The problem with change is that it’s often opposed by fear or force of habit. Wanting to be or do something different is easy, the execution...not so much.
For instance, it took me a long time to get over the fear of going back to school. Or at least to get over the fear enough to actually apply to one and make concrete plans to attend. I’m still terrified of being in a classroom again. I was stuck in a routine headed nowhere because it was safe and it was what I knew, but I wanted to go so badly that I finally said “enough” and grew a pair.
But my latest dilemma is a little more complicated than forcing myself to wade through paperwork and red tape. It’s not about just being afraid of change or being stuck in a rut. It’s also that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
Remember when I got tired of the single life, couldn’t seem to meet anyone new, and ended up dabbling in the online dating thing? And remember how, for my troubles, all I got was a few dinners, a few posts and a sore asshole? Yeah. And remember how I said I was done with that bullshit because it was time consuming, irritating and the majority of the guys are psychos?
Sigh. Well several months ago I inadvertently got drawn back into the snake pit. Seriously, it was not intentional.
I received an email one day from the dating site saying I had a new message. That was strange, seeing as how I hadn’t been on the account in months and, consequently, hadn’t had a message in months either. Apparently if you aren’t on there often, they don’t chat you up.
Being a curiosity killed the cat sort of woman I decided to see what it said and, as it turns out, it was from a guy I’d gone to high school with. I remembered him immediately – a tall, dark, bearded kid that wore big black tennis shoes and a trench coat all the time. In fact, he referenced his appearance himself in the email: “It’s me – Big creepy guy in the trench coat? I saw your profile and decided it’d be rude not to say “hi”.”
“No, no it wouldn’t be rude at all”, I thought, “Because we never spoke to begin with.”
What I said, however, was nice yet dismissive. Something along the lines of, “Yes, I remember you. Thanks for the message. See you’re still stuck in this godforsaken town too. Hope you’re doing well.” The subtext being, “Yep, we walked down the same halls. This is weird. You’re weird. High school sucked balls. Kthanksbye.”
What began then could best be described as a whirlwind of weirdness. I started to receive text messages and phone calls from exes that wanted to “hang out”, “catch up” and, my personal favorite, “go for a little swim...wink wink, nudge nudge”. And, I assume, because I’d logged onto my dating account, my inbox starting blowing up there as well. I went from no prospects to way too many in record time. It’s like they were all on the same period cycle or something.
I was chatting with guys again and trying to decide who, what, when, and where again. I’d forgotten how exhausting it could be and I quickly realized that one thing I am not good at is juggling men. I had a hard time talking to more than one of them at a time because I would mix up details and forget things.
Not only that, but I like to focus all my energy on one thing, which is basically the anti-thesis of online dating. It’s not a hard thing to do when you’re the queen of the one night stand, don’t call me I’ll definitely be blocking your number club. But that wasn’t me anymore...or I didn’t want it to be. I still craved sex, sure, but it was now more about wanting the (gag) connection.
And it’s tricky because I’m such an overtly sexual person. I often don’t realize until later that I was being suggestive in the first place. Or, sometimes I know I’m doing it but I still can’t seem to stop myself. It’s hard to make a deeper connection when I’ve always been so immersed in the physical side of things.
So, I decided that since I was apparently giving dating another shot, I should take steps to change all that about myself – to make a concentrated effort to A) keep my hands to myself, B) watch my dirty mouth, and C) (the most difficult) stop thinking that wanting to have a relationship made me a needy girl and being ashamed of the fact that I was tired of being single.
At first it seemed to be going well. I went on a date with a really nice guy and we started talking on the phone and texting quite a lot. Occasionally there was a bit of flirting, but it was harmless and not at all risqué. I was feeling good about it, really excited that I was not only keeping myself in check but that we had so many interesting conversations.
But apparently we’d reached the statute of limitations on harmless flirting and interesting conversation, because he decided to nudge me in the opposite direction. With his penis. Or rather, with a plethora of pictures...of his penis.
Let’s see, there was one that was clearly taken at an upward angle, but zoomed in to make things appear larger than I suspected they actually were. There was the one following that at a slightly different angle that validated my suspicions about the first. And then there was “the montage”.
Allow me to commentate:
Photo 1: “This is a picture of my crotch covered in jeans. See that there? That’s the tell-tale bulge of my things-may-appear-larger, side-mirror-penis. Now wait for it, don’t get excited!”
Photo 2: “Oh! Oh! Look! He’s coming out to play! He’s a little shy at first, I know. That’s why he’s only poking his head out of my natty boxer shorts.”
Photo 3: “SHAZAM! Here he is in all his glory. And see?! He brought two ugly, hairy friends to make him look better!”
The whole thing was hilarious, with each picture arriving mere seconds after the other, but at the same time extremely disappointing. First, because I’d gone to such lengths to try and behave myself and he had to cheapen the experience. And second, because it was ill timed, terrible photography.
After that guy there was another with nearly the same story – great conversations, funny, interesting. Then the invisible switch flipped and he was making random comments about my tits and the like.
He didn’t actually use the word “motorboat”, but it was implied. And though I find the concept funny, the reality is actually quite awkward and slightly uncomfortable. It’s like when you’re running and not wearing a sports bra so they’re bouncing all over the place, only imagine them going that fast sideways, back and forth, instead of up and down. Though, given a choice, I’d certainly rather be “motorboated” than run without a sports bra...or run at all, for that matter.
Where was I?
Ah, then there was the slip up.
The “I’m feeling sorry for myself because I can’t seem to meet anyone nice, so I’m going to agree to dinner with a guy friend that’s always liked me because, after all, we’ve been having lunch often and it’s been just fine.”
And even though I’d established ground rules about our friendship, mainly “you can compliment me all you want and we can be friends, but nothing else”, I ended up drinking way too much beer.
And even though we didn’t have sex, I did end up on my back.
Because he said, verbatim, that he’d been “dying to eat this pussy for years” and being under the influence I thought, “Self, how could you deny a dying man the treatment he needs?” I figured, why the fuck not?
I’d had sex with him years ago and that was horrific, so I wasn’t going there again. I’ve not had many good experiences in the oral sex department, and in fact I usually decline any offers, but I’d heard a rumor once from his ex girlfriend that he was excellent at it. So I shrugged and said, “As long as we don’t have to play Wheel of Fucking Fortune, go for it.” And he did.
