I spent a good part of my pre-work morning with some leisurely reading over coffee — in this case, reading on the meanings that words carry. That, in turn, led to a bit of thinking about how to characterize the dynamic of this particular confession — in particular, the distinction between “intersection” and “convergence.”
“Intersection,” to me, is more a single moment. Streets intersect, lives intersect, and the journeys continue from there. Given that streets and lives can take meandering routes, intersections might happen at different points in place and time, but each of those moments stands on its own.
“Convergence,” to borrow the traffic metaphor, happens when two lives find themselves on the same road for a while. They might enter it at different points, but at some point, they wind up sharing a direction, if not a destination. Then the routes and lives diverge — which, again, might happen repeatedly.
We intersected for the first time, she and I, at her senior art show — senior as in high school. I was struck by how clearly she’d identified a theme and executed it visually, and because we were both involved in the local arts scene, she and I — and her twin sister, also an artist — connected on Facebook.
There was nothing more to it than that for some time — nothing sexual, nor even flirtatious. There were intersections: She and her sister came to one of my shows, I ran into her with her boyfriend once at a coffeehouse, and we exchanged occasional thoughts on this or that bit of art or life. That’s how it went for the next three years.
Then came the convergence.
One night in the early autumn of 2013 we struck up an online conversation about margaritas. She was 21 by then, a senior at a university in the area, and she had strong ideas about margaritas and the best place to get them. I was 50, and always up for a good drinks recommendation.
She was, coincidentally, Latina (anyone can have strong opinions about margaritas, after all). Her family had moved to the US when she was a child, and she acknowledged living in two worlds as an immigrant. We talked about her life and her studies over margaritas the next night, at the place she had recommended, and she was right — they were fantastic.
The conversations continued — not only online, but also over more drinks, over coffee, over the occasional clandestine dinner. In retrospect, we always met not too far from home, so it’s surprising that nobody we knew saw us and wondered what was going on — or, if that happened, we never heard about it.
She was studying business, and Chinese, and finding the latter subject viciously difficult but also a great deal of challenging fun. She was looking forward to graduating the following spring but didn’t know her plans after that. And she was still with the same boyfriend — sort of. He’d done something to fall out of good graces, but she didn’t see it as a fatal stroke to the relationship and expected that they’d wind up married someday (as her sister already was).
I didn’t pry on that subject, though I was gradually waking up to the fact that I was increasingly attracted to her on all sorts of levels. She had a quick intense smile, a talk-with-her-hands passion about life. And she had blossomed since graduation — dark-haired, olive-skinned, deep-breasted, small waist sweeping into the curve of her hip — without my noticing.
One night, she messaged me. She’d noticed that we were spending a lot of time together and wondered just what I was looking for. I answered honestly: “I like having time with you.”
She brought up the boyfriend again, and I thought, “Well, this is where she tells me that we can’t do that any more.”
I was wrong. Her long-range plans hadn’t changed, but she was open to us taking things up a notch — several notches, actually, but not that night. Sex might happen, and it might not. If it did, that would wrap things up between us and she’d be back on schedule with her boyfriend. When that happened, we would have to make a clean break.
I found those terms agreeable, even though I knew that severance would sting. Even short-lived autumn flowers take root, after all.
First notch: We started texting, calling each other when we had time. She started telling me about her sexual experience. It wasn’t extensive, but she and her boyfriend weren’t waiting for marriage.
Second notch: Our coffee and dinner meetings became full-fledged dates — the same conversations about anything and everything, but afterward we’d sit in her car and kiss. The first time was soft, shy, hesitant. The time after that was comfortable, exploratory. The time after that, my hand found its way inside her shirt, then inside her bra. The time after that, she moaned as I stroked her through her panties, then slipped a finger into her.
I took a quick taste of her. “Eww,” she said, and giggled.
She wouldn’t do more than that, but on the way home — and on several occasions after that — the phone would ring and her voice would be in my ear: soft, seductive, calling me *Papi* and telling me all the things she wanted me to do to her.
And so, one night in early December, I was headed to my studio, to put the finishing touches on some paintings for an upcoming show and I invited her for a visit. I knew that if the night went as I thought it might, it would probably be the last time I heard her voice at the other end of the call.
She arrived about twenty minutes later: Leather coat, striped sweater, jeans, high boots. We went up to the studio, and we talked as we always did while I painted, moved canvases around, painted some more and then cleaned my brushes.
I put the last brush away, looked over at her. She didn’t say anything.
“Are you okay with this?”
She nodded, stepped toward me, into my arms.
We devoured each other’s mouths with kisses, knowing this was the last time and we had to make it count.
“You know what I want,” she said.
I did know. She’d told me. I unfastened and unzipped her jeans, turned her around, bent her over the nearest chair. My hands skimmed the jeans down around her knees; she still wore her sweater, her bra, those high boots.
*Sí papi,* she breathed, and I moved into her from behind.
She clenched on me, moved back against me with every stroke. After a few minutes of that, she looked back at me and smiled.
“Sit down, *Papi*.”
I moved out of her, sat down on the chair and she lowered herself onto me, facing away. I pulled her sweater off, unhooked her bra, cupped her right breast in my right hand and slid the other hand down her silken belly and between her thighs. She gasped, raised up, slammed down hard on me as I moaned.
She laughed. “I’m in charge now.”
And with that, she began to bounce up and down in a sweet steady rhythm that gradually quickened, minute by minute. All I could do was hold on to her hips and let her have her way.
She quickened her pace, shuddered, slid down hard onto me once more. I was about to take that as my cue to finish when she suddenly stood up, turned around, went down on her knees and took me all the way into her mouth.
Clearly, she had no real issues with her own taste.
It was only the second time someone had ever done that to me, and it hasn’t happened since. It was so unexpected, and I was so close, that it only took me maybe a dozen bobs of her head before I lifted off the chair and exploded into her mouth.
And that, to revive the traffic metaphor, was the last sign before her exit. We cleaned up, got dressed, sat facing each other for a while in the chair we’d used and another one close by.
I won’t share those words. But they were tinged with near-winter chill — not emotional coldness, but the sense that the autumn of our contentment was over, that we were headed into a long night and that spring would likely see her wearing another man’s ring.
There would be no more calls, no more texts, no more late-night messages. The break was clean, as she said it would have to be.
Divergence.
There’s been one intersection since. I saw her outside a store, not far from my house, a few years ago. I don’t know if she saw me. I didn’t stop her, and she kept going, and I kept going.
Then again, maybe it was her sister.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/cfczz8/mergeexit_true_story_xpost_from_rsluttyconfessions