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.