I must say, though I was disappointed that I managed to break my ABCs of change rules, she was right. He was excellent. The only problem was, after two go rounds I was pretty sober and he refused to stop. I think it must have been some kind of ego thing, to see how many times he could make it happen. And no matter what some people may say, you can always have too much of a good thing. Especially if it comes with a nonstop commentary and demands to look at him, while he looks back with a creepy wet childish grin that screams “LOVE ME! I ALWAYS CLEAN MY PLATE!”
So, once again I said enough. No more online dating or hooking up with exes. “Self, you are unable to become involved with a guy, past the point of introductions, without getting penis pictures and offers to use your tits as bongos. Your vagina is not a frozen yogurt buffet for the needy and you just need to quit while you’re limping back in last place.”
Then I met someone – a friend of our new neighbors who has been hanging out on the lake with us nearly every weekend.
At first I didn’t even think of him that way. I simply liked hanging out with him, and everyone else, and thought he was funny. Then one afternoon we were floating together, cracking jokes and I realized, “Uh oh. I think I kind of like him.”
We’re both generally flirty people anyway, but it was when others started drawing attention to certain things that I really started to wonder if maybe he liked me too. Like when we all sat drinking one night on the dock and he lay down with his head in my lap, then held on to my hand when he finally got up to leave, releasing one finger at a time as if to hold on longer. Or how he somehow always ended up beside me or directly across from me on every boat ride and at every dinner. There were dozens of little signs that, had my confidence not been so wrecked by all my dating failures of the past, I probably would have jumped on, said “A Ha!” before suggesting, “Yo, let’s go make out behind the bleachers.” Or, you know, the classier, simpler version: “I like you.”
But maybe wasn’t good enough for me, I wanted to be sure. So I talked to his friends, our new neighbors, who’d quickly become my friends too. Basically I got the he’s always been a little flirty, but he’s actually quite shy speech. “I know he wants a serious relationship and he doesn’t just hop into bed with people”, she told me.
I decided then that my strategy would be to let him take his time and, if he was interested, he’d make a move when he was ready.
Unfortunately patience, shy men and subtlety are not on my list of specialties. So far I’ve gotten two kisses on the cheek, one “you’re so beautiful”, and a lot of disappearing acts. I’m not really sure any of those count as “moves”, except possibly the disappearing acts and that would be a move in the opposite direction. No bueno.
There’s apparently something fundamentally wrong with me, because it can’t be all these guys. I don’t know how to date AND I don’t know how to wait (patiently) for the sex.
My solution to this was to ask other people for advice, but unfortunately my friends and certain family members aren’t really qualified to give it.
Proof?
Claire: “Fuck him. He blew you off that one time. Ignore him. Wanna take a shot of this?”
Leigha (Yes, my 18 year old sister, Leigha.): “You should do what I do because it totally works. I don’t pay them any attention and they come running. Play really hard to get, mmk? They like it. Sigh. I love the game.”
Dave: “Put it on him. GET SOME, AL.”
Mom: “They all want one thing. Stop giving it to them. You did? Well, search me then!”
Grandma: “I’ve seen these commercials for products that help extend the penis. Does he own a house?”
Claire: “He’s probably gay anyway.”
Rachel: “You need to go out and get some strange.”
And we’re back to the beginning again, with virtually no improvement save for the realization that oral sex doesn’t always suck. The whole time. Back at the beginning with no idea what I’m doing, no current prospects (unless you count the one that’s “probably gay and wants you to be his beard”), and a cancelled dating profile.
The changing bullshit is hard.
Showing posts with label another one bites the dust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label another one bites the dust. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Online dating - the saga continues
So, this is day what in the online dating chronicles? I don’t even know.
I haven’t spent much time at all researching matches or browsing through profiles. I haven’t had to. That’s not an ego thing, it’s just a fact. I’ve been bombarded with messages since day one, hour one. I think this has less to do with them finding me attractive and more to do with the fact that I’m young. I can just see the wheels turning in the brains of these older men that are so gung ho about meeting me. “She’d fetch my beer and make me sandwiches a hell of a lot faster than those older broads. And she’d put out more too.”
During the first two weeks I received some pretty unfortunate messages. (I shared a few of them already here.) I was sorely disappointed in the quality of the site I chose to try first. The only decent candidate stood me up last weekend. Well technically we had no concrete plans, but we’d discussed doing something and then after Wednesday of last week, he never messaged me again. I was a little let down, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t as interested when he realized I had a daughter. Apparently he didn’t read my profile very clearly.
The other weekend, after the millionth request for sexual favors, I decided to try a different website. And I was immediately reassured. The matches were much, much better. Though, of course, there’s no keeping away all of the strange, disturbing, and borderline illiterate. There are also a lot of different features that make finding matches easier.
The neat part is seeing who looks at your profile. I’ve come across some interesting people – an English teacher, a Marine, and a man that prefers to live his life on the go, selling things out of his trunk. Anybody need a watch? But the most interesting by far is a 40 year old married man. All of his pictures are taken from the back, waist down, and he’s wearing women’s lingerie – black stockings, garters, high heels, and a thong. When I first saw it I simply stared with open mouthed horror, but before long I was laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face. His entire ass is covered in black hair.
I’ve never been a fan of hairy men to begin with, but really? It’s bad enough that your profile picture is of you wearing heels and stockings, meaning that the thumbnail is unavoidable, but why would you put up a picture of your ass when it looks like the face of a particularly ugly gorilla? Not cool, dude. No wonder he’s out seeking another playmate. His wife is probably in intensive care with the only 3rd degree rug burn on record.
He’s viewed my profile approximately 7 times now and has marked me as someone he’d like to “get to know”. The scary part is that he lives in this city. I keep looking around as I walk downtown, wondering if one of the suits passing by is hiding his hairy ass. See, my face is on my profile. His isn’t. Freaky.
But, like I said, it’s not all bad. This past week I started talking to a seemingly perfect candidate. We were matched by the site and both happened to read the other’s profile and rate each other highly.
He’s 32, divorced with two kids, and runs his own business. Though I’m not a huge fan of kids in general, I can’t rule out other parents. It would just be hypocritical. Not only that, but if they have their own kids they’ll probably be less likely to want another one...which makes my uterus breathe a sigh of relief. I really don’t want to have to explain to a man that pregnancy and childbirth is on my “never do again” list, right along with anal sex and the cha-cha slide.
Anyway, we’ve started emailing and recently progressed to text messages. And he’s funny. Not just funny, but my kind of funny. He’s witty, inappropriate, and smart. He reads as much as I do. And he writes. Not anything big, he says it’s just a journal, but c’mon...he writes! Finding a man that reads (things other than Field and Stream or Reader’s Digest because it’s on the back of the ‘shitter’) and writes around here is like winning the lottery.
