The Schoolteacher & The Slut

Spring 2007. Post-Vanessa, Pre-Helena. I was in a complicated headspace. The breakup with Vanessa had been messy, but the swinger lifestyle still called to me. I decided to try the "Hard Mode": I registered a profile on the swinger site as a Single Male.

It’s a brutal market. For every single woman, there are hundreds of hungry men. But I got lucky. I connected with Manuela.

She was nearly forty, small, with a few extra kilos. When we met for coffee, she looked like the archetype of a conservative schoolteacher: classic haircut, long skirt, sensible shoes. A real lady.

But the moment she opened her mouth, the lady vanished.

In the middle of a crowded coffee shop, she started detailing her fetishes. She didn't whisper; she broadcasted. She wanted to be used. She wanted to be a slut. There’s a saying: Men want a lady in the street and a slut in the sheets. Manuela had the "slut" part down, but she forgot the "lady in the street" part. It was uncomfortable, watching families drink cappuccinos while she discussed deep throating, but it was also a green light.

I took her back to my apartment. The elevator ride was a preview—we started kissing immediately. Inside, I gave her the tour. By the time we reached the kitchen window, I was grabbing her tits. We had a choice: dinner or sex? "Sex," she decided.

In the bedroom, the clothes came off. She went down on me, moaning loudly, but she was impatient for the main event. "Fuck me," she begged.

She preferred doggy style—which worked for me, as it hid her extra weight. But then came the requests. "Harder!" she screamed. "Slap my ass! Pull my hair!"

She liked to be beaten. She needed it rough. I obliged. I slapped her fat ass until it was red, fulfilling her need to be treated like an object.

She came back a few days later, ready for a sleepover. She brought an arsenal: scented candles, perfumes, and an erotic movie. She showered and walked into the living room wearing nothing but a small towel. The movie didn't stand a chance. I pulled the towel off. She tried to watch the screen, but I put my cock in her face, and her priorities shifted. We ended up in the bedroom, doggy style again. I tried for anal, but she wasn't ready, so I settled for a finger while pounding her pussy.

The next morning, the dealbreaker arrived.

We left my apartment together. The elevator stopped on the floor below, and a kid—maybe twenty years old—got in. We stood in silence. Or rather, I stood in silence.

Manuela couldn't turn it off. She started talking about the sex we just had. Loudly. In graphic detail. "Oh, last night was so good when you..."

I froze. The kid stared at the floor, ears burning. I glared at her, trying to signal her to shut up, but she was oblivious, still in "slut mode." It was the longest minute of my life.

When the doors opened and the kid bolted, I turned to her, furious. Discretion is rule number one. "Game over," I told myself. I couldn't date a woman with a broken filter.