Some things I have learned

These are generalisations only.

Women are too fussy. Men are not fussy enough.

The quicker someone makes contact and pleads startling levels of mutual compatibility and urgency to meet, the quicker the person will flee after sex.

Both genders lie about their true intentions, but for different reasons. Men often want less than they promise, and women conceal that they want more.

You can only hope — but never control — how someone will treat you.

Men will tolerate long periods of text message questions, pleading and anger to end contact rather than end definitively with the risk of confrontation.

Penis size can never be predicted accurately from other bodily measurements. The short, skinny, wiry men often pack generous gifts between their thin legs.

Gut feel, intuition, call it what you will, is almost always right but the reason for the warning bells needs unravelling before sense can be made of a situation.

One of the most confronting sexual encounters is with a new partner who undresses and his children’s names are tattooed on his body.

The longer a couple is together, the less likely the partners are to confess new sexual desires or urges to each other. The dangerous scenario of an affair perversely offers a more comfortable situation to create a new sexual identity without preconceptions.

Men don’t want women to take the lead during the courting/meeting stage, however, they want women to display more obvious clues.

As a personal quality, honesty is only valued by the honest or a person deceived.

The less notice given by someone seeking a booty call, the less satisfaction is guaranteed for the person being called.

There are few feelings more intensely pleasurable than the moment of realising a mutual attraction.

Men masturbate one to four times a day on average when they’re home alone off work. I have the photos.

Thursday night’s all right, all right

It’s only taken me a couple of years to realise, but the last-minute booty calling night of the week is Thursday. The last week has been an accidental sociological experiment because I’ve been exhausted from learning a new job I think I won’t tolerate for long, managing some nasty PMT and my period and I haven’t initiated non-essential contact with people for fear of wanting to bludgeon them. Here are the results of laying low for the week.

Monday was a non-sexual chit-chat day. There was no contact except from The Bachelor to discuss a serious sports injury he incurred on the weekend that will keep him from physical activity for some time. Damn. He’s interested in visiting the bondage supply shop with me though so that might be a fun afternoon out — the trip would be better if we could have sex immediately afterwards and I might delay plans so we can incorporate both activities.

Tuesday was a quiet day of reflection. I thought about how long it’s been since I last had contact with Country Hottie (a couple of months) — I sent the last message to him and I’m leaving him well alone. The Executive also didn’t respond to my last message a few weeks ago so I assume he’s disappeared as well.

Wednesdays are usually a mixed bag. When I had someone regular like Jekyll, we’d be lining up a short-notice meeting or planning for the weekend; with my current situation the middle of the week is often quiet. Young Lion broke the trend and came crashing in with lewd messages and a new voice recording. He spoke my name a couple of times and it was touching that the message was made just for me but a tad disconcerting to think someone’s out there making customised wanking messages. Don’t say it with flowers; say it with orgasms. In all reality, it made my day to check the phone during lunch and have to stand still while listening in case I fell over from surprise and redistributing blood flow. And then step out of the sandwich queue so I could listen again.

Now, let’s see what happens on a Thursday. People’s thoughts wander from the current routine of work and already-fixed weekend plans and focus on when guaranteed sex might feature over the next few days. Someone I’ve been in touch with for months but is a three-hour drive away suddenly decided that finding a way to meet on the weekend was the best idea ever. I had too much to do to clear a whole day and didn’t feel comfortable organising hotel sex with someone I haven’t met so we delayed that idea.

Pleasure Freak suggested an outdoor activity even though the day was blindingly hot, but it had to be that afternoon because he was scheduled for a vasectomy the following morning. I had to laugh at his living life to the full attitude but suggested a sunburnt cock might be hard to explain to the surgical team. He saw a little bit of sense in that reasoning but I don’t know if he chose to wank in safety or tried the park toilet block for a stranger anyway.

The bisexual man I mentioned a while ago who lives in the city also suggested we find a park to meet in for an outside scenario. He thought a golden shower outdoors was a grand idea, however, thinking with a hard-on tends to exclude the finer details of planning like taking water, wet wipes, towels, a change of clothes and whatever else might be needed to even contemplate pissing on someone away from the luxuries of home.

Young Lion came back and we have agreed tentatively to a hotel evening in the next week or two.

Young Tradesman returned from who-knows-where with some of the friendliest messages a girl could ever want to receive and ran off when he read between the lines that I wasn’t inclined towards launching myself at him on the spot. I was bleeding and tired and couldn’t be bothered, but I learned that using the word ‘period’ in a message sends the fly-by-nighters away remarkably swiftly.