We have plans to go out this Saturday night for drinks, dinner, and maybe some live music and I’m incredibly, uncommonly nervous. I think it’s because, unlike the first guy I was supposed to go out with, this one has most of the qualities that I’m looking for. I went into this with low expectations and I wasn’t disappointed, I was having a good laugh. Now, who knows? This shit might work after all.
He’s been trying to nail me down all week for a lunch date or a walk in the park, but I’ve been too busy. And I also kind of want to wait until Saturday. It gives me more time to plan, you know. Anyway, if we don’t click in person it won’t be the end of the world, but I find myself hoping that we do. Even at the risk of losing the opportunity to write a hilarious post about a horrible date. Yep, I said it.
Surprisingly, Mr. 39 year old that sort of stood me up sent me a message a few nights ago. He wanted to know if I wanted to go grab some dinner. I’d chalked him up as gone. I said no, of course. Last minute plans are not something I often agree to, or even that I’m able to agree to because of the kid. He said, “No worries, there’s always next time :).” And after thinking about it for a minute I said, “Yes, there is.” Because if he ever asks me a few days in advance and sticks to it, I may consider it. At least for the experience, right?
There’s one other possible interest in the pipeline, but so far it hasn’t gone further than a few emails – which is fine because I don’t know how people have time for all of this business. It’s one thing to juggle a few booty calls – you don’t have to necessarily do any talking there. This getting to know people stuff is a little like work. Not that I’m complaining...yet.
Coincidentally, how many dates do you think it’s appropriate to have before you throw caution to the wind and do the horizontal mambo? And by throw caution to the wind, I mean make it as far as the car. Not like going for it without protection or anything. I’m no maverick when it comes to that. I know all about the pullout method – it just turned 5 in April and answers to the name of “PUT THAT DOWN”. Not that I plan on sleeping with any of them. Ever. I’m doing this the right way. I’m just curious is all.
So...I’ve got the dress. I’ve got the shoes. I’ve got the date. Now all I need to do is relax and try not to get drunk accidentally on purpose and fuck it all up. Stay tuned.
I haven’t spent much time at all researching matches or browsing through profiles. I haven’t had to. That’s not an ego thing, it’s just a fact. I’ve been bombarded with messages since day one, hour one. I think this has less to do with them finding me attractive and more to do with the fact that I’m young. I can just see the wheels turning in the brains of these older men that are so gung ho about meeting me. “She’d fetch my beer and make me sandwiches a hell of a lot faster than those older broads. And she’d put out more too.”
During the first two weeks I received some pretty unfortunate messages. (I shared a few of them already here.) I was sorely disappointed in the quality of the site I chose to try first. The only decent candidate stood me up last weekend. Well technically we had no concrete plans, but we’d discussed doing something and then after Wednesday of last week, he never messaged me again. I was a little let down, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t as interested when he realized I had a daughter. Apparently he didn’t read my profile very clearly.
The other weekend, after the millionth request for sexual favors, I decided to try a different website. And I was immediately reassured. The matches were much, much better. Though, of course, there’s no keeping away all of the strange, disturbing, and borderline illiterate. There are also a lot of different features that make finding matches easier.
The neat part is seeing who looks at your profile. I’ve come across some interesting people – an English teacher, a Marine, and a man that prefers to live his life on the go, selling things out of his trunk. Anybody need a watch? But the most interesting by far is a 40 year old married man. All of his pictures are taken from the back, waist down, and he’s wearing women’s lingerie – black stockings, garters, high heels, and a thong. When I first saw it I simply stared with open mouthed horror, but before long I was laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face. His entire ass is covered in black hair.
I’ve never been a fan of hairy men to begin with, but really? It’s bad enough that your profile picture is of you wearing heels and stockings, meaning that the thumbnail is unavoidable, but why would you put up a picture of your ass when it looks like the face of a particularly ugly gorilla? Not cool, dude. No wonder he’s out seeking another playmate. His wife is probably in intensive care with the only 3rd degree rug burn on record.
He’s viewed my profile approximately 7 times now and has marked me as someone he’d like to “get to know”. The scary part is that he lives in this city. I keep looking around as I walk downtown, wondering if one of the suits passing by is hiding his hairy ass. See, my face is on my profile. His isn’t. Freaky.
But, like I said, it’s not all bad. This past week I started talking to a seemingly perfect candidate. We were matched by the site and both happened to read the other’s profile and rate each other highly.
He’s 32, divorced with two kids, and runs his own business. Though I’m not a huge fan of kids in general, I can’t rule out other parents. It would just be hypocritical. Not only that, but if they have their own kids they’ll probably be less likely to want another one...which makes my uterus breathe a sigh of relief. I really don’t want to have to explain to a man that pregnancy and childbirth is on my “never do again” list, right along with anal sex and the cha-cha slide.
Anyway, we’ve started emailing and recently progressed to text messages. And he’s funny. Not just funny, but my kind of funny. He’s witty, inappropriate, and smart. He reads as much as I do. And he writes. Not anything big, he says it’s just a journal, but c’mon...he writes! Finding a man that reads (things other than Field and Stream or Reader’s Digest because it’s on the back of the ‘shitter’) and writes around here is like winning the lottery.
We have plans to go out this Saturday night for drinks, dinner, and maybe some live music and I’m incredibly, uncommonly nervous. I think it’s because, unlike the first guy I was supposed to go out with, this one has most of the qualities that I’m looking for. I went into this with low expectations and I wasn’t disappointed, I was having a good laugh. Now, who knows? This shit might work after all.
He’s been trying to nail me down all week for a lunch date or a walk in the park, but I’ve been too busy. And I also kind of want to wait until Saturday. It gives me more time to plan, you know. Anyway, if we don’t click in person it won’t be the end of the world, but I find myself hoping that we do. Even at the risk of losing the opportunity to write a hilarious post about a horrible date. Yep, I said it.
Surprisingly, Mr. 39 year old that sort of stood me up sent me a message a few nights ago. He wanted to know if I wanted to go grab some dinner. I’d chalked him up as gone. I said no, of course. Last minute plans are not something I often agree to, or even that I’m able to agree to because of the kid. He said, “No worries, there’s always next time :).” And after thinking about it for a minute I said, “Yes, there is.” Because if he ever asks me a few days in advance and sticks to it, I may consider it. At least for the experience, right?
