You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April 2009.
Country Hottie has been despatched from my memory banks to the dusty archives — two weeks since some messages ending with him saying he’ll make contact soon. I’ll do 50% but not chase, I don’t mind if you’ve had a change of heart but my ESP appears to be rusty, see you later, thanks for the squirting, blah blah blah, that’s enough overheated sense of frustration, move on.
I must be on a fucking ‘B’ list (‘fucking’ the verb, not the adjective, or both I suppose.)
No one wins when arguing with idiots but sometimes it’s necessary, if for no reason than to give me more to complain about. One of the biggest gripes from men seeking sexual partners online is that, because men outnumber women, “women have it so easy.”
The last man to say that to me was held hostage on his phone and forced to listen to an earful along the lines of:
“Do you have any goddamn idea what it’s like to be an ordinary person and have three-fucking hundred men launch in 24 hours like I’m the last dead fish for sale on Good Friday, and don’t read, won’t read, and certainly bloody well don’t take notice of the two hours I put into writing something that takes less than two minutes to read and decide whether to make contact. Men do not fall at my feet at this rate in real life and it’s a whole fucking artificial environment populated primarily by opportunists who send messages to anything with a vagina. It’s not actually like the greengrocer’s where women pick a mango from the display one day, a peach the next, and a fucking banana the day after that.”
“Um, err …”
“Do you have any idea how frustrating it is sorting through the screens of crap? And libido killing? That’s why your next complaint will be that women tend to go invisible or cancel their accounts as they’re questioned when they say no and harangued when they can’t keep up with responses and ignore messages. Do you see men’s profiles that say ‘it’s polite to respond even if you’re not interested?’ That’s just a smokescreen to manipulate women into contact they fear initiating because it opens the door slightly to negotiation and even more unwanted contact to end. Have you tried to divide 300 into the five or so messages a member can send a day with a paid account and how long it’ll take to respond, then deal with the new responses, and the repeated re-messaging from the first-day vag jumpers who are impatiently waiting replies. Have you? Have you?”
“Oh, I didn’t …”
“And! That’s just the start. The intelligent, thoughtful men who know how to communicate get frustrated because women don’t see their messages as they get drowned out among the thoughtless fools, which kills off the smart gene pool and propagates a larger lowest common denominator … “
“Hmm, err …”
I think he’s sorry he asked. We didn’t talk again.
ArmyDude’s house is off limits at nighttime for the foreseeable future.
Poor weather was all that saved me from being seen scampering through his garden after our most recent meeting. His house is situated on the curve of a street and traffic isn’t visible until the last moment, making my usual escape through his front yard the riskiest part of our meetings. This time, falling rain had dulled the aural warning of an approaching vehicle but thankfully refracted its headlight beams and gave my survival instincts just enough time to kick in. I dropped behind a bush and waited a few endless seconds for the adrenaline afterpain to subside before traversing his yard and the side streets for the safety of my car.
ArmyDude couldn’t see me from his front door and spent a few stricken minutes thinking I had been detected. We exchanged messages and agreed to let things cool and think of alternative meeting places. The problem is that if we had viable options, we’d already be spreading our risk and using them. He’s not available when my house is free and, having children, he often can’t predict when he could be available with certainty for some hotel hours. The only other options are catching up occasionally at lunch time in a car park or in the office or a storeroom after work — again, fraught with risk and not for regular use.
Too close, far too close.
Patience isn’t my greatest virtue but I’m learning that waiting often allows unfinished business to resolve of its own accord.
The mini-romance with Mr OMG ended when he disappeared after promising to get back in touch. I didn’t follow him up in line with my “I’ve left one message and the ball’s in your court” policy (I have rules *and* policies now!) but I kept his mobile phone number just in case (of what, I don’t know. Dumb hope?).
His number came in handy the other day. I was driving home from work and saw his car approaching in the oncoming lane. I’m not a stalker out looking to find him, promise, but the letters on his car’s number plate are coincidentally the first letters of my name and made him an easy find. I couldn’t help myself and sent a little message saying I saw him out and about and hope he’s well. I even included my name after my ‘regards’ sign-off in case he had deleted my number and didn’t know which trollop it was. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t hear back.
Fragments of this post has been spinning for a while and it’s time to purge. I tire of being the responsible adult when the discussion about safe-as-mutually-acceptable sex and protection arises, or often doesn’t arise unless I force the topic of conversation. The irony that I usually have the least to lose if something STD-wise occurs would almost be funny if I didn’t have such a strong sense of responsibility. In addition, I don’t take any form of birth control and my cycle is short and a little wonky some months — I’m far too hardened by life to place trust in fertility charts.
Jekyll was keen to fuck without protection and needed prodding a few times that I have at least five different types of condom in a zip-lock baggie — pick one. He would have been content to live with the risk even though he has a long-term partner. I asked how he’d explain himself if anything ever happened — goodness, even something relatively innocuous like thrush — and pangs of concern didn’t touch his conscience. In relation to my safety, he promised me his partner was faithful because she had lost interest in sex with him. His ego couldn’t fathom the concept that because a woman had lost sexual interest in him she might still have erotic thoughts or pursuits outside their bedroom.
