Picnic in the car park

I re-activated my profile last week with a sense of caution from the nightmarish previous campaign and optimism that the next Mr Perfect-for-Adventure is waiting to be discovered. I made clearer my intent for a lover; neither a quick fuck nor another partner but something lustful and enlivening in the middle.

The beautiful men 15 years younger were very active — as a challenge I presume — but don’t comprehend they are reminders of my denial about ageing and that my energy for these games will expire long before theirs. Most of the others were the AnyTown AnyDatingSite individuals who shouldn’t be allowed to operate computers under the influence of an erection. Oh, and Mr OMG is back online and appearing in my search results as a lesson that I don’t always get what I want. But …

I met the first interesting one last night after some communication that just felt good. Half a dozen years older, classically handsome features with liquid brown eyes, dark hair and a hint of devil in his sexuality. He contemplated and spoke in the intelligent and considered manner of a senior executive but whispered that he wants to eat me alive. He’s not local and not available often but I think we’ll be able to sort something irregular out.

His car has buttery leather upholstery. I know this because after dinner he went down on me as I lounged across the back seat. The favour was returned most happily.

No chilling but plenty of creepiness

I ended up replying to Mr Chilled the day after he wrote — my message was welcoming but measured and I expressed interest in catching up again. I haven’t heard back for more than a week and one of my (newer) rules of thumb is that people who express interest singly tend to consolidate with mutually agreeable murmurs of intention within a couple of days. His e-mail was too well expressed to be a drunken missive, so I’ll chalk it down to either stroking his ego to see if he still has ‘it’, something in my reply sent him running, he’s just changed his mind or he hasn’t changed from the ethereal self I remember. The more people I meet, the fewer I understand, I swear.

One thing I should have done at the start of setting up an online account was create a document for ‘do not answer’ names and numbers. I’ve been caught out again twice by deleting numbers of people I didn’t expect to contact again and my urge for a tidy contact list in my mobile phone is too strong to change. I received a message from an unknown number pondering why my number is in his phone as he has no idea who I am. I replied and a second later felt sick in the stomach and realised it was the man who gave me the strongest sense of anti-attraction of my adult life. It took a few messages to banish him again. This time I’ve saved one of the messages with the number.

Even worse, I received a 3am message from an unknown number saying, “Is your husband still working at [company name]?” I can’t place the number at all, the person didn’t reply to my response the next morning and I’ve scoured my e-mail and online account for clues. Assuming it’s someone who knows me, is familiar with my relationship situation but not enough to be accurate, and being correct but out of date in where The Drummer works, I think it’s the man from a few months ago who I met in a park before he freaked out. We had a ‘who do you know?’ chat before we met as I knew of his family and we lived in the same locality. When I checked his old messages in the online acccount I saw he’s been viewing my profile exactly once a week for two months. Creepy. I blocked him.

More comebacks and an amusing disappearance

Young Tradesman issued an enthusiastic and surprising invitation considering I thought we were a once-off that didn’t go very far, but I’m struggling to garner enthusiasm for anything with only a few hours’ notice. Our planets might collide again if he gets in touch and I’m less distracted and rundown (I need time to document why life isn’t going to plan at the moment but the list keeps getting longer).

The other challenge with strictly casual arrangements I’ve been avoiding is that I grow cold and lose interest after a couple of weeks without mental interactions to feed lust and intent. If I’m home and the physical urge strikes, I take the pragmatic approach and get myself off rather than go on the hunt for someone on speed dial who might be free. Most men I’ve been in touch with — including Young Tradesman — who prefer the hunting method think I’m from a different century and that any non-sexual contact is akin to constricting their freedom. Regardless, he’ll either tire of pursuing an option that can’t be bothered showering and braving the cold, or I’ll get around to telling him myself.

I received an e-mail from Mr Chilled this morning, filled with reminiscences and asking if I’d be interested in catching up again. The practical beauty of the blog lately has been quickly being able to track whether I’ve had fun or not with those who have disappeared (big yes, judging by the endorphin-distilled essay I wrote in January) and the reality check that we met six months ago before communication with him became too much hard work. I’m not sure whether to despatch him or go back and finish what we started. For no particular reason and no regard for consistency, I’m leaning towards the positive.

I want to finish the tale of the woman I’ve mentioned a few times. We were due to meet but she hooked up with her husband’s female lover at a swingers’ party they all attended and the two women seem to have run off into the sunset together. I’m not sure how her husband feels about this. I have been dumped quicker than the proverbial hot potato but it’s all been worthwhile for the biggest belly laugh I’ve had in ages.

PS: I was starting another post that I’d had enough of Country Hottie’s lax communication (ten days or so since I asked for some final essential detail about the roleplay) and, low and behold, I just received an e-mail from him. He is free next weekend, when I will be bleeding half to death. I’ll sort it out later.