There’s one other possible interest in the pipeline, but so far it hasn’t gone further than a few emails – which is fine because I don’t know how people have time for all of this business. It’s one thing to juggle a few booty calls – you don’t have to necessarily do any talking there. This getting to know people stuff is a little like work. Not that I’m complaining...yet.
Coincidentally, how many dates do you think it’s appropriate to have before you throw caution to the wind and do the horizontal mambo? And by throw caution to the wind, I mean make it as far as the car. Not like going for it without protection or anything. I’m no maverick when it comes to that. I know all about the pullout method – it just turned 5 in April and answers to the name of “PUT THAT DOWN”. Not that I plan on sleeping with any of them. Ever. I’m doing this the right way. I’m just curious is all.
So...I’ve got the dress. I’ve got the shoes. I’ve got the date. Now all I need to do is relax and try not to get drunk accidentally on purpose and fuck it all up. Stay tuned.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
Online dating - the saga begins
Day One
While filling out the required profile information, I notice that some options are quite limited.
Apparently I can only choose “I prefer not to say” on the drop down box labeled “Do you want children?” That’s not an option under the labels of smoking, drinking, height, body type, or religion. And frankly I find it disheartening that my options to choose from under body type are only thin, athletic, a few extra pounds, and Big and Tall. None of those describe me adequately at all. I debate on whether to email the company and suggest the choices “voluptuous” and/or “how you doin’”, but ultimately decide that there’s just no time for that.
It takes me the better part of an hour to write the three small paragraphs that make up the “about me” section because I keep changing my mind about what to say. I decide against using quotes from Wedding Crashers at the bottom, hit save and move on to picture selection. This is where it gets tricky. I don’t really have many pictures that A) look good (I’m not very photogenic and only manage to take one decent picture every blue moon), B) don’t show cleavage, and C) don’t show me engaged in drunken revelry.
I eventually decide on four pictures total, only one of which was taken while sober, but at least my makeup seemed to be holding up ok. The cleavage turns out to be largely unavoidable. Pun intended.
I go ahead and save all of the work I’ve done so I can get a basic overview of what it will look like. I can edit later.
There are three messages in my inbox already. I have no idea how that’s possible. Either these men have lightening fast fingers or this website is very sneaky and publishes as you’re writing. I don’t think I approve of either of those choices, but I click on the first mail anyway.
It’s from a nice looking guy with a shaved head that looks to be about my age. But even though I have a particular fondness for shaved heads, I recognize the cocky, “this is my come hither you lucky woman”, face immediately. I laugh. When I read the one line message, I laugh even harder. “u wanna have sum fun”.
Oh dear. Not even two hours into this and I’m being harassed by the illiterate. No, I don’t think I do want to have “sum” fun. I’ve never much liked numbers. Although, I’d be remiss if I didn’t give you a lesson when you so very clearly asked for one: You – Brain + Creepy Come Hither Face = Never Going to Happen.
The second message is from someone named Matt (with a bunch of numbers behind his name all alluding to his, I assume, favorite sexual position – one which I myself have never been very fond of due to concentration issues etc.) who doesn’t have a picture. It says, “Hey girl you lookin’ good”.
Aside from the fact that our sexual preferences may not be found on the same page of the Kama sutra, there’s one other issue. Terrible though it may sound, I have no intention of getting involved or meeting up with someone that won’t display their picture. As I said in my recent I-can’t-believe-I’m-about-to-do-this-shit post, there’s a possibility that the creepy SpongeBob is lurking. And however farfetched it may seem to you, I wouldn’t even take that risk with your body, let alone mine. I am perfectly capable of putting lotion on my own skin, thank you very much. Yes, Matt, I believe I picked those pictures specifically because I was lookin’ good. Unfortunately I cannot return the compliment. Your blank square is...a nice shade of grey.
The third email is from a man, captured in profile, leaning casually against the side of a car. He’s wearing a blazer with jeans – a look I’m quite fond of, knowing how hard it is to pull off without looking sloppy or pretentious. It’s very ‘That sexy college professor I always wanted to see privately after class’ esque. “We are almost neighbors”, his message says. “P.S. – Cute pics.” Intrigued by both the picture and his claim of closeness (no one is ever my “almost neighbor”), I click the link to his profile to investigate.
He lives one town over, very close indeed, and after looking at two profiles that nearly sent me into a serious rant on the abuse of the English language, punctuation, and the sad state of our educational system, his is a breath of fresh air. Witty, informative, the correct use of “there”, and not one single “um” to be found. The only misgiving I have, so far, is his age – 39.
I’m certainly not a trophy 20 something woman and I have 4 feet of (visible) baggage. What would a divorced, 39 year old man that doesn’t have or want kids, want with me? Probably sex, I think, but I decide to message him back anyway. At least he can spell. Standards – the only form of birth control that’s free and self deprecating.
We are soon involved in prolific back and forth emails – he plays the piano, is a transplant from another state, and gets my sense of humor right away. (I’m not all straight forward vagina jokes, you know.) I’m genuinely interested in what he has to say, which doesn’t happen as often as it should, even with people I know. (No, I don’t mean you Aunt Christie. You’re very interesting, of course.)
We promise to contact each other again soon, as it is now getting late and someone is whining about not being able to use her laptop for hours. (That’s you, Aunt Christie.) And so ends my slightly successful first day of being a complete failure at meeting men the normal way – by bar hopping.
Day Two
I immediately begin giggling when I see the picture attached to my newest contact. He’s an Asian man, standing in a bathroom wearing black jockey shorts and nothing else. And while he’s certainly attractive, I vowed long ago to never take a man seriously when there’s a toilet in the background of a half naked picture. After all, Myspace was so five years ago.
After a few moments of deliberation, I decide to respond to his message anyway. How do I expect to get any material if I keep avoiding all the crazies? His message says, “Hey hey there beautiful. How are you doing?” And I respond with, “I’m well, thank you. How are you?”
“I am alright. I think I just mess up my shoulder at the gym. Hahahaha oh well. Anyway, what are u up to?”
“That sucks”, I reply. “Nothing much, just on my way home from work.”
“Cool, what do u do? Nice, now u can hang out with me.”
Hang out with you? Your pecs are clearly larger than your IQ if you think three unimpressive sentences is going to get you anywhere.
The afternoon continues to go downhill when I receive a message from Paul, whose profile states that one of his interests is “God”. Paul has chipmunk teeth.
“hey whats up? my name is paul i’m single i love sports, the great outdoors and having a good time.i’m a straight forward type of guy who is honest, loyal, respectful, caring and someone u can trust no matter what. i hope to hear from u soon so we can talk. do you have a facebook or myspace?”
