Cherry Wilson - MyErotica.com

I met him online. It was at a point where I was getting fed up with the online dating experience. All my friends seemed to be trying it, and with the kind of alarming success that made me question whether either I was doing something wrong or something was wrong with me. I tweaked my profile in various ways, adding photos, deleting them, changing a word here, a word there, getting rid of sentences and entire paragraphs only to add the same amount right back, answering countless personality and lifestyle questions in an effort to make my match percentage with other men as accurate as possible; but it was all ultimately to no avail. I did go on a few dates, but none of them gave me a reason to pursue whatever chemistry I thought we had. However, as much as I was tempted to, I didn’t delete my profile. I still found myself diligently checking my messages, hoping for something special, however small, to give me a reason to believe that I wasn’t doing all of this for no reason, that I was on the right track.

He was the one who initiated conversation, starting with a simple “Hey, how are you? Reading anything interesting at the moment? What about movies? What was the last movie you’ve seen?”

His username was “CherryWilson.” I looked at the message, wary of its normalcy. Already he seemed miles ahead of everyone. No “Hey, babe” or “Hi, sugar,” no dick pictures or threesome requests involving another man or woman; he didn’t give me his phone number right away nor claim that he was a rich billionaire with a villa in southern Italy calling our names. Just a simple message telling me he was curious about my wellbeing and my interests, by extension telling me that he wanted to genuinely get to know me.

I responded accordingly, and so it began. He had a simple but clear way of communicating. It was engaging and refreshing. For an entire week, throughout the day we exchanged messages. Each time I read something from him, I imagined hearing him speak to me, trying to guess whether he would laugh after saying a particular word or change the tone in his voice as he said this sentence or that. When I asked him about his username he said it was it was a callback to a famous cherry jam recipe that he knew how to make.

“I thought it was a reference to something else,” I typed back, feeling particularly bold.

He responded, “Well, it’s for that, too ;)”

In the second week we exchanged numbers, talking nearly every chance we could.

I’m not a perfect woman, I can acknowledged that. In fact, I said as much on my profile. One problem I have is that I don’t know how to be in that transitional phase between getting to know someone and being with them. Having that balance, that particular blend of give and take. For me, it was always either I’m feeling intensely for him or I’m not, one extreme or the other. I already knew I liked Wilson, so I thought it was pointless to be reserved. At the same time I knew better than to throw all my cards on the table. The result was an awkwardness when I spoke to him. One minute I would listen intently, curbing my enthusiasm, and the next I would burst out with a, “me too!” Talking over him in excitement.

“I’m a mess,” I told him one time, during a late night conversation.

“Ha, that’s okay. I happen to like cleaning up messes.”

“Then you’ll have your hands full with this one.”

“Sounds good to me. I don’t mind getting on my knees and taking my time.”

Three dates later I was in a taxi, heading to his place for dinner and a lesson on how to make his much talked about and greatly anticipated cherry jam. I tried not to let the pressure of the setting get to me, told myself that I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to, but I still felt tense nonetheless. When the car stopped in front of his apartment building there he was, Wilson, standing at the entrance. He came up to the car and the driver rolled down the windows.

“Hey,” he said to me, after sticking his head inside, flashing his ever charming grin. Before I could say anything in response he reached inside the car and gave the driver the fare.

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“Too late,” he said. “Come on, the chicken is almost done.”

Well, I thought, he likes to take charge. It was a trait I’d seen before in our previous dates, but tonight even more so. Wilson opened the door and I stepped out.

“You look great.”

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” I quipped. In fact, he looked fantastic in his tight sweater and dark jeans. I had to consciously tell myself to look at his face and not his arms and chest. My mouth watered, but I wasn’t sure what I was hungry for more, the food or Wilson.

The food tasted delicious. Lemon grilled chicken with orange zest, mashed potatoes, and baked asparagus and broccoli. He chose a sweet white wine that complimented the meal well. We easily finished the bottle, and started on a second.

“So, when are we going to cook this magical cherry jam that you’ve lured me here to make?”

“Right now, in fact.”

“I’m excited!”

“Ha, come on, let’s start.” Wilson got up and gestured for me to follow him. “I’ll take out the cherries, you pull out the sugar from the cabinet.”

“Gotcha.”

When Wilson placed the cherries on the kitchen counter-top, I remarked how gorgeous they looked, blood red and unblemished. They could have been jewels.

“Where did you get them from?”

“There’s a farmer’s market not far from here,” he said. “I went there yesterday to pick them up.”

“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”

“I wanted to. Besides, the fresher the fruit, the better the jam. You always want your ingredients to be as fresh as possible.”

I nodded in agreement. I felt slightly guilty that he went out of his way to get the cherries, but at the same time pleased that he’d put so much thought and effort into this evening.

“I’ve already rinsed the cherries, taken out the stems, and pitted them. They’re ready to be mixed.”

Methodically we began working together. Wilson pulled out a saucepan and placed it on the stove. I poured the cherries in the pan.

“Medium heat,” he told me. I turned the stove on and he handed me a wooden spoon. “What I like to do is add the ingredients as the cherries are cooking. Some people like to do the opposite. Just stir every once in a while until you feel the heat rise from the pan. As you stir be sure to grind the cherries against the pan a little. That brings out the flavor more as well as the pectin.”

“What’s pectin?”

“It’s a thickening agent. It’s what gives jam its consistency. Cherries naturally have it, but since it doesn’t have enough to make jam, we’ll add a bit ourselves.”

