I was two months out of a serious relationship. It was September, grad school was back in full swing, and I was categorically undersexed and overextended. My skin felt tight around my viscera, and when I thought about sex, or love, or Simon and how things ended, it felt a little bit like pulling the scab off of a wound that wasn't nearly as healed as I thought it was. I was wound so tightly that the smallest stimulus would make me spring into pieces. It was unsustainable. My roommate told me, as I sat on the radiator in our kitchen, bouncing my knees up and down with nervous energy and drinking a beer, that I obviously just needed to get laid. I decided she was right.
A friend of mine is a DJ here, and that night he was performing at a cramped basement venue. After feeding them sufficient amounts of whiskey, I dragged three friends (Including the delightful Liplicker) with me for a night of overpriced drinks and the very best of 1970s funk-soul and 1990-2000s hip hop in a room with horrible acoustics and murals on the stone walls. I wore my tightest jeans, black riding boots, and a cream-colored shirt with a low-plunging front and back. I wore a purple ribbon in my short blond hair to keep it out of my face.
When we walked into the bar, it was not particularly crowded. The room itself is maybe 12 feet wide by about 20 feet long, with a bar at one end, the DJ booth at the other, and everything else in between for dancing. There are a few tables near the entrance, but they mostly get used as a coat rack. My friends and I shed our outer layers and started dancing. There were some young men who tried to impress us with well-executed but categorically ridiculous dance moves, and the four of us soundly ignored them.
About 45 minutes in, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, he asked me to dance, I said yes. He was tall and slim, little bit of an accent, very plain in the face, with dark curly chest hair creeping over the edge of his shirt. He put his arms on my waist and pulled me close.
“My name is Buddy Holly,” he told me.
“Is it really, or is it actually Brian and you're just trying to get in my pants?”
“No, I'm from Texas,” he said.*
We danced together some more. His hands spread firmly up and down my back, searching to get under my belt and rub the flesh of my ass, and I rebuffed him. I had never slept with a stranger before, and I was wary of this man who pulled me in, felt me up, and whose face was so close to mine I could nearly taste his breath.
After dancing like this for a time, he told me the greatest pickup line I have ever heard, before or since: “You are visually delicious.” I laughed in his face and danced closer, shocked that someone would try that on me and even moreso that I didn't hate it.
There was lots of small talk. I discovered that he worked at a local large university in their political science department, putting the brand name MBA he had earned at a young age to work figuring out how nonprofits should spend their money. I told him my name, and my desire to work in a research-heavy field of healthcare. He was unphased. People who spend all their time at Big Name University in my city expect nothing less from their dance partners than a bachelor's degree and a large vocabulary.
We danced. We chatted. Our faces were close, our lips were close, our breathing was labored. I didn't know his last name. I was rubbing his back under his shirt and letting him squeeze my body. My friends winked at me from across the room. I leaned forward half a centimeter and Buddy Holly and I were suddenly kissing deeply, pulling each other in, while I slipped out a small, surprised moan. Our hips had long ago skipped over these pleasantries, and twenty minutes later my pussy was totally slick, and I could feel him pressing insistently against me. He was a stranger. He was exciting. This was exciting. This was terrifying. This was a bad idea, and such a good one.
“Margot,” he said, “I feel a connection with you. I would love to take you home and drink a bottle of wine with you and get to know you better.”
“You can buy me a drink, but I'm not going home with you.” I was firm. I believed it. I had never gone home with anyone before and I was nervous about taking my chances, since I believed pretty strongly that there was a good chance that he was, in fact, actually an axe murderer who preyed on the large-busted and recently single.
He acquiesced and bought me a drink. He said he wanted to know everything about me. I was cagey and told him very little, except that if he had met me six months ago I would have told him that I was getting ready to marry Simon. That was true.
As he and I finished our beers, he pulled his arm around my waist, and asked if I wouldn't mind leaving with him to grab something to eat. If I was uncomfortable at any point, I could back out, and leave, and he would respect it. I agreed. We ran out of the bar, his friends giving him high fives and mine frantically texting me that I can call them if things went sour.
The next half hour or so was a blur. He pressed me against an SUV in the street and kissed me like he was going to fuck me right then. I pressed back. We stumbled down the sidewalks. He told me all about nonprofits. I impressed him with my French, and I discovered that while his English is nearly impeccable, that accent was authentic and he was not a native speaker. We ate pizza and talked about feminism. This is truly the way into my heart/pants.
When we crossed the threshold of his apartment, he offered me mescal: “I have the normal kind, and I have something a little bit more fancy. You can have whichever you like.” I took some of the nicer one. I sat next to him on his white couch, on the white rug, next to the black coffee table: his apartment was clean and minimalist; the living space of a young person with not a lot of money but enough taste to know what to do with it.
On the couch, he leaned into me. My drunken mind was racing: will I or won't I? Will he or won't he? Do I want to? Why? Why not? What am I going to do? Is it so bad? It could be SO good. Will I or won't I? He was saying words and I was not paying attention. And then we were kissing like teenagers, with his hand around my waist and his chest pressing into me. He asked me to come back to his room.
“I want to make you feel good,” he said. “I want to make you forget about all the bullshit that troubles you. I just want you to feel good.” Buddy Holly fed me lines about sex and feminism that I am, even now, completely sure that he meant with all honesty.