Sigh. Paul, my love, haven’t you heard of capital letters? Not only that, Paul, but are you aware that you copy and pasted that entire spiel from your profile, aside from the last line, into this message? No? Have you heard of the word “effort”, Paul? What about “vagina”?
I decide to see just how far being at least semi honest, like some of my readers suggested, would get me with Paul.
“Hi. I like some sports and the great outdoors are, I suppose, alright as long as that doesn’t include camping. I’m straight forward and honest as well. I do indeed have a facebook and a myspace, but I prefer not to share them with people I haven’t yet met. I do hope that doesn’t sound harsh, but obviously, being a straight forward person yourself, you must value that in others. I’m sure you understand. However, I wouldn’t be opposed to messaging through here for the time being.”
Paul, as it turns out, did not understand.
I contemplate adding “not God” as an interest under my profile, but quickly change my mind after a small flashback of Christian, jeep sex. I must remember to keep my options open.
Later
I’m lying across my bed, reading, when I receive a new message. I’ve already had several after Paul that don’t bear mentioning (Except the one from a man that looks suspiciously like a friend of my father’s. Eww.) and I’ve become rather cranky.
I glance at my phone, half heartedly stab the open button and let out a heavy sigh when I see the picture. “What do you want, piggy?”
Just as immediately, I start laughing at how utterly horrible I’ve become in a span of only two days. I’m simultaneously amused and horrified with myself.
So this, I think, is online dating. As far as I can tell, the only differences between this and the real thing are that I’m not wearing any beer goggles and applying makeup is optional. Apparently, all you really need to be accepted is an orifice and a keyboard.
While filling out the required profile information, I notice that some options are quite limited.
Apparently I can only choose “I prefer not to say” on the drop down box labeled “Do you want children?” That’s not an option under the labels of smoking, drinking, height, body type, or religion. And frankly I find it disheartening that my options to choose from under body type are only thin, athletic, a few extra pounds, and Big and Tall. None of those describe me adequately at all. I debate on whether to email the company and suggest the choices “voluptuous” and/or “how you doin’”, but ultimately decide that there’s just no time for that.
It takes me the better part of an hour to write the three small paragraphs that make up the “about me” section because I keep changing my mind about what to say. I decide against using quotes from Wedding Crashers at the bottom, hit save and move on to picture selection. This is where it gets tricky. I don’t really have many pictures that A) look good (I’m not very photogenic and only manage to take one decent picture every blue moon), B) don’t show cleavage, and C) don’t show me engaged in drunken revelry.
I eventually decide on four pictures total, only one of which was taken while sober, but at least my makeup seemed to be holding up ok. The cleavage turns out to be largely unavoidable. Pun intended.
I go ahead and save all of the work I’ve done so I can get a basic overview of what it will look like. I can edit later.
There are three messages in my inbox already. I have no idea how that’s possible. Either these men have lightening fast fingers or this website is very sneaky and publishes as you’re writing. I don’t think I approve of either of those choices, but I click on the first mail anyway.
It’s from a nice looking guy with a shaved head that looks to be about my age. But even though I have a particular fondness for shaved heads, I recognize the cocky, “this is my come hither you lucky woman”, face immediately. I laugh. When I read the one line message, I laugh even harder. “u wanna have sum fun”.
Oh dear. Not even two hours into this and I’m being harassed by the illiterate. No, I don’t think I do want to have “sum” fun. I’ve never much liked numbers. Although, I’d be remiss if I didn’t give you a lesson when you so very clearly asked for one: You – Brain + Creepy Come Hither Face = Never Going to Happen.
The second message is from someone named Matt (with a bunch of numbers behind his name all alluding to his, I assume, favorite sexual position – one which I myself have never been very fond of due to concentration issues etc.) who doesn’t have a picture. It says, “Hey girl you lookin’ good”.
Aside from the fact that our sexual preferences may not be found on the same page of the Kama sutra, there’s one other issue. Terrible though it may sound, I have no intention of getting involved or meeting up with someone that won’t display their picture. As I said in my recent I-can’t-believe-I’m-about-to-do-this-shit post, there’s a possibility that the creepy SpongeBob is lurking. And however farfetched it may seem to you, I wouldn’t even take that risk with your body, let alone mine. I am perfectly capable of putting lotion on my own skin, thank you very much. Yes, Matt, I believe I picked those pictures specifically because I was lookin’ good. Unfortunately I cannot return the compliment. Your blank square is...a nice shade of grey.
The third email is from a man, captured in profile, leaning casually against the side of a car. He’s wearing a blazer with jeans – a look I’m quite fond of, knowing how hard it is to pull off without looking sloppy or pretentious. It’s very ‘That sexy college professor I always wanted to see privately after class’ esque. “We are almost neighbors”, his message says. “P.S. – Cute pics.” Intrigued by both the picture and his claim of closeness (no one is ever my “almost neighbor”), I click the link to his profile to investigate.
He lives one town over, very close indeed, and after looking at two profiles that nearly sent me into a serious rant on the abuse of the English language, punctuation, and the sad state of our educational system, his is a breath of fresh air. Witty, informative, the correct use of “there”, and not one single “um” to be found. The only misgiving I have, so far, is his age – 39.
I’m certainly not a trophy 20 something woman and I have 4 feet of (visible) baggage. What would a divorced, 39 year old man that doesn’t have or want kids, want with me? Probably sex, I think, but I decide to message him back anyway. At least he can spell. Standards – the only form of birth control that’s free and self deprecating.
We are soon involved in prolific back and forth emails – he plays the piano, is a transplant from another state, and gets my sense of humor right away. (I’m not all straight forward vagina jokes, you know.) I’m genuinely interested in what he has to say, which doesn’t happen as often as it should, even with people I know. (No, I don’t mean you Aunt Christie. You’re very interesting, of course.)
We promise to contact each other again soon, as it is now getting late and someone is whining about not being able to use her laptop for hours. (That’s you, Aunt Christie.) And so ends my slightly successful first day of being a complete failure at meeting men the normal way – by bar hopping.
Day Two
I immediately begin giggling when I see the picture attached to my newest contact. He’s an Asian man, standing in a bathroom wearing black jockey shorts and nothing else. And while he’s certainly attractive, I vowed long ago to never take a man seriously when there’s a toilet in the background of a half naked picture. After all, Myspace was so five years ago.
After a few moments of deliberation, I decide to respond to his message anyway. How do I expect to get any material if I keep avoiding all the crazies? His message says, “Hey hey there beautiful. How are you doing?” And I respond with, “I’m well, thank you. How are you?”
