This is always one of my favourite parts. We lay back, hair tousled, skin cooling. She nestled handily in the crook of my arm. We sighed contentedly, our escaping breath echoing our other more dramatic releases from just a few minutes before.
She looked up at me. “So who’s your all time favourite in this town?”
I grinned and quipped, “Why? Do you want the job?” We chuckled, but I sensed she wanted a real answer. I thought a moment.
“I don’t really have one.” She looked startled. “Oh, I have lots of favourites.” I smiled. I had already been thinking that I had just found another one. But an ATF? Oh, those are few and very far between.
It doesn’t take very much to become one of my favourites. Sometimes all it taken is a particular icy shade of blue in a lady’s eyes, or a particularly pleasing curve to a backside. Sometimes it has been a scintillating conversation sparking my imagination, transmuting an ordinary looking lady into a truly beautiful one. And of course, sometimes it’s been a lady with ungodly skills, making me gasp for breath, making my eyes roll back and scrambling my brains.
I remember all my favourites. My memories are a mixed bag to be sure, but I choose to remember the very best in them. And for most of them, if I were to ever run across them again I would be glad to come calling, to see them again.
But an ATF? Well, that is something else again. An ATF would be someone who I would think of first when I know I’m heading to her town. Someone who I wait to hear back from before even considering calling someone else. Someone I daydream about in between our trysts, someone who fills me with sweet anticipation when I know I have a visit booked.
Sometimes I’ve been told by one of the other guys that they’ve had a ‘type’. By that I mean a particular set of physical characteristics that they’d consistently sought out. I’ve never truly understood that, because I find I’ve gotten drawn to the person inside, the invisible ghost in the machine that you can’t see in photos and only get to know once you start to talk to her or read her posts. My ATFs have been a petite redheaded spinner, a tomboy dressed in girly girl clothes, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A tiny brunette, her eyes sparkling bright with intelligence as she joshes wittily with me as we play on late into the night. A tall buxom busty blonde dressed in black, full of love for everything and everyone. And especially for me. There have been others, in every colour and variation of the spectrum in between.
An ATF is a favourite, only more so. A favourite on steroids, except of course I’ve never had a favourite who was on actual steroids. So what makes an ATF an ATF? And more to the point, my ATF? Those are very good questions.
An ATF is pretty much like any other favourite, but with that indefinable something else. It’s that secret sauce that defies description, that certain fairy-dusted twinkle that you never really know if you’ll find beforehand. I’ve tended to find that I’ve been my ATF’s ATF as well.
Let me draw a metaphor. I travel, and travel a lot. I’m very fortunate to have an employer who picks up the tab and they have booked me in some very nice places at times. Last night I had dinner at one of these fine places and the waiter called me sir. He was polite to a fault, almost to the point of obsequiousness. The food was delicious, the service was impeccable. The wine he suggested was lovely. But I glimpsed flashes of emptiness behind those eyes as he went about his business. He was on autopilot, not truly thinking about his job for me or his next guest. He did nothing wrong. I’m sure I have those days at work too, in the mind-numbing routine that fills much of our lives.
It’s like that with the ladies sometimes. Most of the ladies I see these days are professionals in the true sense of the word, skilled beyond any question. They’ve been wonderful to me. But I can’t help but notice the occasional flicker when the light goes out of her eyes, a tiny break from the effort of acting fascinated. And I really couldn’t have missed it at those few times when my time ran out, and her charm and grace turned off like a light switch.
I don’t hold it against these ladies. It’s at the end of it all, a day at the office for them. They are always very good at what they do. But passion? I’m sure they really do have passion. You can’t truly fake passion but you also can’t keep it up all the time. That’s a pretty tall order.
My ATFs have been truly passionate about me, and I’ve been passionate about them. That passion has been something that has been truly priceless, for it’s not something you can buy. You can only buy as they say, a reasonable facsimile. But the best sweeteners in the world can never replace true sugar for me.
It’s more than chemistry that has made an ATF for me. There’s mutual respect. She’s not likely to became an ATF if she has been brusque, thoughtless, or inconsiderate, no matter how much physical chemistry there has been. Because for me, being one of my ATFs truly becomes a meeting of minds and souls, so much more than the touch of our flesh.
You can see why I’ve tended to have very few ATFs. ATFs for me have been the proverbial hen’s teeth, the needle in a haystack. That true chemistry between partners is so easy, so commonplace, yet so rare and so difficult to find and keep.
But I search on. I know that somewhere out there is my lady, wondering when she’s going to meet that special pooner who she really clicks with, who charms her, who challenges her, who thrills her to his touch. I’ll bet she thinks she’ll never find that guy in this rough and tumble business of ours.