Bullshit detector — on

I was given a whole week’s respite from ArmyDude’s campaign to hunt for threesome partners without a plan.

I wasn’t able to visit him the other night and he sent a message saying it was too bad. I thought he was teasing in a sexual manner and asked playfully why he said that, hoping I’d hear something along the lines of I’m missing out on his hard cock and wet tongue. Wrong. He replied that he had created a couples account on a different site and wanted to borrow money from me (his wife runs the ministry of finance at his house) to pay for a membership so we could contact new people.

And, yet, he still doesn’t reply when I ask how. the. fuck. is. he. going. to. escape. to. meet. and. potentially. spend. hours. missing. from. home? Oh, and when was he going to ask my permission to use my identity? Fuck me. He backed off and said that he didn’t actually want to meet people. I called him on the bullshit of why would he pay to contact people mindlessly when he can read all the profiles and view all the pretty pictures he likes for free.

He’s either in denial or lying his arse off and using my details to differentiate himself from the solo men, or is using others as wank material when he’s home alone with no intention of meeting them. Both are unpalatable to me as is his reluctance to be frank and honest but wanting my passive involvement.

The crack is opening. And I really need more control over my sarcasm at the moment.

They’re baaaaack

After Mr New Year’s Eve crawled out of a hole last week, another two returned. I keep looking over my shoulder because it feels like the march of the undead sex zombies.

Someone sent an e-mail asking why I hadn’t been back in touch about a roleplay. My memory is usually sharp but I wondered who the hell he was and why on earth I’d be discussing a boss/secretary scenario (I spent enough years in real life being called ‘The Temp’ and misfiling documents to last a lifetime, thanks). I followed the e-mail trail and saw he was someone I had been in contact with and declined his proposal. He disappeared for six weeks before dropping by with a new e-mail name the same as a famous porn actor’s and a renewed approach that I had allegedly agreed to. I guess his ruse didn’t work.

The second person to express renewed interest was the man from April who at the last minute insisted I always wear an arse-skimming skirt and high heels or the deal was off. We’d had no contact since deciding it wasn’t going to work for either of us, yet all of a sudden after three months he would very much like to get together and play. No wonder I’m short tempered. Go away.

Is it the time of year? Other options exhausted and they’re hitting the recycling list? They can sense I’m sitting home knitting and letting my pubic hair grow instead of braving the elements in search of adventure? The only missing in action man from the past few months I’d want to hear from is Mr OMG, which of course will make him the least likely to be in contact again.


I can give you reason to be nervous

I still don’t understand why my phone sits silent for days and I suddenly hear from several people at the same time. I spent a fair part of last night preparing for my first home visit with ArmyDude as the guest of honour. I was a wreck by the time I finished washing linen, making the bed, stocking up towels, finding scent-free soap for him (ah, the considerations of fucking married people), shopping and filling the fridge to prepare for dinner, agonising beforehand for hours about what I might make for dinner for someone I know so intimately but not well when it comes to the domestics and, of course, tackling the most dangerous job of scrubbing the computer’s insides of all traces of my other lives in case he wanted to check the shared account together.

He had an alibi that allowed him to also set up a drink with a woman who had expressed interest in us. Five hours before we were due to meet I received a couple of texts saying he was convinced his wife was acting suspiciously. I thought he was projecting his own nerves but I happily gave him the option of deciding to proceed or cancel because he is taking the greater risk.

For the next three hours he disappeared from phone contact, and I knew from experience that he was cancelling but didn’t know how to break the news. An hour beforehand I received a message saying he felt more comfortable cancelling. I didn’t mind: I’d already prepared mentally for a no-show, dinner was almost ready, vibrators were fully charged and the thought of a freshly-made bed was hardly the end of the world. He sent another half a dozen messages apologising and saying how bad he felt, which started tainting my accepting mood. He got the message when I sent a terse “No more apologies, please.” Go away!

At the same time, Pierce came back in a mix of optimistic pleading and anticipated rejection. He unfortunately was at the end of a cycle of meeting people mindlessly and I didn’t want the reminder or to try to start again. Whatever was causing me to lash out with the wrong people seems to have settled for the time being. I’m probably in the opposing mindset of wanting nothing more energetic and safe than lounging in the winter sunny window like a neutered cat, but that’s bound to change soon enough.

The woman I’ve been trying to make contact with also sent an e-mail citing great amounts of nervousness about meeting one-on-one. She suggested we meet at a swingers’ night as the surroundings would be less stressful for her than at a cafe. Really? I could easily get offended if I think about it too much.