Mr OMG sent an unexpected message asking if I’d like a late-night visitor. My alarm goes off at 5am now so his proposed visit after 11pm didn’t work. And if he’s sniffing around so soon after last time I’d prefer not to be always available so I  have some equality of power (yeah, right). I have a scenario in mind for him involving the trio of oral, vaginal and anal sex that will take a couple of hours to play out, so my period and a quick raid might interfere with my plans if he wanders off again afterwards. I might start planting the seeds of the idea and see where it takes us because I think I’m starting to understand the current workings of his mind.

Friday is variable: extremely quiet at the moment but was busy with post-midnight opportunists when I was in the phases of searching for partners online.

Saturday and Sunday aren’t even worth turning the phone on for. Thank goodness for fingers and lube.

Mad as early March hares

The ability of the male sex drive to sometimes overrule logical thought didn’t truly hit home until a couple of years ago when The Drummer and I were engaged in a bitter argument. At the time we had separated but lived under the same roof while finalising new living arrangements (I don’t recommend this to anyone but the clinically masochistic, although it was convenient not having to move back in when we reconciled). I can’t remember the reason for raised voices but we were near the bottom of a descending spiral of misunderstanding and vitriol.

Finally, he shouted that he was too horny to think coherently and suggested we fuck to get the frustration out of his system and then talk. I responded that I was too angry to consider fucking him, in the archetypal gender mismatching that men use sex to purge stress and women won’t have sex when stressed.

We bickered fruitlessly until I cracked and said, “Well! Go and see a fucking prostitute and then we’ll talk. I’m too angry to touch you.” In an odd bonding moment, I scanned the local newspaper and he had the phone on hands-free as we shopped for somewhere suitable to send him. We must’ve come across as naïve prank callers when we asked parlour receptionists about prices, if bookings were required and tricky questions such as what happens if you’re not finished when time is up? Logistics sorted with the advice of some understanding women on the other end of the phone, he disappeared for an hour and I wasn’t stricken by insecurity — the argument inadvertently helped me realise that neither of us would die if we had sex with someone else and started me on the current phase of my life.

It’s a loose segue, but The Drummer’s cock taking over his brain came to mind when wondering what the hell’s going on with the men I know.

The chap from the post before last who sent the message about the BDSM porn with visions of fucking me has disappeared again without trace — either a post-orgasm reality check or studying for a role in the film version of He’s Just Not That Into You (Unless He’s Got his Cock in his Hand and Porn on his TV).

Jekyll came good on his promise (threat) to create a joint profile on the dating site — weeks ago I said I wasn’t motivated and to not bother because we had so few opportunities with each other. Yesterday he surprised me with news that the profile was up and I should pull my weight and start responding to smiles. I asked him to stop, think carefully and tell me exactly how and when we’ll meet other people. I logged on the site to shut him up for a while, looked at one message and logged off. That’ll do until he responds to my snarky questions.

Hyde appeared from his lair and is apparently interested in hooking up with a couple, with me as the fourth person. He asked Jekyll to sound me out even though Jekyll hasn’t been invited to this particular party. Hyde has my phone number and I don’t know why he’s using Jekyll as his pimp. I’m ignoring them both until they sort themselves out.

ArmyDude and I have been sidestepping each other after I provided blunt feedback about his disappearances (fine) without communication (not fine). He has since dropped by the office three times in three days and sent half a dozen messages of apology. Thank goodness this overcompensating behaviour has slowed.

Just when I thought the planets had re-aligned, last night ArmyDude sent a message saying I still couldn’t visit because of the continuing long daylight hours and his neighbours were active until late. I agreed and said we’d need to talk about our future at some stage as our other options to meet were drying up. This sentiment didn’t sink in as I intended. A few messages later he was overtaken by an erection from hell and pleaded me to come by immediately, forgetting his earlier sage message and promising he’d handle any neighbourhood sightings or rumours. I told him to put the phone down, wank until he got off, rest for 10 minutes and re-consider his insane plan. He replied with a frustrated, “You could have been here by now if you’d left straight away.” I referred to my previous suggestion and went to bed.

The boys are behaving strangely. I’ve heard Mars is in retrograde Uranus or something but this broadscale assault of the cock over the brain is bamboozling.

The Drummer scores — and loses

The Drummer met a woman with whom he’s been corresponding the past few months. She came on strongly at the start and my suggestion to The Drummer to decelerate caused her to flee temporarily; she has been subsequently flaky and non-committal and he has been the same in retaliation and self protection. Finally, they came to be in the same place at the same time. Hooray.