“I am alright. I think I just mess up my shoulder at the gym. Hahahaha oh well. Anyway, what are u up to?”
“That sucks”, I reply. “Nothing much, just on my way home from work.”
“Cool, what do u do? Nice, now u can hang out with me.”
Hang out with you? Your pecs are clearly larger than your IQ if you think three unimpressive sentences is going to get you anywhere.
The afternoon continues to go downhill when I receive a message from Paul, whose profile states that one of his interests is “God”. Paul has chipmunk teeth.
“hey whats up? my name is paul i’m single i love sports, the great outdoors and having a good time.i’m a straight forward type of guy who is honest, loyal, respectful, caring and someone u can trust no matter what. i hope to hear from u soon so we can talk. do you have a facebook or myspace?”
Sigh. Paul, my love, haven’t you heard of capital letters? Not only that, Paul, but are you aware that you copy and pasted that entire spiel from your profile, aside from the last line, into this message? No? Have you heard of the word “effort”, Paul? What about “vagina”?
I decide to see just how far being at least semi honest, like some of my readers suggested, would get me with Paul.
“Hi. I like some sports and the great outdoors are, I suppose, alright as long as that doesn’t include camping. I’m straight forward and honest as well. I do indeed have a facebook and a myspace, but I prefer not to share them with people I haven’t yet met. I do hope that doesn’t sound harsh, but obviously, being a straight forward person yourself, you must value that in others. I’m sure you understand. However, I wouldn’t be opposed to messaging through here for the time being.”
Paul, as it turns out, did not understand.
I contemplate adding “not God” as an interest under my profile, but quickly change my mind after a small flashback of Christian, jeep sex. I must remember to keep my options open.
Later
I’m lying across my bed, reading, when I receive a new message. I’ve already had several after Paul that don’t bear mentioning (Except the one from a man that looks suspiciously like a friend of my father’s. Eww.) and I’ve become rather cranky.
I glance at my phone, half heartedly stab the open button and let out a heavy sigh when I see the picture. “What do you want, piggy?”
Just as immediately, I start laughing at how utterly horrible I’ve become in a span of only two days. I’m simultaneously amused and horrified with myself.
So this, I think, is online dating. As far as I can tell, the only differences between this and the real thing are that I’m not wearing any beer goggles and applying makeup is optional. Apparently, all you really need to be accepted is an orifice and a keyboard.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Button, button, stop with the goddamn button!
I owe you lot an apology for not posting a drunk video blog like I said I probably would. So here it is:
“I’m sorry I didn’t make a video blog of myself being retarded drunk on New Year’s Eve because I was far too busy having sex.”
I’d love to say it was glorious and that I’ve been filled up to the brim with enough sexual healing to last me awhile. Sadly that’s not the case. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.
It was a bit like eating at a really nice restaurant.
The setting is perfect: mood lighting, attentive service, the air is filled with the scent of promise. The appetizer melts in your mouth and the wine is delectable.
Then the main course comes and the first few bites are amazing. Eyes roll heavenward and satisfied moans escape lips. You start to feel a bit lightheaded. You want to eat everything, but you find yourself ready for dessert NOW.
But SURPRISE! There isn’t any dessert! There’s only more main course...and more main course...and more main course. They keep taking away your plate and putting a fresh one down a few minutes later. And that really sucks because you’re a methodical eater – only eating one thing at a time and saving the best for last.
You eat all of the main course you can because you’re a trooper and it’s been a very long time since you’ve been to a restaurant. But someone has to cry uncle. You’re left with no dessert, only a dissatisfied ache. And even though there’s no check, you know you’re going to be paying for it later. Because, for some reason, you already have plans to come back.
There. I think that about covers it. Should I leave it at that? Would you be satisfied? No, neither would I.
I met him sometime around March of last year. He was a friend of my mom’s boyfriend – only a few years older than me, good looking, smart.
A group of them were going to a bar and invited both of us out with every intention of causing a connection. Sadly things didn’t go as planned. We said barely a few words to each other and there may have been a misunderstanding or two. I didn’t see him out again, but I would hear the occasional story about him and his women. I’d never admit it to any of my friends, but his antics fascinated me. It was almost like listening to stories about myself, in male form.
New Year’s Eve was looking rather grim. Most of my friends were either having a quiet night at home or going out to a club. I didn’t really want to spend the evening at home alone, nor did I have the money to go clubbing. The only other option was a party.
My mom and her boyfriend go to this party every year. I always heard it was a good time, but in all honesty, who wants to go to a New Year’s party and get drunk with their mom? Well...I decided it was better to get drunk for free than sit at home, so I climbed in the backseat of Ray’s truck and tagged along.
Ray has to get to everything early, so for the first two hours I was asking myself, “Self, why the fuck did you come here?”
Then things got better. Some people I knew came in and the hardcore drinking began.
I was wearing my new outfit – a pinstriped shirt dress, black leggings, and black flats. I was in love with the top because it reminded me of wearing a man’s shirt. There were slits on each side and when I sat down they rode up to my hips, exposing a lot of leg. Legging clad leg, but still.
I was sitting at a long table with my legs propped in the chair next to me, chatting across the way to a friend, when mom said in my ear, “He’s here.”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw him speaking to Ray. He looked good, better than I remembered. I shrugged and turned back to my friends.
Later I was walking past him and he said something smartass to me. I replied in kind and the flirtation began. Never actually stopping to talk to each other, we just exchanged heated looks and barbed words. The turning point was the dance.
There was a band playing country music (which isn’t my favorite, but I enjoy some of it) and they were pretty good. I was standing in a group of people, including him, when they struck up a slow song. (Wish I could remember what it was. I’ll have to ask.) He got all excited, claiming he loved it and had to dance. So I said, “C’mon.”
We walked out onto the floor, wrapped our arms around each other, and melted. His fingers ran from the back of neck, down my spine, stopping just short of getting very hands on indeed. While he swayed us in a raunchy circle, he sang low next to my ear. I forgot about everyone there, including my likely slack jawed mom. It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had slow dancing.
The song ended and we returned to our places. The flirting kicked up a notch and had our looks been hands, I swear we would have been naked and panting.
I’d stepped outside for a minute when I heard the count down begin. I raced back through the door and began counting with the rest. Then everyone was shouting and exchanging hugs as the band struck up the New Year song. I came face to face with him and we grinned at each other.
“Happy new year”, I said.
“Let’s see what you’ve got”, he replied grabbing me and pressing his lips to mine. BANG. FLASH. Instant burn. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was effective.
