I walked into the Irish Pub on Walnut Street in Center City Philly and scanned the crowded Thursday night throng for my good buddy Pat O’Brien, aptly named for the location.
Pat, or Obie, would only introduce himself to women as Patrick, attempting, I suppose, to make himself sound more sophisticated.
Not surprisingly, I found him in the corner putting the moves on a tall, light-skinned black woman who seemed only lukewarm to Pat’s, excuse me, Patrick’s advances. More men should take their cues from a woman’s body language when they are hitting on her, it would save a lot of time for all parties involved.
I ordered a pint (why do pseudo-Irish pubs located an ocean away from Dublin insist on offering only ‘pints’ of draft beers?) and leaned on the bar to watch the festivities from a distance. No matter what you called him, Obie had a thing for black women, it was his long-running fantasy to finally fuck one. I had witnessed him go down in flames on numerous occasions, and it was usually entertaining to observe, so I chose to forsake my role as a good wingman and settled back to observe the frivolity, content on discreet voyeurism for now.
I was only vaguely aware of a body sidling in next to mine at the bar until my nose detected a sensationally arousing scent wafting through the heavy, smoky air of the low ceiling of the bar. Sight unseen, I detected that this heavenly fragrance must belong to something equally intoxicating, as my olfactory system was sending immediate and unmistakably urgent messages directly to my crotch.
I turned slowly as I felt a soft grazing on my exposed forearm, and saw three things: one of the most beautiful, exotic Asian faces, and, glancing lower, two of the most pronounced, largest nipples I had ever seen poking through the fabric of a white, ribbed, sleeveless turtleneck. The image of two of the thimble pieces from a Monopoly game floated into my brain as a comparison, they were of a similar size and appeared to be equally hard.
She stroked the stem of a martini glass with her index finger and thumb, and re-directed my gaze from her rigid pebbles back to her angelic face. Her smile was worthy of a toothpaste commercial and she cocked her head to the right, towards where Pat had now nuzzled ever closer to his lovely ebony target in the rear of the tavern, who stifled a yawn.
“That’s my roommate you keep checking out back there, do you like her? I can set you up, she’s trying to get rid of that guy she’s with, she’s giving me the secret signal, she’s pulling on her earlobe.”
I hesitated for a moment to absorb the entire package of adorable sensuality in front of me. About 5’2″, maybe 105 lbs, raven black hair tied up in a tight bun, huge dark eyes that were the color of her hair and a pert body that reflected daily trips to the gym. She wore tight black linen pants and although I couldn’t yet see her ass, I had no doubt that it was high, taut, and a perfect little bubble-ass, the kind that is not typical of petite Asian women.
Her top was molded directly to what I estimated were 32B breasts and was stretched taut against those amazing nipples that literally begged to be sucked. Her skin was naturally a light brown and the summer sun had put the final touches on her body, emitting a healthy, bronzed glow. Her lips were full and the approximate color of cranberries, and yes, I was captivated.
I took a sip of my lager (yep, they insisted on calling it a lager, too), and felt the immediate need to clarify, lest she come to the mistaken conclusion that my interests were elsewhere.
“Actually, that’s MY friend hitting on your roommate, and I’m taking great pleasure watching him prepare to strike out.” She giggled, joining in the fun, which resulted in a feeling of instant camaraderie, co-conspirators taking morbid, prurient pleasure in a silly spy game.
I decided to roll the dice early and show my hand, taking my own cues from her own body language that she would be receptive to my flirtatiousness. Nipples that size tell no lies.
“Besides,” I continued coyly, “I have an attraction to your roommate’s roommate.”
She frowned for an instant, doing the math, then her Colgate smile brightened in recognition of my compliment, and if possible, her nipples may just have stiffened a bit more. As I watched her nubs delightfully blossom, I was reminded of that line from ‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas’.
“The Grinch’s heart, they say, grew three sizes that day”. Substitute ‘heart’ with ‘nipples’, and, well, do you have a visual? (I know. I used to be so evil)
She removed her fingers from masturbating the martini glass and extended her tiny hand to me. “My name’s Sunny.” She giggled that cute, little schoolgirl giggle again, and this time my auditory senses joined their olfactory buddies, and in tandem they were shouting to my libido. The dopamine was dropping in my brain like crazy.
She went on, even the dimples on her high cheekbones were irresistibly sexy as she explained, waving her hands, “Actually, my proper Korean name is Kwang-Sun, but it loosely translates into ‘Sunny’, so that’s what everyone calls me.”
(Hey, as the show says, it’s always Sunny in Philadelphia)
We small-talked for a few minutes, and as we did, our bodies crept closer to each other’s below the bar, so that our hips were connected shortly into our conversation, and it was not by mutual accident. I wanted Sunny to feel my heat, as it’s been said by more than one woman that it’s a solid feature and is indeed located below my waist, and I’ve learned to play to one of my secondary strengths, so to speak. It wasn’t the first time that a woman was seduced primarily by my words and body language.
Sunny caught on rather quickly, grinding her pelvis into mine repeatedly, trying to gauge texture, thickness, girth, all of the important penile milestones, and it was evident that she was curious and eager to further explore. (Crazy, right? So fast!)
In the course of the conversation, I discovered that she and her roommate, Leslie, were just visitors from San Jose for the week, in town for a nursing seminar at nearby Jefferson hospital, and they would be flying out mid-morning and had decided for a night out after an arduous four days of copious classroom work. They shared a room at the Hyatt on Broad Street, a short walk away.
By the time we had finished our second drink, my hand lightly caressed Sunny’s luscious little butt through her pants and the back of her small palm brushed over my crotch, once, twice, three times now, each time her touch lingering just a bit longer, gauging the length and circumference and clearly impressed by her initial hypothesis.
“Mmmmm, I’m a little horny, don’t tempt me,” she purred.
I gently grabbed her wrist and twisted it so that it was now the front of her palm exploring my crotch.
“Consider yourself tempted.”
“By the way, Sunny, that ear lobe signal….?” She looked at me quizzically, urging me to continue with raised eyebrows. “Do you two have a secret signal for when you’re interested in a guy?”
Sunny attracted Leslie’s attention on the far side of the tavern and made a dramatic swipe of her index finger against the bridge of her nose. “We saw Paul Newman and Robert Redford do that in the movie, ‘The Sting’, and we decided it would be our little signal to the other,” she said, staring deeply into my eyes now, pushing herself into me beneath the bar.
“Oh, yeah, well, just what does that little signal mean?”
She raised up on her tip-toes to reach my face, and she nibbled on my ear, biting it gently. “It means I’m leaving, I want to be with this guy.”
She stood still, watching my reaction, but her answer was in her hands now, my groin twitching and pulsing in her palm. “I’m married,” she whispered. “Does that present a problem to you?”
I shook my head no. “Not unless he’s in your room.”