To top off my night, a message saying hello and enquiring about my wellbeing landed in the phone from an unknown number. I asked who it might be. Low and behold, it was Mr New Year’s Eve from … let me count with two hands here … oh, six months ago. I asked coolly if he’d mistaken me for someone else because we were meeting last Christmas and he cancelled the same day and disappeared. He bravely (or stupidly) responded and claimed nerves but he’s back now and ready to meet. Again, really? That’s nice. I struggled to contain my sarcasm said it was a shame that people becoming paralysed by nerves sure seems to happen a lot. He didn’t come back. I’m a lot of things but six-month-old bargain barrel slops isn’t one of them.


The treble — fail, ?, ?

This time last week I was primed with superfluous energy and looking for somewhere unsuitable to expend it. This time this week I couldn’t be arsed. And men say they don’t understand women …

If you saw hell frozen over last night it’s because I said no to ArmyDude. Get out! I know! He was messaging excitedly and incessantly about us potentially meeting a couple, but shied away from logistical aspects such as when he could escape home safely to meet people about 90 fucking minutes away and, oh yes, I just got access to their private gallery and experienced an instant case of anti-wetness in my central region when I saw the man of the duo. He went into a defensive ‘oh my god, she’s turning into the fishwife’ mode and didn’t reply to my messages yet hours later came out of hiding with a hard-on and invited me over. I thought about it and couldn’t be bothered. Wanting low maintenance needs to work both ways.

I could be meeting the pierced man tonight. Our last contact was left open-ended a couple of days ago as he suggested meeting at my house and I insisted on a neutral place first. I don’t know if a lack of repsonse means that he’s fine and we’ll sort out a meeting point on the day or he’s not happy with that.

ETA: he’s just let me know when he’s free tonight — I must be getting old and out of touch with the she’ll-be-right communication habits of those a dozen years younger *smiles*.

In an act of masochistic game playing I can’t quite drag myself away from, I had Country Hottie pencilled in for this weekend but again he hasn’t confirmed anything beyond, “Hey there, sounds great, will be good to see you, I think this day will work for me xx.” I think more than anything I’m curious about why he swathes non-commitment with flowery niceties that I’m the most special person on earth when we’re both aware I’m not — I’m the loan girl. I’ll absorb his attention gratefully, of course, but it means nothing without follow-up. I think he runs the same attractive, charming cad who makes ’em feel good routine on everyone and I’m just still stubborn enough to think I can manage him in my way.

ETA: I’m a bit gobsmacked as he has just asked what time I’ll be there. Roadtrip here we come. Note to self: take more notice of what I just wrote about him getting away with caddish behaviour. I rest my argument on my relative detachment and desire for some bondage — I was sorting through a bag of equipment the other day and lamenting I haven’t played with ropes and cuffs since probably the first time with him.


Thwarting

The past week has been one to forget (yeah, I see the irony in a great bloody long post detailing it).

Country Hottie responded to the text message in my last post in about half a nanosecond and gave me three dates he was available. I chose one and he responded later that he’d see if he was free and get back to me. Heh? I assumed that I was Plan B on standby and he had since heard back positively from a Plan A option and was starting to weasel his way out. I didn’t bother waiting for him to juggle his options and made plans to meet someone else.

I had drinks with the someone else and I felt little beyond moderate attraction in a I’d have sex with you happily enough but walk away happily enough as well kind of way. Somewhat of a shame as in theory as he is separated and not looking for anything beyond regular sexual contact, works a fly-in/fly-out job and lives alone when he’s in town. Our kiss goodnight was barely more than a peck and I have chalked it down to too much amiability and not enough lust between us.

In a weird coincidence I saw the man outlined in the “Fleeing” post on a fetish web site. Through some enquiries made via a few degrees of separation, my instincts to bugger the hell off were verified. He is known as a delusional, manipulative liar who played other women while with his wife, and appears to be now playing the woman he left his wife for — not mine to judge but the fetish circle he moves in is small and close-knit and his house of cards will tumble soon. I’m glad I was right about him, but I wish my hindsight was fed more directly into my foresight so I could have saved myself some discomfort.

The weirdest event of the week involved someone who took possession of the phone belonging to the man who sent photos of his dick in a cock pump. Someone started sending me unsolicited and detailed text messages from his phone like this:

Hi [creepy use of my first name], this is [Mr Cock Pump’s] ex girlfriend and you’ll probably think I’m crazy and perhaps I am right now. [Mr Cock Pump] and I broke up last year and we still have a friends with benefits thing. A few weeks ago I collapsed in a shopping centre and discovered I was pregnant with his child. He has tried to hurt me and I have been in pain the last three weeks. He is a good man and perhaps we have a chance but you also need to know about his mood swings from drug use that make him unpredictable. Contrary to what it sounds like, we are not together now and I want you to know this so you can make up your own mind and avoid the terrible situation I am in. Don’t let this happen to you.