ArmyDude “hates” condoms but reminds me less often than he used to because I reached the stage of telling him to shut up or put his clothes back on. UrbanVagabond turned up to our hotel meeting with a chemist’s bag containing condoms and lube and I could have hugged him for saving us the discussion. On the night of unexpected escapades in Mr OMG’s car, he was happy to go beyond oral sex “if you want” and made the decision mine. That’s a challenging call to make when a man’s head is between my legs, he’s about to come up for air and his erection is one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever held in my hand. I could have smacked both of us for being unprepared, and especially him because he initiated the call and had the opportunity to drop by a 7-Eleven on the way over. Country Hottie was somewhat lax about condoms even though we’re both clearly grown-ups with no firm holds on chastity or monogamy. I’d dearly love to take him for a ride bareback but I don’t know how I’d deal with the guilt and fear afterwards.
I’ve neither expected nor promised exclusivity and waiting for three months, undergoing tests and deciding who’s to be unprotected and who’s not sounds a bit complex for my entanglements. It only takes one concealed incident by me, my partner, any of our sexual partners or theirs to potentially drag networks of people through hell. I’m not a fan of condoms either but in my opinion sheathed sex is immensely more enjoyable than no sex.
Country Hottie found me on the dating site in my early days and from memory was the first man I met in person. With the benefit of a year’s perspective, I think we didn’t pursue each other further at the time because I was relatively fresh and ignorant (read stupid). I was also one of the first people he met after his post-divorce entrance into casual society and he was finding his feet as well.
We stayed in occasional touch as friendly acquaintances but remained detached enough that I was still able to imagine him naked (thank goodness, because the view was fantastic). In a way, meeting again brought us to the cusp of choosing either a platonic friendship or a more sexual direction because I’ve never been able to imagine having sex with existing friends. We chatted easily and I was torn between continuing our story swapping or addressing the warmth between my legs from observing the defined musculature and pronounced veins of his biceps and forearms as he gesticulated.
Even going to his house after lunch, I wasn’t sure if anything was going to happen. Yeah, yeah, two adults are on a meeting site and the man suggests lunch within walking distance of his house and invites you back … what else is going to happen? He doesn’t have any etchings and I don’t know any card games. I’m not sure if I treasure or loathe my last vestiges of naivete, however, I did pack condoms, a blindfold and a few toys, just in case.
I knew we were fine when the curtains of the main bedroom were open when I trundled past to the bathroom but closed by the time I returned. He was quietly doing the just in case as well.
I adore those last innocent moments of holding hands on the way to being introduced to a lover’s personal space. Our first long kiss converted the tummy butterflies into more passionate forms of energy and it wasn’t long before amiable chat made way for gutteral growls and our clothes were useless threads scattered about the floor.
Unwrapping his spare and athletic frame was a treat. I shook my head a couple of times wondering how I was in his room because he’s top five per cent of the population attractive and would have women crawling through bales of razor wire to get to him. Perhaps I’m not giving credit to his modest and nonjudgmental nature, or myself, for that matter.
I told the inner voice to fuck the hell off for a few hours and I pounced. He tied my hands together to check my enthusiasm and make me wait. I feasted on the first hints of his pre-come and he removed his ramrod-straight and thick cock from my mouth. He pinned me down and lavished attention between my legs that almost made me cry for the first penetration — I guessed correctly that any pleading would have further delayed the filling my body was screaming for. I asked to swallow his come before his first orgasm and he intentionally misfired past my tongue’s reach and started licking his semen from my cheek (little did he know I find men who indulge in their own fluids intensely arousing).
I do have a thing for nice men with mischievous streaks and the long drive home passed quickly thinking about what I’ll do to him if there’s a next time. I’ve said previously that my weak spot is getting too excited about potential and leaving myself exposed to crashing emotionally if the other has a change of mind. With Country Hottie, there’s almost endless opportunity — he knows ropework! enjoys and is grand at kissing! has hitty implements! — and I’m trying to be enthusiastic but realistic. I keep thinking about twirling my tongue about his arse again though.
*smiles*
*tries to concentrate*
*does a goofy grin*
*recollects the squirting thing*
*mind spins to the being tied up, spanked and finger fucked thing*
*nipples harden thinking of the grinding, grinding, grinding thing until I thought my vagina was going to inhale his cock if it didn’t enter quick smart*
*smiles*
The tall, skinny, purportedly kinky man I met a couple of weeks ago was given the benefit of the doubt when he cancelled the hotel meeting. We since exchanged some ideas and photos and agreed it was my turn to organise the next ‘first’ meeting.
A measure of self protection kicked in and I was loathe to book and pay for a hotel room in case he backed out again. Meeting at my house was an option as The Drummer would have been at work, but I didn’t want a relative stranger in my home until we had a higher level of trust and comfort.
No matter. The weather had been good all week and I concocted a Plan A outdoor scenario with a Plan B in-car activity in case the meteorologists got the sunshiney forecast wrong. I gave him the meeting place and time and said I’d supply the rest.
