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.