And then I’ll walk through her door.
She looked up at me. “So who’s your all time favourite in this town?”
I grinned and quipped, “Why? Do you want the job?” We chuckled, but I sensed she wanted a real answer. I thought a moment.
“I don’t really have one.” She looked startled. “Oh, I have lots of favourites.” I smiled. I had already been thinking that I had just found another one. But an ATF? Oh, those are few and very far between.
It doesn’t take very much to become one of my favourites. Sometimes all it taken is a particular icy shade of blue in a lady’s eyes, or a particularly pleasing curve to a backside. Sometimes it has been a scintillating conversation sparking my imagination, transmuting an ordinary looking lady into a truly beautiful one. And of course, sometimes it’s been a lady with ungodly skills, making me gasp for breath, making my eyes roll back and scrambling my brains.
I remember all my favourites. My memories are a mixed bag to be sure, but I choose to remember the very best in them. And for most of them, if I were to ever run across them again I would be glad to come calling, to see them again.
But an ATF? Well, that is something else again. An ATF would be someone who I would think of first when I know I’m heading to her town. Someone who I wait to hear back from before even considering calling someone else. Someone I daydream about in between our trysts, someone who fills me with sweet anticipation when I know I have a visit booked.
Sometimes I’ve been told by one of the other guys that they’ve had a ‘type’. By that I mean a particular set of physical characteristics that they’d consistently sought out. I’ve never truly understood that, because I find I’ve gotten drawn to the person inside, the invisible ghost in the machine that you can’t see in photos and only get to know once you start to talk to her or read her posts. My ATFs have been a petite redheaded spinner, a tomboy dressed in girly girl clothes, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A tiny brunette, her eyes sparkling bright with intelligence as she joshes wittily with me as we play on late into the night. A tall buxom busty blonde dressed in black, full of love for everything and everyone. And especially for me. There have been others, in every colour and variation of the spectrum in between.
An ATF is a favourite, only more so. A favourite on steroids, except of course I’ve never had a favourite who was on actual steroids. So what makes an ATF an ATF? And more to the point, my ATF? Those are very good questions.
An ATF is pretty much like any other favourite, but with that indefinable something else. It’s that secret sauce that defies description, that certain fairy-dusted twinkle that you never really know if you’ll find beforehand. I’ve tended to find that I’ve been my ATF’s ATF as well.
Let me draw a metaphor. I travel, and travel a lot. I’m very fortunate to have an employer who picks up the tab and they have booked me in some very nice places at times. Last night I had dinner at one of these fine places and the waiter called me sir. He was polite to a fault, almost to the point of obsequiousness. The food was delicious, the service was impeccable. The wine he suggested was lovely. But I glimpsed flashes of emptiness behind those eyes as he went about his business. He was on autopilot, not truly thinking about his job for me or his next guest. He did nothing wrong. I’m sure I have those days at work too, in the mind-numbing routine that fills much of our lives.
It’s like that with the ladies sometimes. Most of the ladies I see these days are professionals in the true sense of the word, skilled beyond any question. They’ve been wonderful to me. But I can’t help but notice the occasional flicker when the light goes out of her eyes, a tiny break from the effort of acting fascinated. And I really couldn’t have missed it at those few times when my time ran out, and her charm and grace turned off like a light switch.
I don’t hold it against these ladies. It’s at the end of it all, a day at the office for them. They are always very good at what they do. But passion? I’m sure they really do have passion. You can’t truly fake passion but you also can’t keep it up all the time. That’s a pretty tall order.
My ATFs have been truly passionate about me, and I’ve been passionate about them. That passion has been something that has been truly priceless, for it’s not something you can buy. You can only buy as they say, a reasonable facsimile. But the best sweeteners in the world can never replace true sugar for me.
It’s more than chemistry that has made an ATF for me. There’s mutual respect. She’s not likely to became an ATF if she has been brusque, thoughtless, or inconsiderate, no matter how much physical chemistry there has been. Because for me, being one of my ATFs truly becomes a meeting of minds and souls, so much more than the touch of our flesh.
You can see why I’ve tended to have very few ATFs. ATFs for me have been the proverbial hen’s teeth, the needle in a haystack. That true chemistry between partners is so easy, so commonplace, yet so rare and so difficult to find and keep.
But I search on. I know that somewhere out there is my lady, wondering when she’s going to meet that special pooner who she really clicks with, who charms her, who challenges her, who thrills her to his touch. I’ll bet she thinks she’ll never find that guy in this rough and tumble business of ours.
And then I’ll walk through her door.
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