Something went horribly wrong on the communication and intention sides less than an hour before leaving home. He thought I hadn’t provided enough information. I said I wanted to keep things simple and there was plenty of time to build on the basics (you know, make sure the nuts-and-bolts sex is okay and then do the tied and lashed and hanging from the chandelier fucking — it’s okay to do it in that order, I think).
He instructed me to wear a specific outfit. I replied that was impossible because I hadn’t enough time; he said I was forgiven but in the future I was always to dress according to his requirements.
Always? Are you serious?
Yes.
My heart sank. A lot of his appeal was his fluid sexuality like mine and we had potential and desire to switch roles of dominance and submission or toss the whole lot out the window. Obviously not. I get excited dressing up of my own volition to please and surprise, or to occasionally adhere to a request, but his insistence on having bare-skinned, ready access to the lower half of my body at all times tipped the scales of equality the wrong way. For fuck’s sake, he wore an old t-shirt and cargo pants when we met and has the temerity to demand me to don towering heels and an arse-grazing skirt all the time? There were too many memories flashing before me of dragging armloads of clothes and shoes and trying to match undisciplined balls of seamed and fishnet stockings when meeting M1 and I didn’t want to go there or even partially there again.
I felt dreadful cancelling and ending contact (and then felt dreadful feeling defensive and angry because I shouldn’t have to feel bad) because neither of us would back down, but even in writing this, I can feel my upper lip curl thinking about always being costumed the same way to play every role.
On to cheerier news, I’m going on a road trip and having lunch with the country hottie. I’m not sure if lunch means eating food, devouring each other, or (hopefully) both but I’ll happily wear pretty underthings just in case.
My birthday is approaching far more quickly than I’m prepared to acknowledge and time is the one thing my planet-sized state of denial can’t stop. I’m of the age and simple lifestyle of not needing anything or wishing for anything beyond a book shop voucher and a bottle of Lanson champagne — hi, The Drummer, if you’re reading.
Jekyll and Hyde were pencilled in for a hotel afternoon the weekend after Denial Day. I sent Hyde a message asking if he’d be interested in some double penetration for a birthday girl, and his reply was, “Lovely, sounds great!” He makes me laugh. But Jekyll is on permanent hiatus and my timing in causing a ruckus with him has fucked the whole scenario up.
I don’t have the prospects or time up my sleeve to conjure a back-up plan. I had thought about going to the local pub’s weekly over-28s grab-a-gran night and hunting down two likely sorts, but I really do want some class together with proven track records in deviancy. Perhaps next year.
There’s a personality-clashing prelude and epilogue to my last meeting with ArmyDude. Earlier that day, we were bickering because he had disappeared from the earth which initiated an awkward ‘is everything okay with us?’ message from me. I can’t stand being in the position of feeling the need to do that.
I’m not likely to die without regular attention, but the deviation from our usual daily contact spooked me in the old investigative way of looking for the usual among the unusual and the unusual among the usual. This was not usual and I wanted to stop my mind spinning and understand what was going on. He replied saying he was under pressure at work and home and quite frankly didn’t understand my issue. I became cranky at his laissez faire lack of empathy and said that was fine (FINE!) but I wouldn’t have caused a stir if I didn’t genuinely have a concern.
He said he had a wife at home and didn’t need another one. I replied that simple communication would reduce the need for others to act like his wife.
He disappeared to cool off. A few hours later, little messages popped up on my e-mail and mobile phone enquiring about my day, the past weekend, movies I’ve seen, books I’ve read and generally driving me nuts with overcompensation. I asked him to stop contacting me out of obligation and his mood darkened again because he couldn’t do a thing right (fair point but I was too angry to concede).
We settled our differences before meeting and not a word was mentioned again until *after* we’d had sex. We were chatting convivially during recovery time and he started retrieving some of my earlier messages and reading them aloud. Cunning, smart, pre-meditating sewer rat of a man had a confrontation planned all along but didn’t want to risk me walking out before getting him off. I asked him to stop trying to embarrass me because the issue was dealt with.
He lifted himself from the chair, towered over me and instructed that I was never to assume anything was wrong if he disappeared for more than a few days. He will tell me if something is wrong and until then I am not to assume otherwise.
So, this is the former soldier under pressure, hey?
I don’t fall for military shit where soldiers are taught not to talk back when junior and never to be questioned when in the more senior ranks. The uniformed people I know are generally terrible debaters and even worse in an argument because they don’t know how to exchange differences of opinion without becoming defensive or aggressive.
I regained composure, returned his eye contact and replied, “Understood.” I don’t have The Waiter’s thousand-yard stare but I have a useful Wide-eyed Gaze of Hateful Obedience that absorbs everything and doesn’t let a skerrick of emotion or reaction out. While he was scrambling for a sentence to address at my vacant face, my mind was spinning silently with, “Fine, buddy, next time you message me looking for validation through attention, I’m AWOL for a few days. And all with your permission.” I also hoped that I had stretched his arsehole wide enough for him to be shitting liquid for a week. The petulant child in me is almost looking forward to the next time he disappears and I take my time responding.
