6. The Story of F (excerpt)Speaking of librarians, F was another of those prim women in early middle age who are full of surprises. F was a tall black woman with a frizzy, glistening hairdo (it would have been called an Afro long ago). She had a beautiful face the color of dark wood. Not black, like licorice, but very dark brown, and soft. Her features had a streamlined, almost airbrushed proportion that made her face one you could stare at for long bouts of time. She had dusky, violet lips and gorgeous teeth when she laughed. Her eyes were exotic, almond-shaped as if she were Asian. She liked to wear big, dangling earrings because she was a tall woman and not afraid to step on six inch heels to add to her glory. In heels, she was taller than any woman I ever dated. We met at a public library when I was doing some research and needed to go into an unfamiliar back section. It as an older, stately building with wood paneling and WPA murals high up painted on plaster. All these muscular men and women had been painted there by Communist-influenced New Deal artists imitating the raw concrete formalism of the Russians in Stalin's time. Their features were rudimentary and brutal. Even the women's breasts looked tight and muscular. They held tools or sowed grain or did whatever it took to get this mighty economy rolling again. For all that energy, they could have been having a huge orgy up there. They certainly looked like they were full of fuck and energy. F caught me gaping and said: "Can I help you, darling?" She had a rich, full voice and a tone as if she were the queen of periodicals, addressing the duke of lost looks. I stated my need (the one involving the library) and she stepped out from behind her desk to accompany me. I walked behind that gorgeous swaying wool-clad ass and inhaled the perfume she wore, just a hint of musk in it, but otherwise a complex flute whisper of vanilla and crème citric or something... I don't remember much of what we talked about, but she had that musical voice that wrapped around me like a bassoon. She wore a wool dress, and under that a silk blouse that was fairly open at the top, so that when we stood opposite each other and she leaned over a file drawer to run long purple fingernails over the file folders, I was less intent on her explanation than I was on the full mocha breasts that strained at a black lace brassiere. She was definitely a principled, not-on-the-first date sort of woman. She was a prodigious kissing partner, however, and her roving hands made it clear there was good stuff to come if I toughed it out on her schedule. When I say her hands roved, I mean that the middle part of my body was off limits. Likewise, there were limits to where I could touch her. She took me to her apartment in a fine former hotel downtown, the first few dates when she had me come visit on her lunch hour. She was very sincere, and showed me her books and her collection of lithographs (honest; we even laughed that she'd had me come up to look at her sketches). She was an accomplished musician, and played some very touching violin pieces for me. I enjoyed watching her as she closed her eyes and laid her cheek against the pad. Her face became transfigured as she swayed with the music that rolled off her strings. She smiled at the thick, rich notes that poured out from the straining, tight little sound chamber flanked by two opposing clef cuts. Then, one day, she was ready. Lunch time with F had already become a fevered habit for me. I couldn't wait to ride up in that brass elevator, get out in that dark corridor, and walk toward that oak door with a bouquet of dried flowers in a fine little checked ribbon above the spy hole. She had the afternoon off from work, so there was no hurry. First time, we'd go slow and get it right. We'd learn all the right notes and play the augmenteds and diminisheds in slow and stately rhythm like the Gymnopaedies of Erik Satie. F's furniture was red leather and heavy. She was a tall woman, and wanted sturdy furniture. Her voice changed when we first confronted what we hungered to do. Her voice box tightened with nervous tension, and her mellifluous voice grew light as if she had transformed from soprano to alto. "What do you like?" she asked in a thin, sweet voice as she stood before me while I sat on the couch. I rose and took her in my arms. She stepped down from her heels, still two inches taller than I was. I felt her hands on my back, trembling on my shoulder blades. We kissed deeply, but differently. "Be gentle," she whispered. In silent reassurance, I held her firmly to me. She laid her head on my shoulder as if we were slow dancing, and I let it be like that for a long time. It was silent in the dark room except for the ticking of a clock and the birds chirping outside. She moved easily and lightly to my touch, but she was big. Not chubby or soft, so much, but a big girl. She had been very athletic all her life. Her legs were robust and firm, almost muscular but soft. Her buttocks were more like armfuls than handfuls. I could get my arms around her at her widest, so that my hands touched over the dusky crack of her ass, but her hips were in my elbow joints. I had to turn my face up to kiss her—that equaled out in bed, where she soon had me. There, I lay on my back while she straddled me. Her eyes were closed, her mouth distorted with pleasure, as she said: "Lick them. Lick them good for me." Her breasts were not remarkably large, at least not out of proportion with the rest of her. They hung a bit, pendulous, like grapefruits in a net bag if one wants a comparison. Her nipples were slick and plum colored. They swelled and grew whorls and huge plateau nipples as I sucked on them. "I like that," she said warmly. "Lick them for me. Suck them." She grabbed one from underneath, held it on her palm, and slid it to my mouth. "Suck it, baby. Oh yeah." With her providing the nipple, my hands were free to roam up and down her long, smooth back. She was slender and shapely. She was beautifully proportioned—just larger than an equally shapely smaller woman. My fingers came to the curly hairs down there, and explored. "Mmmmm," she hummed contentedly. "Yes, baby, that's right." She crawled forward a few inches so that her nipples swung over my mouth while my fingers had easier access to her slit. It too was large, but I was surprised as my fingers discovered how tight she was. She laughed, reading my mind. "I don't often have a man up here. That little pussy of mine is about as close to virginal as you'd expect in a woman of my age." I said: "I bet all that rowing and tennis and running keeps it tight too." "You have a point there," she said.…
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