I was bored at work and couldn’t help myself so I replied, asking if they weren’t together, how on earth did she have access to his phone? She responded in an equally rambling and bizarre way and I ended up with more messages over a few hours until I lost interest and decided to step out of both their lives. I doubt he was the sender because of the writing style and he had no reason to scare me off as we never met nor had contact for weeks. Perhaps the nutter was a new, insecure girlfriend who had been snooping through his call logs and was trying to fend off the competition. They are welcome to each other.

I think my only prospects this time around are a woman I’ve been in touch with, however, she might prove too far away and we’ve stepped into the comfort of chatting like friends rather than potential lovers. There’s also a young tradesman about town who comes across as experienced but basic fun and I’ll see what happens. I’m feeling somewhat battle-weary after this campaign and of late the frustration has greatly outweighed the reward.

Fleeing

I wish I could confide details but this was the one man, the one story, the one unusual goal in his life that dominated the first meeting and made me want to leap from my chair into passing traffic to kill the pain of listening.

All I can reflect on is something a former work mentor/clinical psychologist once told me about a study of human attraction. He said that 20 per cent of people experience some attraction when they meet, 60 per cent are ambivalent or form no strong opinion and the remaining 20 per cent will not like each other. My percentages average at about 5 per cent, 90 per cent and I’ve only met a handful of people whom I’ve disliked intensely for unexplainable reasons. I saw this man outside the cafe and my fight or flight receptors immediately said run for the hills before it’s too late. It was one of the strongest chemically-based (I assume) anti-attractions I’ve experienced in my life. Every cell in my body seemed to scream no. No. No. No. No. No.

This is where I have to swallow my previous righteousness about telling the perhaps brutal truth when rejecting someone. Instead of making the clean-cut decision to tell him I felt nothing, I sat and hoped he’d pick up on my body language and the speed I was making my drink disappear. He was too busy talking about himself to notice. I (truthfully) said I was tired and had to leave and would call him the next day (to end contact). He said he was a night owl and had all night and how about darlin’ why don’t you tell me more about those things you mentioned in your profile? I ejected more kind but condescending crap out of my mouth that I’d gone shy when, in all reality, thinking about giving him an inroad to my desires made me bilious. I silently thanked myself for my reluctance to overshare with prospective partners before meeting. He walked me to my car and wouldn’t stop talking but  the subject changed from his life’s goal to his witchy ex-wife. I finally broke away and opened my car door. He was left standing on the footpath like a lost puppy and said loudly, “Don’t I even get a goodnight kiss?”

I thought that getting in my car without him alongside was hint enough that he wasn’t “getting” a damn thing. Emotional manipulation of that nature makes my blood boil. I did a quick assessment of my options and didn’t have the strength to deal with an argument if I said that hell freezing over was a good time with me to kiss him. I had too much pride to get a kiss over and done with and expel him from my life the next day, and I was too angry by this stage to be subtle with a brief and vague rejection.

I made a decision and kissed him. Once. It was awful.

I escaped. Once. It was necessary. I sent a message the next day saying nothing more will happen. He has asked if I really mean I don’t want to see him again.

He’s gone now.

Part(ner)ing

As good timing would have it, I was in the north, the local man mentioned previously was in the south and our paths were about to cross the night before we planned to meet. He suggested a park and sports ground to catch up that I know well for non-sexual reasons.  I said I’d meet him at the main car park where I was confident in the safety of other people but where we could take a quiet walk if things went well.

While I’m in a confessing mood, I covered positive and negative outcomes by stopping at a shopping centre on the way to give the girl bits a freshen with damp toilet paper as I hadn’t showered since the morning, and I detoured via a bookshop to pick up a book I didn’t want to make another trip to buy.

We met, decided mutually the other was pleasing enough and took a stroll in the darkest, coldest evening I can remember for a long time. If I were the one packing a set of balls, they’d have dropped off frozen and bounced down the cricket pitch. We found a park bench and sat shivering for a few awkward moments until I moved to kiss him.

And that’s when the golden beam of the dating gods stopped glowing. He was enthusiastic but guarded and I couldn’t read the tangled signal I was receiving. We kissed a while longer (something was a little off in that department as well and I needed more research) until we agreed to leave it and catch up somewhere more comfortable another time. Later he sent a message of apology for the mixed messages but he had growing guilts about me reminding him too much of his girlfriend.

To be frank, I didn’t mind because while kissing his tongue was puffy and soft and limp, like I’d imagine a giant sea slug fresh out of the water. I went back for seconds in case we needed to practice more, but I couldn’t erase the mental image. The doppelgänger I wasn’t aware of can be responsible for kissing him.

Onwards, upwards and all that shit.