Whoops…
She was such a great fan. So devoted. She read every story, clapped, and usually commented.
When she put in the comment to one of my stories that she lived in San Diego and if I was ever in the area I should call her up, I got curious.
And I just happened to have to drive to the northern San Diego area to return my e-scooter, which was factory defective. They told me it would take about five hours for them to repair. So I dropped it off, then I headed down to San Diego to kill some time with my greatest fan.
I had no intention of doing anything naughty, honestly. The idea of having sex with a fan brings to mind serious stalker issues and movies like Misery. I didn’t want to get sledgehammered in the foot. I didn’t know this woman. She might be crazy.
I mean, she was probably crazy to spend so much time reading my stories after all.
But when we met in this bar in old town San Diego, she was surprisingly sweet and cute and lovable. And she didn’t even have that weird star-fish makeup on her eye or those pointy piercings, which frankly did scare me a bit on her profile pic, so I relaxed.
First mistake. Never relax. Not around fans. Fans are dangerous and need to be feared. I understand that now.
They always have surprises.
But not to worry, since I’m writing this you know I’m still alive. It all turned out to be just fine. I am going back to my rule — never sleep with a fan. But what’s done is done, so I’m going to use this little episode to provide you with an introduction to my work.
Because that’s kind of what it was for me — a reintroduction to the work of Christine Stevens, most of which I had thankfully forgotten, but for some sick reason, my Super Fan had not.
We Started Off Social Distancing
The pandemic was kind of winding down at this time. At the wine bar, we still had our masks around our necks. I mean we weren’t wearing them exactly, but we were paying homage to the pandemic. And we were out on a well-ventilated patio and we stayed a good four or so feet apart.
After our first wine, she brought up my bisexuality.
“So…I’ve always been bicurious but I’ve never done anything…”
Boing. I got a lady boner. I always do when a straight girl tells me that. And she knew I did.
“I know that turns you on. From your story.”
“What story was that?”
“The one about dating a married woman,” she said.
“Oh that one,” I said, vaguely remembering writing it.
“Yeah, that was hot. You were sixty-nining and you got too loud and woke up her twins.”
“Oh my God!” I said, mortified. I had really blocked that traumatic experience out of my mind. I mean, I revisited it oh so briefly to write about it months ago, but then I blocked it out again.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t have twins. I have a roommate, but she’s out of town for the weekend.”
“Oh great,” I said. It was a mixture of attraction and bone-chilling fear. I will call her Willow, but it’s not her real name of course. She was willowy, a few inches taller than me with that long bleached blonde hair and grey eyes. Tall and slender and very beautiful. And those beautiful grey eyes had a real mischief in them.
“I want to find that spot on your hip,” she said, biting her lip.
“On my hip?”
“Yeah,” she said. “The one where if you tickle it just right it gives you an orgasm.”
I almost spit up my wine. Did I really write about that? God, I have given away every damn one of my secrets this last year writing on Medium, haven’t I?
“Oh, I was only kidding about that,” I lied.
“Liar,” she said, looking me straight in the eyes. “I’ma find that spot.”
I looked away nervously. But I was getting wet. It wasn’t the usual seduce-the-straight-girl scenario — she was being the aggressor. And I liked it.
“I just have one question for you, though,” she added, looking through her eyelashes coquettishly.
“Yeah, what’s that?” I responded nervously, as she reached across the social distance and took my hand.
“Is it safe to lick your ass?”
“Oh my gosh,” I said. “How forward of you!”
“But you wrote the article,” she said, not missing a beat. “I read the whole thing and I still don’t know if it’s safe.”
“I did write that, didn’t I?” I confessed. “But wasn’t it just some kind of literary experiment, surely?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, getting up. “I’ll go get us some more drinks.”
She left me there with my thoughts. Was I going to get lucky tonight, or killed? I wasn’t sure. And to tell the truth, the ambiguity was kind of intoxicating.
“Your favorite,” she said, handing me a drink.
I took a sip. It was my favorite. Basil Hayden bourbon on the rocks, of course. I must have put that in an article or two.
“You know me so well,” I said, putting the glass down. “What did you get for yourself?”
