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Conclusion: Lesbian coed finds what she was missing.

"I still think I can do it, but I was never a great lover. Fun while it lasted. When Brenda walked out, I tried a few dates, but nobody I was interested in was interested, and I wasn't interested in anyone interested in me. Kinda the Groucho Marx approach: 'I'd never belong to a club who would have me as a member.' After a while, I focused on the things I like and have access to."

"Groucho Marx was an old lech until the day he died. You've given up, Bob. I think you'd be happier if you got your rocks off once in a while."

"Language!" I took a sip of my tea to break eye contact, and when I looked back she was still giving me a demanding look. "Giving up on impossible dreams is something we all do if our name isn't Don Quixote, Sam, sooner or later. No point in trying if there's no chance..."

She put her legs back up and looked at me very casually, like this conversation was no different than any other: "Giving blowjobs is no big deal. Still give one once in a while if I think a guy could use it. Take his mind off his troubles, give him a ray of sunshine. You could call it mercy head. I always make it clear it's not about romance or I'm going to be their girlfriend from now on, or they shouldn't expect this every day or week or anything. Or anything else like cleaning their apartment or cooking."

I let out a small chuckle. "These days, a woman who can put a button back on is more valuable to me than someone who would suck my cock."

Sam leaned over and stroked my beard with her fingertip, a saucy look in her eyes. "Oh baby, you want me to do some sewing for you? I'd love to do a few of your buttons, maybe even knit you some socks."

"You are such a temptress. You really know how to get a man turned on."

"Ooo, I'm a turn on. How retro. You were in the class of '69, right? Turn on, drop out, get high?"

"You know where I come from. We Sixty-Niners did all that and more."

For some reason, everything changed. Sam threw back her head and laughed a little, like she usually did, and the look that came back was genuine seduction: a little smile played on her face, her tongue touched her lips, and her eyes flashed a hungry look. "I think we should go to your place for a while. Pay the tab and we're off."

Tatiana chose to leave the ticket at that moment, and Sam drank the last of her tea in one gulp. Putting my card on the tray, Tatiana whisked away. "We're best friends, Bob," Sam said matter of factly. "Nothing's going to change that. Friends look after each other, keep each other's spirits up. I've been to your place many times."

Our waitress came back quickly with the form to sign, and the look on her face indicated she was sympathetic to Sam's idea. I gave Tatiana a quizzical look and she responded with a leer.

I lived three blocks away from the coffeehouse in a stately old house in a historic part of town. It was a bargain when I bought the old mansion and had just burned the mortgage. My front sitting room, like most of the rooms of my house, featured soft chairs and sofas, art reproductions, decorative lighting fixtures, and bulging bookshelves on almost every interior wall. The front room faced East, and was warmly illuminated by the morning sun. She gave me an intensely seductive look and said: "Where's your sewing kit? Guys like you only wear the t-shirt and vest combination when your shirts are off line."

Stunned for a moment, I remembered she was a great tease at the RenFest, a master at turning male libido on and off. "Upstairs bedroom, upper right drawer. Shirts are in the closet."

"How many?"

"Five. My white formal shirt is okay, the rest have soldiers missing in action."

"Shit, how often do you do your laundry?"

"When I need clean underwear, about every two weeks. Febreze is a gift from God."

Sam put her hands on her hips and gave me a fake indignant look.

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