In Part 1 our hero Philip finally gets somewhere with Serena, but Steve has a prior claim on her. In frustration, he decides to leave Princeton and head up to New York, where his sexy old flame Mandy resides. Nostalgia sex, anyone?
Looking for nostalgia sex leads to reawakened love.
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Serena was off somewhere with Steve and no doubt they were imitating rabbits all weekend, and I had a choice: I could sit at home and mope, get sick to my stomach, watch porn to distract myself, or follow my gut and pay a visit to Mandy.
Mandy was my true love until she dumped me. She dumped me when I left New York to take the job in Kansas City. She patiently explained to me that there were lots of jobs in New York, even in northern New Jersey, and if I loved her I would not ask her to move to Kansas.
“It’s Missouri,” I replied, and that had to be the stupidest thing I had ever said.
“I’m not pulling up my roots, and for that matter pulling out my hair by the roots, to move to the middle of nowhere and leave New York, for some stupid man, even if he’s handsome, great in bed, and I love him,” she had said. “That goes for you, too, you jerk!” she added, almost spitting at me.
“Well, I’m going. I’ve already signed the papers,” I had said. I was angry.
“You go, and we’re done. We’re finished,” Mandy had replied. There was an element of volume to her voice, too. Also, for some reason, she threw her favorite Italian hand-crafted pottery cup at me, which missed me, and hit the wall, shattering into a boatload of shards and pieces.
It’s always a mistake to give ultimatums, the person giving them always seems to lose, but Mandy had lost control of her emotions, just then being a mixture of love, betrayal, and anger in the extreme. I stupidly responded in kind, about to lose the most wonderful woman imaginable.
Of course, Mandy had plenty of flaws. She was quick to anger, and would say things she would later regret, and we fought more than I would have liked. The make-up sex, however, could salve the most poisonous of fights. This time, however, I did not see make-up sex on the horizon. For me, Mandy was perfect, but we both knew she would wither away and die internally if lost in a Midwest city like Kansas City, even if she were to admit (which she did not) that it was a nice city.
I called, sent emails, and mailed postcards, but Mandy never responded. She defriended me at Facebook. Now I was at my specialized training program in New Jersey and I had called and asked if I could see her?
There had been a long pause, and then she said, “Go to Hell,” and she hung up. You have to know Mandy as I do. Translated, this meant, more or less, “Sure. Come on over and bring flowers.” I know, I know, she’s a strange woman. What can I say? Hearing her voice helped me to realize that I still loved her.
I dressed in my finest Midwest clothes, all plaids (fabulously clashing ones, too), and even wore special plaid briefs I had bought in Kansas (yes, not Missouri; it turns out Overland Park, Kansas, is a lovely suburb of Kansas City) for the occasion. Mandy hates plaids; she always said that there’s nothing but plaid in the Midwest. Truth be told, there is indeed a lot of plaid, especially on the golf links.
I came with an $80 bouquet of flowers (before sales tax), a bottle of her favorite red wine (Montepulciano), and a box of a dozen condoms, the last item just in case. I rang the buzzer at the street.
“Yes?”
“It’s Philip. May I come in?”
“No. Go away and go to Hell.”
“Okay. What should I do with the flowers?” I asked.
“You’ve got flowers?” Mandy replied.
“Yes. Shall I just leave them here, on East 25th Street?” I asked, “or take them to Hell’s Kitchen with me?”
She buzzed me in. “Third floor. Apartment 3G.”
I chuckled to myself. I used to read Apartment 3G in the comics of my newspaper until it died in 2015. It wasn’t a funny strip, it was more of a soap opera about these three single women on the make who shared the apartment.
I used to imagine, filling in all the sexy details, that the comic strip could only elliptically hint at. I fantasized about having artistic talent and penning the X-rated version of the comic strip, just for fun. Mandy had such talent. The woman could really draw. Well, maybe in a different life…
Now Mandy lived in Apt. 3G. Cool.
“Hello, Philip,” Mandy said, her tone as cold as ice. “Thanks for the flowers, they’re gorgeous. The bouquet is so big, I’ll have to use three vases.” How did she manage to keep that tone of ice when clearly, she was moved by what had to be the most spectacular bouquet of flowers she had ever seen? Mandy amazed me, and yes, she impressed me. She is a formidable woman.
She scurried around arranging the flowers, giving their stems a fresh cut, and adding Sprite to the water with the roses. Meanwhile I checked out her body, that body that I had so, so much enjoyed in our previous life.