Then we were naked, him running his hands all over my body. He smelled sweaty and masculine and hot. His chest and abdomen were covered in dense hair, his body was lean and muscular and far stronger than he looked, and he was on top of me, kissing my breasts and squeezing my ass. The light was on. I wrapped my legs around his waist. His penis pressed against the inside of my thigh, he kissed down my stomach to my mons, then to my clit. He licked it indelicately, and I moaned.
In about 30 seconds I asked him to get a condom; he agreed. I finally saw his dick: it was impressive. Probably about eight inches fully hard, not particularly thick but slightly curved. He rolled on the condom, threw my ankles over his shoulder, bit my neck and slid into me fully. I arched my back and moaned, he felt amazing inside me and I felt like I was waking up.
We fucked like this for about a minute and a half, and he asked me to roll over onto my stomach, which I was happy to oblige. That slight curve made this perfect: he grabbed the space between my ribs and my waist and entered me while I was on my stomach, pushing my hips into the air at a sharp angle. We were like this for approximately a minute before I came, hard, with him inside me and in a flood all over his (white) sheets. I was shaking. He sounded a little sad as he asked me if I was done for the night.
I told him no, don't be ridiculous, give me a minute.
He held me to him. I was quivering. I told him—truthfully--that he was the first man I had come with like that since I left Simon. He stroked my hair and kissed me, he pulled off the condom, and whispered kind words in my ear. He laid me on my back, and we made out in his bed while his still-hard penis pressed against me. I was still wet, I still wanted him, I was grinding my hips against his thigh like we had done on the dance floor, and he held my arms down over my head. He rolled on another condom.
When I have already come once, my vagina is much tighter afterwards. I am not sure if it's like this for other women, but my lover seemed to appreciate it. He fucked me slowly, through another orgasm and another, and he put me on top of him and I rode him while I came. I was shocked by how well he fit into me. We were at it for hours: he stared intensely into my eyes, we tried every position I know, I lost track of orgasms. It was wonderful.
I asked him if I could make him come.
“I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel.”
“I can't, unless I know this is real, that this is a real connection.”
“This connection is absurd. I've never felt anything like it. You've made me feel so good, it would mean so much to me if you would let me make you come.”
I slid down to the foot of the bed. I parted his legs. I kissed the insides of his thighs, and licked one of his balls, before I took him into my mouth. He sighed. He started to mutter, and he wasn't speaking English while he played with my hair and raised and lowered his pelvis to the rhythm of my mouth. I played with his scrotum with one hand and ran my other in a fist up and down his shaft with the other.
He collected himself, and sputtered out, “I want your pussy on my face, I want to taste you, please.”
I was happy to oblige. We 69'd for a good while: he moaned into me and I took as much of him in my mouth as I could. After a few minutes, he switched from eating my pussy to licking my perineum, and then to rimming me. I had only done that with Simon, it felt wonderful with him and it was stunning now. I was having a hard time sucking his cock with any skill from how good it felt, until he pressed his hips to my face and thrusted harder, and ejaculated into my mouth. He tasted like a man who had spent the past several hours drinking and dancing with a strange woman that he had fucked senseless a half hour earlier.
I dismounted. He was in a daze.
“Margot, you are an excellent cocksucker.”
He asked if he could hold me while I slept. I fell into his arms, he spooned me. I believe him that he fully intended to sleep with me this way, but I felt his cock harden again when I pressed my ass against his pelvis. He reached between my legs, kissed the back of my neck, and asked if he could get a condom. I agreed.
We were awake until about 5:00, and we collapsed into a sweaty sleep after: he held me tightly just as he said he wanted to. We awoke some hours later, and repeated the previous night's events. All told, we used maybe eight condoms, I sucked him off three times, and I have absolutely no idea how many times I came. In the morning he kissed me gently and saw me out the door.
He and I texted back and forth briefly. I never saw him again. He's my Unicorn: the man I slept with, who was exactly what I needed at the time and who I don't know if I'll ever see again. He was absolutely the best sex I've ever had—and I've had a decent amount of sex—and he was extraordinarily kind. I don't need to ever sleep with him again, because the memory I have of the man who, essentially, fucked the memory of my ex-love, my ex-almost-fiancé, right out of me with skill and aplomb, is perfect.
Buddy Holly belongs to a very small population of people of a certain ethnicity in my fair city, and he works at one of its largest employers. Some number of months later, Liplicker told her girlfriend, in jest, that she was “Visually delicious.” In between fits of laughter, the girlfriend asked where on earth my friend had heard this.
“Buddy, Margot's unicorn, said it to her!”
“Buddy HOLLY?!” she replied.
As it turns out, this girlfriend knew my unicorn through a series of other friends. She told me later that he has a girlfriend (or two?) now, and that he is, in fact, a prodigy at work and a feminist in real life, and that he never takes home women from bars. When she asked him about me, he said:
“Margot? Margot la Ravaudeuse? Yes, I know her. I took her home, and we had epic, marathonic, earth-shattering sex.”
As it turns out, I'm his Unicorn, too.
*In truth, Buddy Holly's real name is very distinctive and also the name of a pop song, so this story is considerably less funny when the names are changed to avoid any kind of detection, ever. Trust me, it was awesome.