“The same,” she said, clinking her glass with mine, in a toast.
“That’s a little stalker-y,” I said. “I’d prefer it if you had your own favorite drink and your own boundaries and separate sense of self.”
“Would you?” she said, eyeing me with that mischief look again. “Why don’t you just drink your drink and keep your mouth shut. I know you like to be dominated. That intro to rough sex was a real eye-opener. You know, hair pulling, wrist tying, blindfolding, spanking.”
She spanked the table to accentuate that word.
“Maybe we’ll get into a little of that tonight,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t know if I’m up for all that tonight,” I said. “How about keeping it simple, eh?”
“You mean, no butt plugs?”
“Why?” I said. “Do you own one?”
“No, but I figured you’d have one in your bag,” she quipped. “After all, you are the Lionel Messi of sex.”
I blushed.
“You shame me,” I said. “I wrote that in jest. I mean, for cripe’s sake, the column is called The Funny Side of Sex. I didn’t mean I was really the Lionel Messi of sex. If you want the truth, you should read “Sex With Christine Stevens was Kind of Disappointing.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” she said. “You are so scrumptious. Like a ripe apricot. I just want to eat you. Did you bring a strap on? I want to fuck you in the ass and take you to that other dimension you write about so brilliantly. You know, through the secret sexual wormhole in space-time via anal sex?
“Yeah,” I hesitated. “I think that wormhole might be closed right now.”
She laughed.
“I’m just messin’ with you,” she said. “I just want you to know, I think you’re the greatest writer. And I have fantasized about having sex with you for a long time. Would you like to help me make my fantasy come true?”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
“Great,” she said. “Let’s Uber back to my place.”
In the Uber I did feel extremely excited. In a minute I was going to have an extremely hot woman pleasuring me every which way. Wow. I felt kind of powerful. All because of my writing!
“Nervous?” she asked, looking over to me.
“Not at all,” I said.
And I put my lips on hers, kissing her passionately.
“Giving the Uber driver a little show, huh?” she said.
Dang she was good. She knew exactly my perverse motivation for choosing that moment to plant the kiss on her.
“I can’t wait for more,” I said. “But it will have to wait till we’re in private.”
“You sure?” she said, taking my hand and putting it on her breast, tempting me so much to continue this little show. I could see the Uber driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror, and hear his breathing getting heavier. It was just the kind of sordid scenario I lived for. But I resisted, moving my hand away.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said.
When we got to her bedroom I took control.
“Take off your clothes, I want to see you naked,” I commanded.
She let her willowy clothes fall away and stood there in her panties. She had nice breasts, the kind that sort of sat up like eager little puppies.
“Panties,” I said.
She pulled her panties down and revealed a bare pussy. That was OK. I don’t really like it, but whatever. And right above her slit she had a tattoo of…well, she doesn’t want me to say what she has a tattoo of, so let’s just leave it at this: she has an extremely sexy tattoo right above her clit.
“Lie down,” I said.
She lay down on the bed. I took my clothes off and got next to her.
“You’re all mine,” I said. I liked this feeling, of owning her because she was my greatest fan. “What should I do to you?”
“Anything you want, baby,” she said. “But whatever you do, I want you to write about it after. I want to know what it’s like to have sex with me. From your point of view. You know, that funny Christine Stevens horny point of view. Do I make you very horny?”
“Extremely,” I said. “I love this tattoo.”
I touched the ink star that was right above her left breast. Then I touched her breasts.
“And I love these sexy puppies.”
I heard her moan. I put my mouth on her nipples. She was moaning more. It could have been pretend, but it didn’t matter to me. I believed it. I believed that she was really excited. Then when I let my hand go down to her shaved pussy, and I started rubbing her clit, she really got into it.
“It’s a fantasy come true,” she sighed. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe it…”
I made her cum pretty quickly with my hand. Then I kissed her deeply, deeply.
“Turn over on your belly now,” I ordered her.
“Oh my God,” she said, turning over. “Are you gonna…”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Oh my God, oh my God…”
I started kissing her ass cheeks. Then I spread them apart and started licking her sweet asshole. She was sighing and moaning. Then I spit in her asshole and put two fingers in it slowly.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “That feels so good!”