Finally done with the roses, kartal escort she joined me on the couch. “Don’t think you can come here after all this time and just resume taking me to bed, Philip, ’cause it ain’t happenin’.” I smiled. I knew that meant she’d take me to bed in a heartbeat. Mandy has her own way of expressing things.
“Why? Are you seeing someone?” I asked.
“None of your fucking business,” she said. That meant she was not.
“How about you?” Mandy asked. “Have you got some cute little Kansas sexpot back in Missouri you want to cheat on with me?”
Oh, we were sooo going to have sex!
“No, there’s nobody there,” I replied, being honest.
Mandy raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
“There was someone, but I wouldn’t commit, and she dumped me,” I said.
“Making a habit of it, I see,” Mandy said. I could feel the heat of her body as she sat next to me. I’d have bet dollars to doughnuts I could smell her arousal. “How about New Jersey? Laid any sluts there, recently?”
“None of your fucking business,” I said, thereby telling her – in Mandy-speak – that yes, I had. I was not going to tell her of my crush on Serena, but I wasn’t going to lie to her about the sex.
“Don’t get your hopes up, you stud, there’s still no way I’m moving to Kansas – or Missouri. You can just go right on using your Omaha whores for sex when you need it, which is – if memory serves – on a daily basis,” she said, showing her anger as if we were having the discussion we had just over a year ago.
Mandy somehow managed to summon the same level of outrage, of anger, she had expressed when she threw the pottery cup at me. It had been her all-time favorite cup, too. Her mother had brought it back from Orvieto, Italy, and she had cherished it. I was sure she blamed me for it being broken into a hundred shards.
“Omaha is in Nebraska,” I said.
“Well, that’s another reason not to go out there! It’s too fucking confusing,” Mandy said. She was close to giggling and having trouble maintaining her veneer of anger.
One way of expressing things for Mandy was to wear jewelry. She was wearing earrings, a necklace, ten bangle bracelets, a gold cuff on her other wrist, and three rings. I had given her all of the jewelry when we were a number, except for the rings. One ring was a gorgeous amber stone in a minimalist setting. On her left hand she wore a gold band, and next to the gold band a diamond ring.
I knew she wanted me to ask about the gold band and diamond engagement ring, but I just wasn’t gonna. She saw me looking at them, however, so she answered my unspoken question.
“Cubic zirconium, and gold plate for the ring. It keeps the men away, except for the men whose taste runs to married women. There’s a surprising lot of those men,” she said.
Another answer to an unasked question: “No, I don’t like those men; they’re kind of creepy, you know? Getting off on laying another man’s wife. That’s all they’re after, the thrill of sex while making some guy an unwitting cuckold. Definitely the creeps.”
So, she liked it. Who knew? I wondered how many of ‘those men’ had gotten into her panties? For some questions, one never learns the answers. Better to move on; change the subject.
I opened the wine and poured us each a glass. Mandy could smell it right away. She had serious olfactory talent. I brought it over and she tasted it. Her eyes filed with tears.
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, my Philip Stud,” she said. She had always called me her ‘Philip Stud’ in moments of raw affection. Her tears began to flow. I held her, and let her cry, kissing her neck as I held her.
“I want to take you to dinner. Shall we see an afternoon movie together, first? We could go to The Quad?” The Quad was the theater of our first date, and it was always special for us. It was in Greenwich Village, and it showed great European and art movies.
Mandy broke out of my hug, and she kissed me. It was a gentle kiss, closed mouth, almost antiseptic, and yet it was full of love and longing, and was one of the best kisses of my entire life. Then she pulled away from me, as if awakening from a trance, and put on her stern face and voice.
“No, you’ll molest me in the theater. I know you. Let’s take a walk on the High Line, instead,” she said, or better, declared.
“There’s a bedroom in your apartment, isn’t there?” I asked, mischievously.
“In your dreams, mister,” Mandy replied, as stern as she could be.
“Yes, I have those dreams all the time, you know,” I said, winking at her.
“Come on. Let’s go to the High Line. Coming?” she said.
“You’re going dressed like that?” I asked.
Mandy blushed. She actually blushed! I’d never seen her blush before. “You think I need to wear a bra?” she nervously asked. “Or a longer skirt? Or both?”
“You’re fine, let’s go!” I said, and we left.
The High Line is an almost two miles long linear park, built on an old and unused elevated railroad track. maltepe escort bayan It’s fairly recent, and it has great landscaping. It runs along the Hudson river, on the west side of Manhattan, in New York City.
