing them, then her clitoris, touching and stopping. Slowly. I whisper in her ears in my native language, she whispers back in a language I don't understand, but her tone says it all. We're like this for a long long time, and suddenly she says to me: “you are so gentle”.

But by October, it was all over. Started in February, ended in October, and I was left wondering: was this a freak year? Would anything like this happen again? I think of them often. I fantasize of both. I only talk with white, but I also yearn for brown. They were so different – I wonder if I was the same person. With brown I didn't talk so much. She was such a chatterer, a bubbly young 24 year old. She talked a lot about herself, rather self centered. It didn't bother me – when I touched her, her eyes would roll back and say everything that was really important. Such a beautiful shade of deep brown. I would listen to her chatter and hear her body say: “ I love you I love you I love you”. Am I deluding myself? I don't think so. I'm not such a perceptive person – but who could mistake the way her heart beat wildly against my chest when we met? It would be such a cliché if it weren't true. I had never felt that before.

With white I talked and talked. I didn't even realize it till I got an email from her roomate after she got home. “So I heard all you did in London was just talk?” - she teased me. We always teased each other. My teutonic princess confirmed this with an e-smile – “you talk too much”. Well. Who would guess. Which one was I? Or was I just another Zelig? Did I have any other faces I wasn't aware of? One face I knew too well was the one I hid behind when I was at home. The careful and impassive one. The mask.

Two women. And by October I was without both   ©