Susan was a self-professed “cowgirl” from Northern California. She was a quick witted, beautiful free spirit, with the long, toned body of someone who rode horses every morning and swam at the beach every weekend. We met on a business trip and spent just three evenings together in rural Florida. In our shooting-star time together we managed to fit in long drives on two lane roads listening to country music, co-habitating a department store dressing room, skinny dipping, and some really good sex.
While I came to think of Susan as the cowgirl she wanted to be, when I first laid eyes on her she looked like she would be at home in Paris or New York. Twenty-four or twenty-five, she was in a medium blue sleeveless A-line dress. A modest V-neck in front hinted at cleavage and the matching V in back showed toned muscle. The dress broke at the knee and a luscious set of tan calves led to nude high heeled pumps. All of this was set off by her shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, and strong, pretty face.
We shook hands and spent about an hour with the local manager aligning our training plans. As the day wore on Susan revealed that a sharp sense of humor went along with the smart businesswoman. She shared the details of her cursed trip from California with the timing of a stand-up comedienne. The sad punchline of her story was the fact that they had lost her luggage. Her small carry-on survived but she had only her toiletries, a change of underwear, the clothes she had worn on the plane and the dress on her back. The airline was supposed to deliver her full bag that night or the next morning, at the latest.
We had dinner together. No bag arrived. It was over a mediocre steak but a better bottle of wine that I learned she rode her horse every morning before work. She summed herself up by saying she loved her horse and country music, and vintage clothes when she was out and “as little as possible” when she was home. I learned also that she had a boyfriend, who she complained about with her same sharp stand-up humor.
The morning brought a voucher rather than a bag. The remains of her suitcase had been found in Atlanta. It was a total loss. Susan wore what she had worn on the plane: an early seventies pale pink pantsuit, complete with bell-bottoms. A sheer sleeveless white blouse with a provocative neckline completed the look. When the jacket came off after lunch, I admit I allowed myself quick glances at her tan chest and the firm round globes of her horsewoman’s derrière. After close I navigated Susan (we had things called “maps” then) as she drove her rental car to the nearest mall some twenty-five miles away. We drove the mythical Highway 41 and the winding side roads through horse country. She was overjoyed to be in her element, singing along to Hank Williams (Sr), and admiring all the horse flesh we passed.
When we got to the mall Susan gave me a great gift: my now lifelong fetish for dressing a woman. We searched for casual clothes – jeans, a pair of shorts, a couple tops, flats — for the two and a half remaining days, and some dress clothes for the next work day and her return trip. And oh yeah, underwear. What fun. She clearly enjoyed teasing me as she tried on clothes and modeled them for me. Whether she was sincerely interested in my opinion or just liked seeing me with my tongue hanging out, I’m still not sure. She invited me into the dressing room, tossed lace underthings to me over the door, had me run and grab options. it was joyful and sexy. Because she was joyful and sexy.
We tossed her loot into the trunk and set off in search of a decent burger and milkshake. She started the car but promptly turned it off.
“Crap. I should have done this in the store. This bra has to go.” She pulled some stuff out of the trunk and hopped in the backseat. “Don’t look.”
Susan then proceeded to strip out of her dress clothes and replace them with jeans and camisole. It was quite erotic just to listen to the rustling, tugging, unsnapping, and zipping, interrupted by the occasional giggle or “Eyes front, mister.”
We found a roadside burger joint and intentionally got lost amidst the horse farms. She had me in stitches with stories about home, her family, her friends, and her boyfriend as we drove along.
“Oh God, she looks like mine!” Susan said excitedly as she suddenly pulled off the road. She hopped out and moved purposefully toward the high white fence, climbing to the second rung with well-practiced speed despite being in flip-flops rather than cowboy boots. I watched with admiration. She leaned forward, arching her back to stay balanced, stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle that Manhattan cabbies probably heard. So did the horses, as they quickly came running. She pet them all, but favored a brown one with a mostly white face.
I took in the view and vicariously drank in her joy. The image of Susan on that fence, her strong legs and spectacular ass squeezed into fresh denim, back dimples peeking out under her camisole, and a smile as broad as the horizon of rolling horse country, makes me smile to this day. I wanted her. I would get my wish later that evening.