The party ended with the band making up funny songs about it’s members and various people in attendance. People were drifting out and saying their goodbyes. I was sitting on a barstool and he stood with his back to me, wrapping my legs around his. I slid my hands under his shirt and ran my nails down his back, tugging at the back of his belt. He made a noise of frustration and looked around before slipping his hand behind him and placing it between my legs.
It was all very inappropriate, but I honestly didn’t think anyone had noticed until I looked to the left and saw mom looking at me in horror. I just shrugged and grinned at her. She never drank, but that night she was wasted, having taken a Xanax before the party. I knew she wasn’t likely to remember much. (And she didn’t.)
Ray turned to me shortly after and said, “Are you coming with us?”
“I guess”, I replied reluctantly.
Loosening my legs, he turned around, looked and me and said, “That’s fine”, in a fake hurt tone.
That was all the invitation I needed. I looked back at Ray. “Nevermind.”
As we tripped off across the driveway he said, “Your mom is going to kill me.” (My mom works with his mom and knows him quite well, him being a friend of Ray’s and all.)
“And?"
We made the short drive to his house and went in. While he greeted his dog and dicked around, I took off my jacket and watched him. He seemed nervous, which was at odds with the personality I’d come in contact with so far.
“Come sit down for a minute.” He stretched out on the couch and patted the cushion next to him. I lay my head in his lap and threw my legs over the armrest. While we talked he slipped his hands inside my shirt and, well, here’s where I have a mental block. If I’m to explain it correctly I should say, “He fondled my breasts”, or something like that. But I just couldn’t type it without laughing and thinking of a Fabio novel in my Aunt’s fat, sweaty paws. I also couldn’t say, “He played with my boobies”, because that just doesn’t sound right...right?
Whatever, you get the idea, ok?
I was impatient, which I’m sure he was all too aware of, but he took his sweet time getting acquainted with my boobs. Finally he got up and towed me toward his bedroom, shutting the door in the face of his unhappy dog.
I started to take off my leggings. He turned around from whatever he was fiddling with (no, not himself) and said, “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking off my leggings.”
“Oh.”
At the time I was a bit confused about the problem with me removing my clothing. Was there a protocol? Was I supposed to play red light, green light or something?
I soon realized what the deal was: he wanted to be in complete control.
After removing my leggings, I crawled across the bed on my knees and turned around to face him. My shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and I was attempting to undo the rest when he pounced, flattening me to the bed. My sense of time is a bit addled, but there was a lot of long, delicious foreplay.
But when I tried to rise and take some control, he wouldn’t have it. For a moment it was a bit like being between two trampolines. I was trying to sit up and not understanding why he wouldn’t let me. So being the stubborn drunk, I kept trying and just ended up pinging back and forth between him and the bed. It was awkward, but kind of funny.
I finally got him on his back. (Isn’t that always fun to say?) And you’d think I’d get tired of hearing how awesome I am at oral sex, but no, I don’t. I’m even semi-bragging about it now. How tacky...yet entirely true. I will say I’ve never had one shout quite that much or that loudly. Must be getting better with age, eh? *brushes shoulders off*
Then there was some sex. It was good sex. There was hair pulling and ass slapping and shit talking. But then...
Whiskey came calling and demanded payment. And we’d have to start all over again.
And again. And again. He was tireless and would not accept defeat and neither, at first, would I.
Unfortunately, the longer things went on the harder he was on my bizness. Not in, or with the right appendage, but on, you understand. I’m not exactly sure what that deal was, but I had to put a stop to the button grinding before it went numb and fell off.
The stop and start routine went on forever before we finally just curled up together and slept for awhile. When I woke up he wasn’t there. I slipped on my shirt and found him in the living room watching TV. He was embarrassed, poor guy.
Now, normally I wouldn’t have cared it he was embarrassed or not. I would have shrugged and kept my mouth shut. But for some reason, I liked him enough to reassure him that I’d had a good time. And for the most part, I had.
I went and put my clothes on and asked him to take me home. I still have an aversion to being there when the sun comes up. I’ll have to work on that...
We laughed and carried on an easy conversation all the way home. When we pulled up he apologized again. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. As I climbed out of the truck he said, “I’ll make it up to you next time.”
“Yes, you will”, I said smiling.
He watched me dance across the driveway on my tiptoes, trying to avoid the mud puddles, and didn’t pull off until I was inside.
I went quietly about my routine and climbed into bed, but I couldn’t sleep. As much as I thought I liked him, there was still one problem:
I was too sore to help myself to dessert.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make a video blog of myself being retarded drunk on New Year’s Eve because I was far too busy having sex.”
I’d love to say it was glorious and that I’ve been filled up to the brim with enough sexual healing to last me awhile. Sadly that’s not the case. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.
It was a bit like eating at a really nice restaurant.
The setting is perfect: mood lighting, attentive service, the air is filled with the scent of promise. The appetizer melts in your mouth and the wine is delectable.
Then the main course comes and the first few bites are amazing. Eyes roll heavenward and satisfied moans escape lips. You start to feel a bit lightheaded. You want to eat everything, but you find yourself ready for dessert NOW.
But SURPRISE! There isn’t any dessert! There’s only more main course...and more main course...and more main course. They keep taking away your plate and putting a fresh one down a few minutes later. And that really sucks because you’re a methodical eater – only eating one thing at a time and saving the best for last.
You eat all of the main course you can because you’re a trooper and it’s been a very long time since you’ve been to a restaurant. But someone has to cry uncle. You’re left with no dessert, only a dissatisfied ache. And even though there’s no check, you know you’re going to be paying for it later. Because, for some reason, you already have plans to come back.
There. I think that about covers it. Should I leave it at that? Would you be satisfied? No, neither would I.
I met him sometime around March of last year. He was a friend of my mom’s boyfriend – only a few years older than me, good looking, smart.
A group of them were going to a bar and invited both of us out with every intention of causing a connection. Sadly things didn’t go as planned. We said barely a few words to each other and there may have been a misunderstanding or two. I didn’t see him out again, but I would hear the occasional story about him and his women. I’d never admit it to any of my friends, but his antics fascinated me. It was almost like listening to stories about myself, in male form.
New Year’s Eve was looking rather grim. Most of my friends were either having a quiet night at home or going out to a club. I didn’t really want to spend the evening at home alone, nor did I have the money to go clubbing. The only other option was a party.
