I caught up with the man I cancelled on a couple of weeks ago. My tolerance for meeting anyone wasn’t much improved, but I could never cancel twice in a row and maintain credibility that I’m generally a person of my word, so I went for drinks.
My brow must’ve creased in surprise a few times because he was normal. Easy enough on the eye though so skinny I feared I’d break him if we got to the having sex bit, communicative, polite, punctual, respectful and didn’t play a single mind game. And he laid his cards on the table before we left and said I was cute. I had to laugh about that because I hardly find myself cute and my persona at present makes a sabre-toothed tiger look like a kitten in a basket.
And you know what? I couldn’t tell if my lethargic level of interest during reflection time was the byproduct of family stresses earlier in the day or because there was no challenge. Never fucking happy.
We chatted during the week and at some stage I agreed to a hotel session this weekend. He’s booked the motel, found a venue for pre-meeting drinks and is happy for me to stick a tongue and toys up his arse. He made inclinations towards kinkiness so I slapped an orgasm ban on him and he seems to be obeying.
Why am I not more excited? I keep wanting what I can’t have and am lukewarm about what I can have served on a silver platter. I’ll extend his orgasm ban and see if it improves my mood.