I had sex under the bleachers at school in high school. Furthermore, I was a cheerleader and my boyfriend was on the football team. And I was wearing my uniform and he was wearing his jersey shirt.
I had the hots for a neighbor in my old apartment building. We had casually said hi, etc. We usually got home from work about the same time each day. One day, I had the day off, so I made sure to bake oatmeal cookies (I had learned they were his favorite). He came home on time, then noticed my door was cracked open, the smell of cookies wafting out. He knocked, I answered in an old flannel shirt splattered in cookie dough, almost completely unbuttoned, and a pair of lacy, french cut black panties.
He had a couple cookies, a little milk… and a lot of my milk and cookies!
I always wondered how legitimate massage therapists (as opposed to those who advertise their services in, say, the back of the Chicago Reader) dealt with guys who expected happy endings.
Anyway, what did you say to him?
“I don’t think so. We’re all done here,” said in a cheery voice as I threw the sheets up over his back and headed straight for the door. Which, we really were done. He’d waited until time was up to make the “request”.
As I left the room he flipped over very quickly and started to get up. It was as if my refusal had startled him. I told the receptionist what had happened and waited in another room until he was gone.
Your post reminded me that I had totally forgotten about the handjob I got on the bus from a girl who called herself “Gypsy”. If we were talking about a Greyhound bus, on a long over-night trip, it would be one thing. But this was a city bus - the #56, running down Main street in Kansas City, MO. I didn’t come, but we did get together later for some (well protected) fun. (Condoms are a must when having sex with the kind of girls who will give a handjob to a stranger on the bus.)