It’s a great place to see and to be seen, especially when it’s not clogged with tourists. This was a weekend, and one with good weather, so the High Line would be packed. A lot of men would be able quietly to perve over Mandy’s body, her expensive bits barely hidden from view, and I would get to perve over watching them ogle my woman. Would only she were to be my woman again!
We strolled up the High Line, beginning near 14th Street, and Mandy was being checked out constantly. To look at her – and I did, all the time – you’d think she was unaware, but I knew Mandy, and I knew she was very aware and enjoying every single lascivious glance she could garner.
There were some places to sit, every so often, and all of them were already occupied. They were chairs, benches, and railroad ties. Finally, we got lucky, and just as we approached two chairs, side by side, the people sitting on them rose. My tired feet hurt and we grabbed the chairs.
Mandy’s solid gold, long, dangle earrings drew your eyes to her pretty face. Her bracelets with the bangles jingling, and the gold cuff reflecting the afternoon sunlight, called one’s attention to her wrists. However, everyone’s attention went straight to her legs.
Mandy’s legs did not have jewelry, nor anything special, but in her ultra-short skirt with her long bare legs crossed, her legs looked sexy as hell. It’s funny: Had she been wearing short shorts her legs would not have looked so sexy. There’s something about a short skirt and the illusion of access to what’s underneath it that tantalizes men. At least that works for me.
Mandy sat straight and thrust her chest out. She was wearing a backless top, with two spaghetti straps holding it up, and while it wasn’t spandex, it was some kind of thin, stretchy material that showed off her tits perfectly. I quietly played with her long nipples until they were nice and erect and seriously poking at the thin fabric, giving a perfect outline of her boobs, areolas, and nipples. I sat back and enjoyed the show of men perving over the little bundle of sexy estrogen sat down next to me.
Mandy was so much more than a seductive femme fatale, but for me just then, it was all I could think about. Mandy knew that of course, and I was sure she was enjoying tormenting me.
“So where does your New Jersey love interest du jour actually live? Is she a Jersey girl, or she is in the specialized training program, too?”
“She’s from Indianapolis,” I replied, as we sat there, and I watched every single man who walked by check out Mandy.
“Is that close to Kansas City?” she asked.
“Nope. It’s around a seven-hour drive. There’s airplanes, of course,” I replied. “Illinois and Missouri separate Kansas and Indiana.”
“Kansas City is in Missouri, you said,” Mandy asserted.
“You have to cross the entire state to get to Kansas City. It’s on the western edge, next to Kansas,” I said. I had no idea why we were discussing this.
“Is she worth moving to Indianapolis for? Is she good in bed? Is she pretty?” Mandy asked.
“Let’s walk some more,” I said. “Tell me about your men who like married women, okay?”
“I can do better. I can show you. I’ll go to a hotel bar, alone. You’ll already be there. One of those men will pick me up, it’ll take only five minutes in this outfit, and you can watch the whole seduction. Then you come in as my hubbie and rescue me. What do you think?”
“Do that often, do you?” I asked.
“Sometimes a girl wants sex, you know? We get horny, too. Sex with no commitment, it’s a good way to get it. You provided all the sex a girl could want but now you’re gone, having moved to Kansas City. You left me for some midwestern hellhole. It’s clear I meant nothing to you,” she said. “Now you’re bopping some Indiana babe. You got a thing for plaid, or something?”
“You jealous? You dumped me, remember? I begged you to come with me, if only to check it out. Kansas City is really nice, you know,” I replied.
“It got a subway, honey?” she asked.
“No, you need a car,” I replied.
“So if we were in Kansas City, I couldn’t take you into the subway, sit across from you, and flash you my pussy, like I could do for you tonight. I mean, if that appeals to you,” Mandy said. “I’m not wearing panties, you know.”
I didn’t know. I pushed up her skirt, the side near me, and slipping my hand underneath it, I verified that yes, she was without panties. She wasn’t even wearing a thong!
“Jeez, Philip. Can’t you trust me? Have I ever lied to you?” she said, and seeing my face she quickly added, “Except for that, and that was just the one time.”
“Was it really? What about before we met? You never did those things back then?” I stupidly asked.
I could see the anger flash through Mandy’s escort pendik eyes. “We all have pasts, Kansas. I don’t lie about mine; I just don’t talk about it. We have presents, and futures, too. I prefer to dwell in the present, and think about the future. Hey, I like calling you Kansas. Philip is kind of a wimpy name. What do you say, Kansas?”
