Everything was there. There was even a book on astrology sitting on the coffee table. Did it really matter that I didn't remember his name? Everything else was there, just like they said it would be when "it was perfect." The questionnaires were extensive and, with all the details they delved into, surely would have revealed if this wasn't the right man for me, and he looked the part -- somewhere between my Uncle Jack and my college sweetheart.
What was his name? For the life of me I cannot remember the man I spent almost every day for three years of my life. Jessup was his last name. James Jessup. And, now, who is this man with his head between my legs and licking me in that most wonderful of ways through my panties and what should i do with my panties and should I make him stop? At least until I know his name proper. And, exactly how should I do that -- ask him his name again, for the third time?
This was not my first go around in the dating service circuit and I did have my rules, but I still do not seem to be able to follow those rules -- my rules that I set knowing they are going to help me find the "right one." And Sam, or whatever his name was, was breaking the rules, which I no longer wondered why I made them, as I clenched my legs around Sam's head. Sam wasn't his name. Sean, no. Stan, no. His finger lifted the pantie seam and slipped in me making me gasp. No, his name does not matter.