The primary reason I’m not more actively bisexual is the amount of throwing bait and seeing if a woman wants to bite or spit it out, what’s she really saying when she’s not saying anything and the layers of subtle communicative meanings make very confusing work dealing with many of my gender. I wish we learned at school how to express concepts and desires directly to make our own dealings simpler, let alone for the men who bravely cross our paths (usually accused of the opposite trait of jumping to ‘when can we fuck?’ with too few enjoyable preliminaries. I am never content).

The Drummer is the only person who knows about this blog (and thankfully seldom reads so I have expressive freedom without his face popping into my conscious mind too often). Instead of giving him a welcome home hug and listening to his debrief (or being mother duckishly concerned about his emotional welfare, oops), I asked him to jot the details of his first encounter since the swingers’ evening several months ago:

Well, after much work in laying the groundwork for a meeting, I finally got some points on my resume of man-hussiness.

The lady I met at a local pub and over a beer we got to know each other and break the ice.

We ate some lunch and then quit the pub. Unfortunately for her I decided to make my move and pulled out my six gun in the hope that I would garner a reaction.

It got the desired result with her getting over her embarrassment and agreeing to find somewhere to get to know each other better.

A local park was the chosen venue for some very passable fellatio in the women’s public toilet.

Ok, to be fair I had fun but the zing just wasn’t there. She had garlic on her breath and her kissing was barely adequate.

Anyway, as people do when a quickie is on the mind, we got down to the business end of the deal with her dropping her pants and turning around so I could have her from behind.

Off I went in my best jackhammer impersonation all the while holding onto the numerous hand holds available on this woman’s body….yup, a wonderful person but substantially more overweight than her profile photos (30 kilograms heavier as an underestimation).

Anyway, I was nowhere near the vinegar stroke when she beckoned me to come, which just wasn’t going to happen for at least another half an hour of quality shagging. I realised with this comment that the game was up and requested a stoppage of play … injury time we’ll call it as I was losing my erection because of lack of attraction.

So the gig was up, I disposed of the protection, a vile brand of condom that I will never again buy in this lifetime, upped trolleys and walked out only to find an old perve looking at us from the male side of the toilet…he’d obviously been listening and getting his jollies from the encounter.

All in all, a good time but with no spark there won’t be a fire and I am down for the count at least for the short term.

She gave me a ride to my car and finished with the comment: “Consider yourself lucky you got that much.” Any guilt I felt at planning to end our contact disappeared when I heard those words.

I must say it’s the first time I’ve seen the phrase ‘vinegar stroke’.

My inner inquisitor wouldn’t shut up until he explained why he followed through when his desire wasn’t strong. It’s a confusing jumble of thoughts, including he didn’t want her to feel rejected if he left town immediately after lunch, he had a sense of duty to ‘get it over and done with’ built from months of expectation, and she drove him to the park and was dependent on her goodwill to return him to his car (my mental picture of her is a malevolently smirking Annie Wilkes in Stephen King’s Misery behind the wheel of a car without brakes). I’m not much the wiser but, then again, most ‘I don’t know why I did that’ encounters aren’t clothed in commonsense and easy explanations.

He said

What do you say when a man spills the contents of his heart, and a steaming froth of confusion and mini-deaths of the soul pour out of his mouth, and tightening emasculation is choking the very breath out of his lungs?

He said, “My wife and I have had sex less than five times this year.”

He said, “I don’t even bother her any more. I told her that she knows where I am if she wants me.”

He said, “I even grabbed her and asked if I was that repulsive, if she found me that awful to have sex with.”

He said, “I get so tired of wanking when she’s asleep, but I am sick in the stomach for days if I go elsewhere; if she finds out, I’ll lose my kids because she won’t understand.”

He said, “Maybe I’m asking for too much out of life. I have a wife, a house and kids and perhaps I can’t have everything and this is the one thing I can’t have.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I said, “I know how she feels because I used to be her, and until not that long ago.”

I said, “But I had the courage to face the part I played in a downfall and pay someone to ask me questions that made me cry in self pity. I learned that I wasn’t allowed to be the victim and control another with sex, and that’s too confronting for most people.”

I said, “I know how you feel because I caused your pain in someone else, and I know nothing I say can help because nothing can help her until she comes out of denial. And that day might never come. Can you live without your sexuality or pay the price of its freedom?”

We ran out of words and hugged the wilted embrace of the broken and the sympathetic.