In my last newsletter, I wrote about my erotic first date with the most beautiful men I’ve ever met. It was strange and intense and exquisite, and I was left wanting so much more. It also, honestly, felt too good to be true. Today I’m going to tell you about the one perfect night he slept over — and next time, I’ll tell you about the heartbreak that followed and highlight some of the red flags I so desperately tried to ignore.
After our first date, my sexy Spanish man and I texted constantly. He was very busy with work — too busy, it seemed. I would ask when he was free and he would give me vague answers. But I forced myself to be patient.
Several weeks later, on a Thursday morning when I didn’t have my kids, he texted that he had an unexpected free window at work and could come over to my house. I had no idea how long I’d have with him, but I eagerly said yes.
When he arrived, he was in work attire — a blue button down and navy blue pants. Quite the contrast to the all black casual mysterious spy attire he’d worn on our first date. But damn…. he was smoking. I could have put him in an ill-fitting creepy clown costume and he still would have won Sexiest Man of the Year.
I pulled him into my kitchen and he immediately started kissing me, just as hungrily and intensely as he had at the park. I wasted no time and brought him into my bedroom and laid down on the bed in my black jeans and sweater. As he crawled towards me, I opened my legs and he climbed on top of me. I could tell that I was already so wet through my jeans. We kissed like that, fully clothed, writhing on the bed for a while, trying to see how long we could restrain ourselves. Then I unbuttoned his shirt, and he unbuttoned my pants. Quickly, our clothes were everywhere.
I laid back down on my back and he kneeled over me on the bed, naked, and I grabbed his cock and put it in my mouth. I remember being so turned on by how much he loved it. He started muttering quietly in Spanish, which was perhaps the hottest thing I’d ever heard. Then he said he was getting close to coming, and it was like a switch flipped in me. It felt like too much, too deep in my throat. And I didn’t want him to come — I wanted him inside me. Suddenly I was dry heaving. I was mortified. We stopped. I apologized. He told me it was OK. We took a short break.
Soon enough, we were back at it.
The rest of that romp was a bit of a blur, but I remember that it felt so hungry, so raw, and that it was a lot. I was having so many feelings. I was nervous, I was thrilled, I was extremely turned on, I was a little scared of his intensity. He was two different people: quiet and subdued and polite outside the bedroom; ferocious, animalistic, unpredictable in the bedroom. I submitted to it, enjoyed it, but I also found it frightening. In ways I can’t fully explain, though, my fear made it feel even hotter.
Afterwards we lay naked on the bed together, talking, intertwined. I worried he was going to tell me he had to go. But instead, he suggested we go out to dinner. I brightened and knew exactly where I wanted to take him: My favorite sexy Italian restaurant. He insisted on treating me. We showered and dressed and headed out.
When the waitress came over to take our order, I wanted to pull her aside and say, “He’s so hot, right? How am I here?” but I just smiled. I ordered pasta and he ordered salmon. He was back to his poised, subdued self, and began talking to me in his gorgeous accent about Spanish history. I focused on what he was saying as much as I could, but I stared and continued to marvel at the moment I was in. I was dining with this beautiful man at my favorite Italian restaurant. What alternate universe was this, and could I stay here forever?
We left the restaurant and began walking into the cold darkness. He stopped me and grabbed me and began kissing me so passionately I almost fell over. We stood there, outside the restaurant, kissing and holding each other for what felt like an hour. Then we both realized that it would be far better if we were back at my house, so we rushed back. I pulled him into my bedroom, kneeled down on the floor, unbuttoned his pants and pulled him into my mouth again. This time, no dry heaving. After a few minutes, he kneeled down too and gently pushed me onto my back on the floor and climbed on top of me. We had another hour of hot, crazy-intense sex.
Afterwards, we laid in bed talking again. I remembered wondering if he was going to leave. To this day, I’m not quite sure why I didn’t just ask — I think I just didn’t want to know. I wanted to stay in that fantastic perfect moment. Then he got up and began brushing his teeth, and I felt elated he wasn’t leaving. I don’t normally let lovers sleep over — I’m a terrible sleeper around other people — but I wanted him close to me for as long as I could have him.
I slept horribly, as expected, waking every hour from nervous energy. I heard him get up at some point, and then all of a sudden it was dawn and he was climbing into bed and touching me. I remember wondering how bad my breath was but being so turned on that I didn’t care. His hands were on my vulva, gently, slowly, as he teased me for what felt like an eternity. He started whispering about how much he wanted to fuck me, asking me what I wanted and needed. I begged him to take me and then he did, and it was the hottest morning sex I’ve ever had.
After that was when he started talking about needing to leave. I knew it was coming, but I still felt myself deflate. He asked if he could take me out for coffee first, which softened the blow. I took him to my local coffee shop, wondering if the barista was marveling at how hot he was. He asked me what pastries were good and I pointed out the ones I loved most but told him I wasn’t hungry. He ordered my favorites for us anyway, which made my heart melt even more.
We sat there, drinking coffee, eating pastries. I stared at him too much but couldn’t help it. Then, resigned, he told me he needed to go. We left the coffee shop, and when it was time to part ways, he grabbed me and kissed me — tenderly at first, then more hungrily. I wasn’t sure we would ever pull apart, but eventually, somehow, painfully, we did. I clearly remember that: The feeling that it wasn’t just me. That he didn’t want to go, either. I stood there, watching him walk away, somehow euphoric and terribly sad at the same time.
That was the last time I saw him. The story of what happened next will be its own newsletter, and maybe you can help me make sense of it. But for now, I will try to revel in the memory of this most sexy night with this most sexy man.
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