Truth in advertising [MF]

Many years ago I had a summer internship in the advertising business. I worked a lot with Gabrielle, a French graphic designer. Her go-to feedback was to make it “more sexy for the Americans” who were all apparently prudes compared to the French, who knew what they wanted and how to get it. This was said about literally anything from the obvious images with models to things like the lighting and curvature on a lawnmower.

One Friday night, a bunch of folks were going out to a nearby wine bar after work and Gabi was among them. She invited me along, but I had to decline as I was only 20.

“American rules are stupid. In France you can have a glass of wine no big deal but Americans get all …” At this point, she made kind of a frenetic arm flapping gesture and sighed. Then, her eyes lit up and she hit her forehead.

“DUH! I have wine. Come have some with me!”

Her place was a short walk away. When we got inside, I realized I didn’t need much of a tour. It was an artist’s studio type of place. There was one main room with high ceilings revealing exposed beams, brick, and ductwork. Gabi pointed me to the barstools at the kitchen island, opened a bottle, poured two glasses and sat down next to me. Our conversation flowed for a while, as did the wine. There wasn’t really anything memorable in the long term that we discussed—we talked about work, what I was doing at school, etc. She was very engaging and there was something about her. We moved to the couch at some point and again, she sat right next to me. Then I asked one particular question.

“Why is it always, ‘make it sexy?'”

“People they like that feeling—sexy. When you feel that about something you are more likely to want it, to purchase. It is little things that make it sexy. You can see picture of woman with car, yes is sexy, but if you see that her nail polish matches or that the shadow on her leg matches the curve of the car, then that is very sexy and you don’t know why you feel that way. Maybe your heart beats faster or your penis, you know …”

Another gesture. This one was a short, underhanded, upward jab with an open palm.

“… is how you say? More? … Harder? That is the feeling that you want to remember and now it’s in your head with BMW or whatever. Only Americans need to be told in their face. Big breasts. Less clothes. Is sex, but is not sexy. Sexy is the small things.

“Hard to notice unless you are paying attention but it works if you do or do not. Maybe you noticed that I leaned up against you when I refilled your glass and then pulled my chair closer. Maybe you didn’t, but it was in your subconscious. Maybe you noticed me biting my lip while we were talking. Or that I put my hair down or unbuttoned this button. Maybe you smelled my perfume.

“Or maybe you are too American and are only just noticing now that I am telling you and I should have just put my breasts in your face.”

“That’d work,” I said.

Gabi rolled her eyes at me, stuck out her tongue, grabbed her boobs over her clothes, lifted, and jiggled.

We’d put our wine glasses down and she moved towards me, closing the last bit of gap between us. A tentative first kiss was followed by an extended makeout session.

“If you learn anything you must learn to pay attention to all those little things that make it sexy. When we kiss, see how we taste of wine? Think of what you smell, feel, hear, see.”

We resumed kissing for at least another ten or fifteen minutes. I was painfully hard by this point, but did not feel the urgency to move things along. Truly, paying attention to *everything* was kind of meditative. I let her set the pace, which I can only compare to something like an extended hour-and-a-half massage. We both knew what was going to happen and, with her coaching, I was actually relaxed about it and in no hurry at all.

Over time, clothes came off and we explored each other’s bodies. She fondled me in a way that was completely unlike the handjobs I’d received to that point in my life. It feels unfair to even call it a handjob. It was just minute after minute of soft, fluid motions with her fingertips caressing every inch of me. There wasn’t even the usual feel of tension building towards orgasm, yet I felt waves of pleasure, as if we’d already gone way past that point.

She directed me to go down on her and coached me the entire time, building herself up in the same way. Intercourse was the same way, not a college fuck, but actual lovemaking. It was all I could do to stop myself from just going to town and instead paying attention to all of the sensations I was feeling.

At some point, we shifted into a position and the angle must have been just right for her. She said something in French with her eyes closed, then looked at me and said, “Yes, more of this.” Her orgasm was powerful. She seemingly lost bodily control for a minute and then kind of laid there out of breath.

I’d pulled out when she went limp. After she sat up, she pulled off the condom and resumed caressing me with her hands. This time, it was more rhythmic, though her touch was still gentle. I was throbbing, more aroused than I thought could ever be possible.

“You will release.”

I wasn’t sure I’d understood what she said, but then she changed her handgrip and used a bit more pressure than before. I remember moaning almost continuously at this point. I’m not much of a moaner, neither before or since. I have no idea how much time passed—probably less than a minute, but it felt like forever just being on the edge. And then, I wasn’t. I came so hard that I don’t remember seeing myself do so. When I opened my eyes, breathing heavily myself, I saw that Gabi was covered. I had come all over her face, getting some in her hair, on her neck, and on her chest. She grabbed something from the pile of clothes and began to wipe off.

I was still in the mindset of taking it all in and as I watched this beautiful woman she turned to me and said, “All this,” gesturing to the both of us, “Very sexy.”

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/inz3lg/truth_in_advertising_mf