Poppycock and balderdash

Poppycock

I re-activated my profile on the original sleazy web site to look around as the Country Boy and I have discussed looking for a third person to join us. I’m not sure we’ll proceed any time soon as we haven’t fleshed out the details of who we’re looking for (I’ll want a man and he’ll want a woman, for starters) and I’m too stressed to hell about other things, but I found a couple of people from the past sitting on my hot list.

Mogul, who “never uses the web site as I’m not usually that kind of man” had been active in the last 24 hours. He wasn’t online so I thought it safe to read his profile and block him so my viewing wouldn’t be logged in his activity list — mature, I know. He is a premium-level member. And he’s in his early thirties, 5 foot 10 in height, has a nine-inch cock, above average looks and finds that most women can’t satisfy him. Well! If the reality police were to conduct a raid, they’d say he was over forty years of age, 5 foot 6 in bare feet, has a cock larger than his other bodily dimensions but — I don’t know — six inches perhaps (maybe he typed the number upside-down), quirky looks with a styled bouffant of hair and, while he’s not lacking in the skill department,  possesses delusions so fanciful that no one could satisfy him. I wonder if the compact brunette he’s piledriving in his photo gallery knows a) she’s featured several times and b) her face isn’t concealed.

Reading his profile was quality entertainment and I might have to unblock him one day and go back for more.

Balderdash

When I met SuperNerd earlier in the year I wrote:

There was no one thing that sent my hackles on edge, but in looking back, it was a series of small inconsistencies and doubts. I still don’t know what his game was, but it doesn’t matter now.

He had been online in the last 24 hours as well and viewed my profile within minutes of me logging in. I looked at his, and he’s changed his ‘single’ status to ‘married’ and written several times that he’s married and doesn’t want judgement or personal attacks.

That at least explains my feeling that something wasn’t above board with him. He told me he was separated, had part-time custody of his child and his house was free for meetings. His wife must have a similar name to mine as in the early days he accidentally sent me a couple of messages intended for her about having paid some of her bills, which I thought was generous or perhaps part of their separation agreement. And he wriggled out of discussions when I mentioned meeting at his house. I wonder how many pickles he got himself stuck in with his secret life before he decided to be upfront.

I know protecting one’s identity is important, but I stick to a rule of twos: lie about my age by no more than two years and my location by no more than two suburbs, and have profile photos less than two years old. Then again, I fell into both their worlds so perhaps slathering one’s profile with mountains of bullshit works as well.

Small world

I’m not sure what the universe is trying to tell me about Super Nerd. Only the day after exploring someone else in ‘his’ car park, I saw him at my gym. I don’t know if he recognised me as neither of us was wearing glasses but I was looking idly through the glass panels at the boxing area while doing my warm-up and saw a man waiting for his turn to be called. I only knew it was him when I noticed a tattoo on his shoulder that I’d seen when we were attacking each other on the clifftop. I memorised the etchings on his skin when earlier he had told me he cropped his profile photos because the permanent signatures would make him recognisable. He was right.

In this setting among other large and hard men, he seemed smaller and less powerful than I remembered, yet more threatening because he was invading my peaceful space. He was chatting to the gym’s owner cordially — I remember him mentioning he used to train there. The only conclusion I can draw is that he comes to this place on weekends for the boxing equipment because his regular gym is one of those modern, machine-laden facilities running on electricity rather than history.

My warm-up time was ending and I thought about waiting and talking to him (about what and with what aim, I really don’t know), but I chose to stick to my routine and went into the weights room. The area I worked in afforded a view of the walkway and about 10 minutes later he strode through with a couple of other men. I don’t think he saw me; while my eyesight is terrible, I have a good sense of when someone is looking at me.

I don’t know if this is an opportunity to clear the air or if I need to grow up and acknowledge he’s as entitled to use this temporarily borrowed space as I am. I feel like there’s a ghost in the room now though.

With a few days to ponder this post and reflect, I already know I’m going back on the same day next week to have a poke at fate. I am unsure of my motivation because I’m more of a live and let live than a living well is the best revenge mindset, but above all else I like questions answered when the opportunity seems to present itself.  With luck, he won’t be there because I really shouldn’t be thinking about re-knocking a door that I closed.

Continuing the postscripts: He wasn’t there the same day the following week, but I saw him walk out tonight when I was most of the way through my session. This is messing with my head, but in a more intellectually curious way about trying to predict *when* we’re going to bump into each other because his routine isn’t allowing me to ordain anything.

And another: I had to get these observations out of my system at the time, but it’s probably created one hell of a boring entry … I’ll do my best to make sure the next post has sex in it :-).


Just keep lining them up at the rate I’m deleting them

Super Nerd and I re-scheduled when he returned. You guessed it: an hour before our planned meeting time he said he might be running late as he was still at work. The logical side of my brain kicked in and calculated quickly that he was a 75-minute drive from where he was working, we were meeting in 60 minutes and something wasn’t right. I gave him the latest time to let me know if he was going to be late so I wasn’t left waiting at the car park alone for him. Right on the minute he said he hadn’t even left work yet.

I had to respond and ask if that meant he was delaying or cancelling (I loathed having to ask 20 questions when he already knew the answer). He cancelled and I let him know I was ending contact due to ongoing confusion. He didn’t reply.

There was no one thing that sent my hackles on edge, but in looking back, it was a series of small inconsistencies and doubts. I still don’t know what his game was, but it doesn’t matter now. My only solid theory is that he was available, local and sexually compatible, which means it was all too potentially good and therefore my life would have been simpler, so it couldn’t have been.