My mom and her boyfriend go to this party every year. I always heard it was a good time, but in all honesty, who wants to go to a New Year’s party and get drunk with their mom? Well...I decided it was better to get drunk for free than sit at home, so I climbed in the backseat of Ray’s truck and tagged along.
Ray has to get to everything early, so for the first two hours I was asking myself, “Self, why the fuck did you come here?”
Then things got better. Some people I knew came in and the hardcore drinking began.
I was wearing my new outfit – a pinstriped shirt dress, black leggings, and black flats. I was in love with the top because it reminded me of wearing a man’s shirt. There were slits on each side and when I sat down they rode up to my hips, exposing a lot of leg. Legging clad leg, but still.
I was sitting at a long table with my legs propped in the chair next to me, chatting across the way to a friend, when mom said in my ear, “He’s here.”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw him speaking to Ray. He looked good, better than I remembered. I shrugged and turned back to my friends.
Later I was walking past him and he said something smartass to me. I replied in kind and the flirtation began. Never actually stopping to talk to each other, we just exchanged heated looks and barbed words. The turning point was the dance.
There was a band playing country music (which isn’t my favorite, but I enjoy some of it) and they were pretty good. I was standing in a group of people, including him, when they struck up a slow song. (Wish I could remember what it was. I’ll have to ask.) He got all excited, claiming he loved it and had to dance. So I said, “C’mon.”
We walked out onto the floor, wrapped our arms around each other, and melted. His fingers ran from the back of neck, down my spine, stopping just short of getting very hands on indeed. While he swayed us in a raunchy circle, he sang low next to my ear. I forgot about everyone there, including my likely slack jawed mom. It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had slow dancing.
The song ended and we returned to our places. The flirting kicked up a notch and had our looks been hands, I swear we would have been naked and panting.
I’d stepped outside for a minute when I heard the count down begin. I raced back through the door and began counting with the rest. Then everyone was shouting and exchanging hugs as the band struck up the New Year song. I came face to face with him and we grinned at each other.
“Happy new year”, I said.
“Let’s see what you’ve got”, he replied grabbing me and pressing his lips to mine. BANG. FLASH. Instant burn. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was effective.
The party ended with the band making up funny songs about it’s members and various people in attendance. People were drifting out and saying their goodbyes. I was sitting on a barstool and he stood with his back to me, wrapping my legs around his. I slid my hands under his shirt and ran my nails down his back, tugging at the back of his belt. He made a noise of frustration and looked around before slipping his hand behind him and placing it between my legs.
It was all very inappropriate, but I honestly didn’t think anyone had noticed until I looked to the left and saw mom looking at me in horror. I just shrugged and grinned at her. She never drank, but that night she was wasted, having taken a Xanax before the party. I knew she wasn’t likely to remember much. (And she didn’t.)
Ray turned to me shortly after and said, “Are you coming with us?”
“I guess”, I replied reluctantly.
Loosening my legs, he turned around, looked and me and said, “That’s fine”, in a fake hurt tone.
That was all the invitation I needed. I looked back at Ray. “Nevermind.”
As we tripped off across the driveway he said, “Your mom is going to kill me.” (My mom works with his mom and knows him quite well, him being a friend of Ray’s and all.)
“And?"
We made the short drive to his house and went in. While he greeted his dog and dicked around, I took off my jacket and watched him. He seemed nervous, which was at odds with the personality I’d come in contact with so far.
“Come sit down for a minute.” He stretched out on the couch and patted the cushion next to him. I lay my head in his lap and threw my legs over the armrest. While we talked he slipped his hands inside my shirt and, well, here’s where I have a mental block. If I’m to explain it correctly I should say, “He fondled my breasts”, or something like that. But I just couldn’t type it without laughing and thinking of a Fabio novel in my Aunt’s fat, sweaty paws. I also couldn’t say, “He played with my boobies”, because that just doesn’t sound right...right?
Whatever, you get the idea, ok?
I was impatient, which I’m sure he was all too aware of, but he took his sweet time getting acquainted with my boobs. Finally he got up and towed me toward his bedroom, shutting the door in the face of his unhappy dog.
I started to take off my leggings. He turned around from whatever he was fiddling with (no, not himself) and said, “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking off my leggings.”
“Oh.”
At the time I was a bit confused about the problem with me removing my clothing. Was there a protocol? Was I supposed to play red light, green light or something?
I soon realized what the deal was: he wanted to be in complete control.
After removing my leggings, I crawled across the bed on my knees and turned around to face him. My shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and I was attempting to undo the rest when he pounced, flattening me to the bed. My sense of time is a bit addled, but there was a lot of long, delicious foreplay.
But when I tried to rise and take some control, he wouldn’t have it. For a moment it was a bit like being between two trampolines. I was trying to sit up and not understanding why he wouldn’t let me. So being the stubborn drunk, I kept trying and just ended up pinging back and forth between him and the bed. It was awkward, but kind of funny.
I finally got him on his back. (Isn’t that always fun to say?) And you’d think I’d get tired of hearing how awesome I am at oral sex, but no, I don’t. I’m even semi-bragging about it now. How tacky...yet entirely true. I will say I’ve never had one shout quite that much or that loudly. Must be getting better with age, eh? *brushes shoulders off*
Then there was some sex. It was good sex. There was hair pulling and ass slapping and shit talking. But then...
Whiskey came calling and demanded payment. And we’d have to start all over again.
And again. And again. He was tireless and would not accept defeat and neither, at first, would I.
Unfortunately, the longer things went on the harder he was on my bizness. Not in, or with the right appendage, but on, you understand. I’m not exactly sure what that deal was, but I had to put a stop to the button grinding before it went numb and fell off.
The stop and start routine went on forever before we finally just curled up together and slept for awhile. When I woke up he wasn’t there. I slipped on my shirt and found him in the living room watching TV. He was embarrassed, poor guy.
Now, normally I wouldn’t have cared it he was embarrassed or not. I would have shrugged and kept my mouth shut. But for some reason, I liked him enough to reassure him that I’d had a good time. And for the most part, I had.
I went and put my clothes on and asked him to take me home. I still have an aversion to being there when the sun comes up. I’ll have to work on that...
We laughed and carried on an easy conversation all the way home. When we pulled up he apologized again. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. As I climbed out of the truck he said, “I’ll make it up to you next time.”
“Yes, you will”, I said smiling.
He watched me dance across the driveway on my tiptoes, trying to avoid the mud puddles, and didn’t pull off until I was inside.
I went quietly about my routine and climbed into bed, but I couldn’t sleep. As much as I thought I liked him, there was still one problem:
I was too sore to help myself to dessert.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