With my other hand, I reached underneath and rubbed her clit, as I pushed the two fingers deeper and deeper. By the time I got the fingers all the way in, pulled them all the way out, and pushed them all the way in she had her second orgasm, arching her back and screaming like a cat in heat.
“Now it’s your turn,” I said. “You better make me cum good.”
“Oh, I know how to make you cum, Christine Stevens,” she said. “Don’t you worry about that. First I’m going to kiss you, just the way you like to be kissed. Like a trumpet solo.”
She lay down next to me and started kissing me. our tongues started dancing, just as I had instructed in my article about kissing, which she was referring to. I had written that there should be long notes, and then fast notes, in a variety like a jazz improvisation. And she was doing it perfectly.
I realized that all my articles had provided her the training to become the perfect lover — damn, if only my boyfriend would read my articles I’d have a great sex life. He doesn’t like to read, though. He likes Xbox.
Suddenly it felt like Pygmalion — the original Greek story, not the musical. I was the sculptor who had made this beautiful statue and brought it to life: Galatea. And now Pygmalion was making love to his own creation. Everything she did to me while we embraced was something I had written about, created, or commented on. And yet, there was a part of her that was wholly original and unique — it was like being with a real-life fantasy.
“And I’m going to suck your tits just the way you like them sucked,” she said. “Starting with the nose…”
She put her nose near my nipple and breathed in luxuriantly. “Mmm, so sweet-smelling. And now the tongue. Enjoying the meatiness of the nipple.”
“Wow, it’s like you memorized my writing,” I said, as she started licking my nipple.
“I’ve read all of your articles at least five times each,” she said. “For instance, I read “How To Talk Sexy.” I really enjoyed that one, you little slut.”
“Um…I’m not a slut. I’m trying to empower women with my writing and present a positive view of their sexuality!”
“That’s bullshit,” she said. “You’re an exhibitionist. You even admitted it, plenty of times.”
“That’s true.”
So alright, I won’t be such an exhibitionist about it then — I’ll keep some of it private. Suffice to say, we spent about three hours fucking each other every which way and it was pretty damn awesome. She was a real trouper and was quite skilled in the sapphic ways. And she had a shit load of toys.
“I don’t even hide them when the cleaning lady comes,” she said, quoting me again.
“I love it when you quote my articles,” I confessed.
“I know,” she said. “You’re an egomaniac. So easy to please. I just have to grovel at your feet and you’ll love me. Are you like that with everyone?”
“Geesh…now that you mention it…I might be.”
“Yeah, you might want to work on that in therapy.”
“Great advice,” I said.
I got my clothes on and was about to say goodbye.
“So what are you going to write about this?” she asked me. “Is it as wonderful as I imagine it is to have sex with me?”
“It’s pretty great,” I admitted. “You might have learned something from some of my articles. But I think you taught me some tricks too. Like when you wouldn’t let me cum for like ten minutes there. I might have to write about orgasm denial. You made me beg and beg and when you finally let me go over the edge it was like Christmas Day.”
“I’m so glad,” she said. “I’d hate to disappoint my literary hero.”
“Oh far from it,” I said. “And that piercing on your tongue. Yum. When you were licking me. So intense. I’ll have to write about that.”
“Write whatever you want,” she said. “Only don’t use my name, of course.”
“OK,” I promised. “I’ll call you…Willow. Because you are tall and lovely and flowing like a willow.”
“I love it!”
As I headed back to pick up my electric scooter in Carlsbad, I knew I wouldn’t see her again. It was just one of those one-off things. A real ego trip. But she was too worshipful. I need someone to call me on my shit. You know, Keep me in line. Sledgehammer me in the foot every now and then.
NOTE: I sent this draft for approval to Willow before publication. She had me edit out a few things she said we should “Just keep private.” And she added, “For a story about me you sure got a lot of plugs in for yourself there, didncha? Kiddin’, luvved it. And thanks for calling me a deranged supermodel — awesome and so sweet! I think you’ll be back to SD one day. Oh, and I love the name! XXOO Willow.”