Once upon a time I met a chef, went back to his place in the Bywater and fucked his brains out. I wasn’t living here at the time. We met online and I wanted the adventure of coming to New Orleans to see one guy and squeezing another into my greedy pussy in the same visit. I was already going to be in town for another date so I thought it might be fun to work in another cock. The relationship, if you could call it a relationship with the man in my story Polyamory Isn’t for the Faint of Heart was waning and I liked the idea of having this secret fuck before I saw him. He was going to spend most of our date talking with or about his number one anyway. Or, we’d talk about how she felt about her writing or her breakfast or how she is thinking about Pilates instead of yoga being more fulfilling for her and so on. So, as a mature woman in the throws of my hormonal peak, I thought it only fair that I get a little something for myself to make our time together tolerable. Revenge sex is best served chilled. Or, in this case, lukewarm. Lukewarm was how I was feeling about him and I was tired of his angst, his young girlfriend’s bewilderment at life in general, and his neediness. He wasn’t going to have a moment of clarity and I had accepted it. Also, I liked the challenge of fitting both men into this trip and the thrill of pulling it off with grace. A successful weekend in New Orleans with intrigue and suspense was something I could feast on for weeks. The adventure and the risk of heading into what was still a sketchy neighborhood as the Bywater was tantalizing. Chef seemed like a nice guy and offered to cook for me as well. So, I arrived in New Orleans with high hopes for a good trip and maybe some mind blowing sex. Not to mention, I wanted to soak in my city of dreams before I had to head back up yonder to Mississippi and tow the line. My time there was ending and I knew if I had to live there much longer I was going to burst into flames. I packed my little bag the day of and took the City of New Orleans from Jackson to the Crescent City with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. I was going to make the most of this gritty city and nothing was going to stop me. I was to meet the chef at his restaurant, see how it goes and decide whether he was “sponge worthy” to borrow a phrase. The train was on time. From the station I took a streetcar to my vacation rental in River Bend near Claiborne. I ditched my bag, changed into something pretty and got back onto the streetcar to head down to the Quarter. Crossing Canal I headed north on Chartres and as I walked I breathed in the smells of the river, garbage, the occasional puff of weed, sewage, fried food, beer and urine. I took a deep breath and exclaimed out loud “what a relief!” I was due at Sylvain for 8:00 pm and didn’t want to be late. I texted that I was near and he texted back that he was making my dinner. It’s not often in my life that men have cooked for me. You can imagine the brownie points he was chalking up by being so considerate and thoughtful. So, I entered the restaurant and told the hostess that I was looking for the chef. She told me that she was expecting me and sat me down at a cozy little table by the front windows. I watched the people walking on the street outside and waited for my date to come out and say hello. When he appeared from the back of the place he greeted me with a hug and a smile. He said, “you’re so pretty.” We both sat down and a waiter brought our first course. It was fried cauliflower with a delicate plum sauce. I was ravenous. Chef told me that this was all mine because he had been tasting all evening and wasn’t particularly hungry. I devoured it without hesitation. I already liked him and he was one of those types that likes to care for others. He likes to feed people and it must have soothed his soul. He seemed like a giver. However, I rarely fall for the givers. I want the guy who will give me the worst possible time and wonder why he isn’t more selfless. The second and third courses came and went. He told me about growing up in the city and where he went to high school and why he became a chef and what his momma’s maiden name was. I loved hearing about it all. He was a slice of New Orleans that was rare and true. He even had the accent. He was about six feet three with long legs and long black hair. Somewhere in his blood line there must have been some French and some American Indian, but I could only speculate. I wasn’t really attracted to him sexually, but the food he made was sensual and I decided based on this fact alone that he was worth blowing back at his place. He told me he had moved there recently because of the gays in town. You see, whenever a neighborhood is impoverished and gays with money and style start buying up the properties and renovating then that area is on an upswing. So, he figured he’d move in there and see how it evolves. He also told me that this restaurant was haunted and one time when he was prepping in the kitchen a knife flew across the room for no particular reason. No one was there but him and he just stood stunned for several minutes before continuing his work. Another employee had been walking in as the knife went flying, but turned and walked back out when he saw what was happening. They had been warned that weird things happen sometimes so they weren’t especially surprised. When I finished my dessert he said to give him a few minutes and we’d be on our way. As we left his haunted eatery and stepped out into the cool October night I noticed St. Louis Cathedral straight ahead. I said “let’s walk to the church.” We made our way towards Jackson Square surrounded by tourists and the locals looking to hustle them for their shoes, leftovers from dinner and anything else they could take. It was a beautiful night and I had a full belly and a whole weekend to misbehave. As we stood in front of the cathedral I remember him taking my hand when a rowdy group of drunk tourists came rushing in front of us. I guess I wasn’t looking because gazing at the church and the grounds at Jackson Square brought