The company had put us up in the best hotel in town. Sounds fancy, but other than a couple other tiny motels it was the only hotel in town: an 80-year-old place where tourists of old had come by train for the natural spring waters. It had been reopened a few years prior by some British investors charmed by the old town. They’d put some money into it, but it was a sort of Norma Desmond place, with the affectations of old wealth and style but actually quite rundown. It did have a pool. By the time Susan and I got back, it was well after 11:00. We had watched the sunset and then found a country and western bar where she, sort of, taught me the two-step. Between her being in flip-flop sandals, and me being an uncoordinated clod, it didn’t go well. But we laughed a lot and worked up a sweat. When we got back to the hotel and stepped from the air-conditioned car into the syrupy humid air, we both wanted a piece of that pool.
“Uh oh,” she said. “We forgot to buy a swimsuit.” She quickly declared underwear would do and we headed upstairs. I greeted her in the hallway as she emerged in a towel barely concealing her bra and panties. I flashed her my boxers.
“I’ve got a bathing suit,” I said, “but this seemed more fair.”
We went down the back stairs of the old, mostly abandoned place and emerged in the garden patio. The pool was closed and dark but there was no lock on the gate. The squeak of old metal was the only sentry. The water was cold compared to the air but still quite warm. We swam apart, whispering so as not to cause the front desk to come running. As time went on our decorum slipped, and there was more laughter and more proximity. Some childish splashing led to juvenile handiness, which led to a very adult embrace and kiss. My thin cotton boxers did nothing to disguise my feelings and Susan’s nipples poking through her bra were not due to cold.
We had surprised one another and broke apart with embarrassment. We swam for a bit longer and decided to head back up. We barely spoke. I walked her to her door. She had trouble with the old key, and I stood by to make sure she got in. After some fumbling the door opened. She stepped into the dark room and turned to me, her towel falling but for one arm holding a corner. She looked at me with a bit of a smirk but did not speak.
“Good night,” I said after an awkward pause. Susan half laughed.
“I’m on west coast time. I’m not even tired,” she said, with an inviting smile, as she opened the door wide.
I stepped into the room and we each simultaneously dropped our towels. Susan closed the door leaving us in near total darkness. She did not turn on the light. Our eyes adjusted, but with only moonlight coming through the gauzy drapes we counted more on touch than sight. We were out of our wet underclothes quickly and felt our way to the old four poster double-bed.
We made love slowly, gently, quietly but passionately. She was a fine kisser. We were a pair of pleasers. She sucked me. I pulled her off so I could eat her. She pulled me up to enter her. Instead, I ground against her mons briefly and then returned my mouth to her sex.
“It’s time. Let’s do this,” she said. I kissed my way up her torso and then entered her fully.
“Hey, I’m not really prepared. I don’t have condoms or anything.”
“It’s OK. I’m on the pill. But pull out, OK? I’ll feel less guilty for some reason.”
“Yeah, sure,” I uttered, losing my breath as my heart rate and hard-on grew.
“Besides…I like cum,” Susan said, and I could feel her smile through the darkness.
Her profession of affection for cum changed the tone, pace and intensity of our sex. We fucked hard and athletically, changing positions often and made more noise than was wise given the old walls. I finished standing, with Susan pulled to the foot of the bed facing me, her feet braced against the ornate spires of the old bed. I used my thumb against her clit to bring her off and then thrust hard to my finish. Per her request, I withdrew and shot onto her belly and breasts. I hovered above her, spent, sweaty and breathless.
Susan reached down and drew a finger through the mess, bringing a dollop to her lips and tongue. I could only see the outline of what she was doing but I could hear her comically embellish the sound of her sucking on her finger. Inspired and wanting to be a part of her pleasure, I dragged my tongue from her mound along the center of her stomach and up to a breast, gathering the semen I ran into along the way. I kissed her. She moaned delightfully as I passed my seed from my tongue to hers. “Nasty,” she said and kissed me again. After a few minutes of silent cuddling, she gave me a light spank and said, “See you tomorrow, Cowboy.”
I would have one more night with her. It was lovely, but more guarded and self-conscious than our first. While the sex that night may not have been as fabulous, the conversation was delightful. Per her usual way, she made up a comedy routine based on the worst of her sexual liaisons. We lay cuddled together, naked in the dark, convulsed in laughter.
After she returned to California, we wrote funny interoffice memos and letters to one another for a few months. However, soon after she shared that her boyfriend wasn’t particularly pleased with how much she talked about “that East Coast Guy,” our correspondence dwindled and then stopped.
I still think of her though. Every time I drive past white fences in the country, or hear certain country songs, or watch a female comedienne, or see an A-line dress. I hope she is happy and well and still riding horses, and that maybe “that East Coast Guy” crosses her mind every now and then.