Mandy was a master at changing the subject while putting me on the defensive at the same time. We fell silent as we watched the sunset over the Hudson. Pollution leads to brilliant many-colored sunsets, and we enjoyed a nice one. We got up and walked around some more, and as it got dark, the crowds thinned out.
I found a spot where nobody was around, at least for the moment, and I pulled Mandy into me and kissed her. Thank God, she kissed me back. I held her tight, crushing her wonderful boobs against my chest, and kissing her neck.
“Why’d you have to go and leave me, Kansas? You made me fall in love with you and then you left me, abandoning me to this wonderful but ultimately, lonely city. Why, Kansas why?”
“There’s eight million people in New York City, fifteen million in the metropolitan area. How can you be lonely?” I asked.
“It’s when you’re anonymous, surrounded by people, that you’re at your loneliness. You’re a smart guy. Think about it,” she said. I looked at her. She added, “It’s not sexual loneliness. I know I’m good looking, I know I’m sexy; I can have sex whenever I want it. I have emotional loneliness. I want someone to love me, and all I have is pictures of you, which I’ve hidden so I don’t cry when I see them. You destroyed me, Kansas.”
I realized it was a mistake to have come to visit Mandy. All I had wanted was some fabulous sex to use as revenge and self-respect via-a-vis Serena being with Steve this weekend. Instead I was opening up old wounds. Even more pointless, I was once again becoming smitten with Mandy, as she let her guard down and showed me her vulnerable side.
I decided not to speak and instead held her as some more people strolled by. Once they were gone, I kissed her, throwing in some passion, and snaked my hand under her slinky top. My hand caressed her boob, playing with her nipple in just the way that drives her crazy. Her boobs are so soft and have just the slightest amount of give to them, making them the sexiest boobs anywhere, I’m sure.
My reward was for Mandy to return my passion and begin to breathe irregularly, which she always does when she’s aroused. My other hand went under her super short skirt, again verifying she rather brazenly went without panties, and my fingers caressed her love box. Mandy, who had always loved slightly risky sex, moaned into my mouth, as we continued to kiss.
Mandy broke away from me, straightening her clothes, just before another couple strolled right next to us and continued on past us. “I’m getting hungry. Are you going to be a gentleman and buy me dinner, Kansas? Want to take me to the Strip House?”
The Strip House is a super fancy steak house on East 12th Street, near Fifth Avenue, with the walls decorated with turn of the century pictures of naked women. They were tame by modern pornographic standard, but they were sexy and suggestive, nevertheless. Oh yeah: The steaks are great there, too. Mandy wanted the full courtship treatment, I guessed.
We went back to Mandy’s Apartment 3G, and she tried on some different outfits for me. I loved it when she felt she needed a different bra with each outfit. She did not, however, let me help her remove her bras, even if I repeatedly offered.
Mandy always manages to look hot, at least for my lecherous eyes. She ended up wearing a slinky, long, black dress. It had a slit to allow her to walk and give peek-a-boo looks at her legs, and I suspect she had a tailor extend the slit practically to her waist.
It was clear she was without panties, and also – as I knew from watching her slither into the dress – without a bra. The dress hugged her so well I wondered if the careful observer would be able to see the outline of the folds of her outer pussy? That very thought turned me on.
It was at that moment, as we left Apt. 3G, that I knew – Serena be damned – Mandy was still the girl for me.
At the Strip House I ordered a Brunello di Montalcino, and seeing they had the Casanova di Neri, I ordered that bottle, to hell with the cost. That had long been Mandy’s favorite red wine. I needed to get her drunk.
During the meal, and to my surprise Mandy finished her steak, the potato, and the broccoli and what’s more, she wanted dessert, I brought up the suggestion that she visit Kansas City for a week.
“I have a life here, Kansas,” she said, once again sounding annoyed. “I have a job, you know, and I cannot just take a week off because my former boyfriend came to town and whisked me off with him to God knows where.”
“Maybe then, just a weekend? Kansas City has an excellent museum,” I said, knowing art was a weakness for Mandy.
“Yeah, right. Chicago does I know, but Kansas? Get real,” she said, making no effort to hide her contempt.
I was ready for her, though. “It’s the Nelson-Atkins Museum, and it has a good reputation. It has its own Caravaggio, Saint John the Baptist in the Wilderness. “