“Gotcha.” About five minutes later I told him I could feel the heat rising from the pan.

As he spoke he worked, telling me what he was doing. I was impressed with how communicative he was, a quality most men I dealt with lacked.

“So, three cups of sugar,” he said as he measured and poured the contents into the pan. “Now the secret to this recipe is these two bad boys.” He pointed to the apple juice and lemon juice. “The trick is not to add too much, but just enough. If you add too much it’ll take away from the cherry flavor. Add too little and the cherries will taste a bit off, as if something changed, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.”

I watched as he expertly poured a bit of apple juice and lemon juice. I stirred, as he lowered the temperature. He watched silently as I mixed everything together, both of us enjoying the sweet cherry fragrance that permeated the air.

“Now, time for one of the most important rules when cooking: tasting the product. Here, have a taste,” he said. He caught me off guard by dipping a finger in the pot and smearing the jam on my nose.

“Hey!” I said. I rubbed the jam off my nose and tasted it. “Wow, this is some good stuff.”

“Why thank ya. Reminds me of when we celebrate birthdays in my family. A person always smears the cake on the birthday person.”

“Why’s that?”

“Good question, I don’t know. I guess it just one of those things that a random person started and we just kept with it.”

“That sounds fun, though. Wait, so it’s my birthday?”

“If you want it to be, but I think this is more like a celebration.”

“Oh? And what exactly are we celebrating?”

“Us meeting. My meeting you. My passing on this knowledge that was passed on to me, to you.”

I could feel my face grow hot. “There you go, being all Mr. Charming. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Actually no,” Wilson said, turning suddenly serious. He turned the stove off. “Believe it or not you’re the first woman who ever wanted to know how I make my jam. Hell, you’re the first to even taste my jam.”

“Well,” I told him, suddenly feeling foolish and awkward, “I’m glad you shared something so close to you with me. When you said you made your own jam I was curious, how could I not want to know how to make it? That’s an impressive feat nowadays.”

“And I like that about you, your curiosity.”

Damn, just when I’d stopped blushing, I thought.

“Lizzy, come here,” he said.

Maybe it was the way he was looking at me, his stance, the way he sounded when he called my name, something in the moment, or a combination of each that told me what he wanted and that I could trust him, at least for the time being. I was tired of fighting my emotions and wants, tired of resisting. I walked over to him, willing and open. I walked over to him as a person committed to starting over. If this was a mistake, then so be it, but I knew I would have no regrets. I was going to him with everything I had, one hundred percent.

As soon as I was close enough he reached out to me and took me into him from the small of my back.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?”

He leaned down to press his lips onto mine. It was a soft kiss, almost tentative, but then the others grew more urgent and hungry. He tasted like white wine and cherries. My stomach tightened in a not unpleasant way, my heart beating faster in anticipation.

His hand lowered and he cupped my rear, pressing my body into his. I could feel how much he wanted me, which, to my pleasant surprise, felt like a lot. I started to squat, kissing his chest, untucking his shirt and kissing his abs. I dropped down to my knees and started to unbuckle his belt. There was a part of me, at the back of my mind, that was yelling at me, saying, “Lizzy, you slut, what are you doing? You don’t give head the first time you have sex!” In response, I told the rational part of me, “Fuck it, I said I’d go one hundred percent, well this is it. This is me going one hundred percent. I’m not holding back.”

I unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down along with his underwear at the same time. I could smell his pleasant muskiness and cologne. The sight of his cock made my mouth water for the second time this night. I took hold of it and looked up at him, jerking him off.

“Are you sure?” he panted.

I nodded. When I took him into my mouth I heard him groan. I took him all the way in, until his member touched the back of my throat, then withdrew. I used the saliva that started to produce to spit on his cock and jerk him off more, then continued to suck on him. He tucked the hair that started to get in front of my face behind my ear, then grabbed the back of my head and started pumping into my mouth. After a short while he told me to stop, taking himself out, and practically lifted me off the ground from my armpits. I loved that he was so strong. He kissed me, long and deep, then lifted me from the back of my legs and onto the counter top.

“Spread your legs.”

I wrinkled my skirt up to my waist. He pulled my panties to the side, leaned down, and put his entire mouth on my pussy. His hot tongue made me moan so loud I tried to cover my own mouth, embarrassed, but it felt so good that I stopped caring. He flicked his tongue lightly on my pearl, sucked on it, then probed his tongue into me. Nothing was going to waste. His tongue felt so intense I leaned back and hit the back of my head against the cupboard, gripping the edge of the counter top. He stood up and kissed me, so hungrily his teeth knocked against mine. I tasted myself in his mouth and half wondered if he could taste himself in my mouth.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer. “I want . . . you . . . now,” I said between breaths and kisses. I was so dick hungry I couldn’t even talk straight. Wilson seemed to catch my meaning well enough. He grabbed my ass and slid my body closer to him. He eased himself inside of me, looking up as if a higher power touched him with grace, his face contorted not in pain, but in pure pleasure.

“Lizzy…”

He stroked slowed at first then quickly gained momentum. It wasn’t long until our bodies were sounding off, clapping against each other. He grunted and groaned, I called out his name then suddenly shook as my body went into a spasm. He soon came after, pulling out, his warm pleasure dripping against the crease between my thigh and pelvis.

I giggled. “What’s so funny?” Wilson asked.

“Who knew making cherry jam could be so engaging,” I told him, breathless.

“You should see what I can do with pumpkin seeds.”

I gave him a quizzical look that made him laugh. “Oh, I definitely have to see that!”