back a flood of memories like buying tiny bags of ground corn to feed the pigeons in the Square when I was a kid and going inside the Cathedral to light a candle. I’ve always been kind of a damsel in distress when I’m out in public. I’m easily over stimulated and will momentarily get stuck. He received points for paying attention and guiding me through the sea of people and lights and the memories that were silently overwhelming me, but he couldn’t possibly know. We strolled north from the Square and made our way through the dark streets toward Esplanade and beyond the Marigny. As we walked we stopped along to the way to people watch and take in the beautiful moon. This was a neighborhood I haven’t been to before. As we stepped onto Dumaine Street he said “it’s not much farther.” I breathed a sigh of relief as I looked around me. It was fairly empty and the people milling around seemed fairly scary. We made it to his front step and he unlocked the door. Let’s just say that it was an older home in need of a remodel and a maid. I forgave him for being a bachelor and probably the kind of guy who doesn’t entertain much as he’s always at work. He offered me a seat on his cluttered couch while clearing a space for me. “Do you want a beer?” He asked while smiling. I said “why not?” He brought a bottle of Bud over and sat beside me. We chatted a while and I began to loosen up. I realized he was authentic and I was in let’s just say “capable” hands. Those said hands gently touched my chin and he leaned in for a kiss which was soft and not pushy. You know what they say about that first kiss? It tells you everything you need to know about someone. This kiss was telling me I was about to get posted. I looked down and he was already growing for me. It was one of the biggest I had seen at that point in my life. He pulled me towards him, pulled me onto my feet and turned me around to face the couch. He started taking off my clothes with those great, big capable hands and I surrendered. He pulled my dress over my head and I watched it drop onto the floor. He pushed his pelvis and hips forward into my back and hips and ass. His hands were everywhere. He turned me around and pulled my bra down over my tummy and began sucking like he knew how I liked my breasts to be sucked. He took my hand and put it on top of his pants so I could feel him. It was then I realized I might not be able to accommodate him entirely. I unbuttoned his pants and he pulled his shirt off over his head. Where it fell I didn’t see. His penis came flying out his pants when I unzipped them with what could be best described as a boing! I sat down on the couch again and began sucking him. I was really juiced now and my pussy was hot and throbbing. He groaned quietly and let me savor him for a few minutes. As I sucked I noticed that old smell that homes like his have. It must have been built in the 20’s or 30’s. It seemed sturdy and the walls were pretty thick. I didn’t hear anything but us and the occasional car that drove by. It was after eleven so things were getting quiet outside. He took a handful of my hair and began fucking my mouth with those capable hands like I was his slave and my duty was to suck him to completion. He leaned down and pulled my head up towards his mouth in one smooth movement. He kissed me again with his mouth closed like a lover who kisses his girl as he’s leaving, but comes back for just one more. Then he lifted me to my feet and guided me to the edge of the couch, bent me over and began eating me from behind. His tongue was lapping me up from ass to the front of my dripping pussy. Then he fucked me with that tongue maybe in an effort to help me relax because a man knows when he has a big cock. If he wants to fuck he has to make sure a woman has had enough time to expand. I opened like a flower for him. As he slid into me it almost felt like the first time where there’s a little pain back towards the cervix, but you don’t really mind. A few hours passed and by the time he had sated his lust I was no longer coherent. His cum was in me and running down my legs. I think some was even in my hair as he came more than once. I felt so used and I loved it. He asked me if I wanted to clean up and stay with him for the night. I hobbled over towards the bathroom and turned on the light. I turned the light off. I couldn’t use this bathroom. I turned to him and gently said, “I really need to go, but I appreciate your offer. I’m renting a place in the River Bend and I have an early start. Thank you for a wonderful time.” He smiled and gave me a kiss on my forehead as I stood in his kitchen and used paper towels to clean up. I was dreaming about the hot shower I would take once I got back Uptown. He’s a good guy. He’s just not for me. So, this is merely a “booty call” and nothing more. He was kind and generous and I remember him and our experience fondly. That’s all it has to be. When my cab pulled up he stood in the doorway and asked “wasn’t our sex good?” I kissed him on the cheek and told him he was maybe the best sex I’d had in a long time. He grinned like a little boy as I stepped down on to the street and got into the car. When the sun came up I woke up sore, but thrilled. I had pulled it off. Later that morning my poly mess of a guy came to pick me up. I was outside waiting for him with my bag because we were going to be staying elsewhere that night. He rushed up to me and twirled me around in his enthusiastic and usual greeting. He was always like that. It was great in the beginning and the sex was perfection. Then, swiftly he’d turn away and get lost in a conversation with his confused millennial girlfriend or the women who contacted him on OK Cupid. Maybe he couldn’t handle the intimacy and he had even told me as much in some of our conversations. I made him have to think and that was hard for someone who couldn’t commit to the entire date before having to engage with another. As he smiled down into my face he asked “did you enjoy your night?” I gave him the sweetest eyes and expression I could manage and purred “I had a great night.” He blushed.