I have been a fan of Andrea’s for a good year, ever since I read her stellar reviews, here on TER, and found her gorgeous website, detailing not only an erotic adventure beyond compare, but one both empathetic, and perhaps, even artful!
However, as fascinated as I was by Andrea’s evident beauty and intelligence, the idea of actually booking a visit with a woman of such a high caliber intimidated me.
I have bad E.D. “Erectile Dysfunction “(don’t make me say it). Depression-based. not the kind that pills help with. As beautiful as my life is, I can’t feel it. There is something thick and terrible, built of bricks of shame and regret so heavy I can’t move them, that keeps me not only from joy, but from any sexual confidence I might have, once I am in the presence of another person.
But after trying everything under the sun to fix this, I decided the best course of action would be to just start living out my all-time fantasies. And my first thought was “Andrea Stone”.
And so, through her website, I contacted her. We exchanged a few very nice emails (she is a wonderful writer, btw) , I passed her verification process (very trustworthy, also), and I booked a “90 Minute Traditional Massage with a Foot-Fetish Add-On and a Voyeur Finale”.
And before I knew it, I was sitting outside her apartment, with a donation envelope and a gift bag of black stockings, waiting for her to text me to come on in.
And as I sit there, with the familiar smell of a Minneapolis June out the window, I think “As soon as she texts me, all I have to do, to step into my dream, is get out of the car”.
And then I get this text.
“I”ll meet you at the front door. We’ll have to be quiet. Shhh . . ..”
I have butterflies writing that, and I certainly had them then. And on their flutter,, I got out of the car.
What a feeling then, to not only step into a dream, but to begin moving toward it, down a dappled street in early June, in Uptown.
I feel so happy. And I haven’t for so long.
And then there she is! Standing in her doorway in a slip, holding the door (for me?), shoulder turned; long, dark hair cascading down a back so perfect I think “Stradivarius” , with alabaster legs and (oh my God) two of the most perfect feet I've ever seen. I gasp. Hope she
And then, without a word, she spirits me inside her apartment, and closes the door, and locks me in.
And then I see her face, so lovely, for the first time.
Now, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to describe Andrea’s face. And the best I can come up with is that, had Andrea been born during the time of the great Romantic painters, hers would be the face of all of their finest works. The ones that frustrated them the most, because, as incredibly rendered as they were, they could never quite fully encapsulate her. And there would be so many paintings like this that they would fill every gallery, and break every heart, as they did every fool who ever tried to come close to describing her.
I cry so hard as I write that. Why? Is it because I’m remembering how she hugged me then?
Yes, it is. And I will say no more about it (because that hug is just for me).
And then, for the next 90 minutes, I shared a space with an angel. And what a place Andrea has. Her place is old-school Uptown Minneapolis, with lots of great books and art to spark conversations to inspire. I love it there. Remembering the sensation of sinking into her antique sofa, with her, comforts me now.
But I’m SO nervous as I sit there. Star-struck, really. I mean, who do I think I am? I babble like a filter-less teenager. I tell her she's the "Oracle of my Journey". I sound silly, but she's such a beautiful listener, and so patient, that I almost forget why I'm there.
Which is when I hear the three greatest words in existence.
"So . . . shall we?"
And before I know it, I'm in Andrea's massage room, about to find out what a "Traditional 90 minute massage with Foot Fetish Add-On and Voyeur Finale" is.
Read on and find out,