Frustration

This post was intended to write about the follow-up dinner and outdoor adventures that Super Nerd and I organised a few nights ago.

I finished work early so I could dash to the gym, run home, tend chores and present myself as a calm, organised and relaxed woman rather than the randy and nervous wreck I was trying to hide on the inside. I must want him more than I’m acknowledging because I’m marginally more sanguine about meeting others. Everything went to plan until two hours before our meeting when he sent a message saying he had been called to a work-related emergency out of town for several days. It’s a situation where the scenario is plausible because of his business, but could be equally implausible because there should be other qualified tradespeople in that part of the state to manage the job. I expressed disappointment and understanding and haven’t been in touch again yet. The problem with intriguing people is that they unintentionally mess with my head when I’m trying to work them out. He has the benefit of the doubt, of course, but I’m impatient for some kind of outcome.

The added frustration to that night was that Mr OMG got in touch and said tempting things including he was free that night. I had to say no, and only half an hour later Super Nerd cancelled. I threw the phone in a cupboard and stayed home.

Mr OMG and I organised to meet the following night. I sent a message about 8.30pm saying if I didn’t hear from him with a time within half an hour, I was going to bed because I was dog tired. I think I started masturbating but fell asleep half-way through and never finished the job. I didn’t hear from him until the next day when I saw a voicemail time stamped at 2am — he had fallen asleep on the couch and woken in the middle of the night. He is one of the most interesting people and deepest thinkers I’ve met but is vague as all shit when it comes to the concept of time. I know him well enough by now to know he was telling the truth and I have a soft spot for him that’s large enough to keep living with it.

That was Thursday and Friday nights; I have no idea where to start with the next night that I left the house.

Three points of contact

This is one of my more tenuously-strung metaphors but it’s the one that entered my mind as his lips were fixed to mine, his left hand was cupping my tender pre-menstrual breast and his right hand was inside my pants exploring the floodlands between my legs. After a rushing thought of now, this is the life, I remembered old occupational health and safety training that ladders should only be climbed with three points of contact. I preferred that this tradesman was connecting to me in three simultaneous ways rather than the ladder fastened to the top of his work vehicle.

At one stage I opened my eyes to the view of the weak moon trying to illuminate the bay past storm clouds and the sparkle of lights from beachside homes and I was comfortable for once in such a public setting. I feel truly alive out in the contrast of bad weather during summer and was glad sightseers were deterred so we could use the clifftop lookout he knew about. His thumb had also wriggled inside my rear passage and I didn’t have much choice but to be transfixed on the wooden deck. I looked down and saw my almost-torn shirt revealing the pushed-up breasts his hand was learning by feel and I admired their alabaster-sheened swell when earlier I was hoping my period would arrive and bring with it relief from fluid retention.

He freed the wandering hand and brushed aside a couple of empty drink bottles left on the picnic bench behind us. His desire was raging and he had to taste me. This was the man who only a couple of hours ago spilled a drink because he was nervous and gave me a polite kiss on the cheek goodbye in the car park until he realised my hands were gripping his muscular shoulders. I reluctantly let go because we had already said we were interested but I couldn’t read the new signal of him leaving after one kiss — and I was tired of moving quickly and being discarded afterwards. He walked a few steps, turned suddenly and asked if I’d consider spending more time with him that evening. “Yes,” was the correct answer.

My lust and inner pragmatism fought a minor war at the bench and I pulled my pants down but kept my shoes on and pants around my ankles as I didn’t want to return down the dirt track with wet feet collecting mud. There was no logic, come to think of it, as I’d slipped in some mud on the way up. Being awash with lust is like having the same weakened powers of the mind as when drunk. I leaned against the back of the bench and he made a diamond shape of my lower limbs and kneeled on the cold concrete with his head between my legs. One of my hands grasped the bench and the other the zip and gusset of my pants to elevate my legs above his head. We would have looked ridiculous but at the time I could think of no other position or place I would have preferred to be.

He licked and probed with his tongue and my body curled around his with contented desire. He inserted fingers — lots, I don’t know how many — and plunged inside me until my body was alternating between screaming for kinder treatment and wondering if I might orgasm from the aggressive digital poundings. He must have curled some fingers and caused contusions with his knuckles as it’s the only explanation for internal sore spots the following day. He wasn’t brutal or unskilled but seemed overwhelmingly hungry, as if feeding from everything I could offer would barely temper his wild lust.

I came a couple of times but can’t recall how. In my reverie he pinched my nipples and I squirmed against the bench in pain — he apologised and stopped, and then something inside his head snapped and he became convinced that he had to fuck me. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or intimidated by the surprising sexuality of this man but I needed to respond as my condoms were locked in my car. I hadn’t spent much time exploring his iron-built body and his jeans were still on, and I delayed the safe sex conversation by raising his shirt and lowering his jeans. I moved closer and my forehead almost crashed into a rock-hard wall of abdominal muscles. I held his buttocks as I took his flaccid cock in my warm mouth and his glutes were equally solid. I peeked down and saw upper thigh muscles that could have held up a bridge. It has been said that women like men larger than them as it feeds some kind of need for submission, but all I could think about was being together another time and fucking in every position and every room of his house until we couldn’t breathe from the effort. I assume that’s more basic lust than a desire to submit.

He was enthusiastic about the ministrations from my mouth but I couldn’t find a way to get him hard. I was about to ask what he liked and he said he couldn’t come while standing (phew, it wasn’t my technique) and he sat next to me and I buried my head in his lap. His cock is the ‘short and thick does the trick’ type and I could take most of it in from the side. His testicles were surprisingly compact, like grapes — as much as I’m becoming weary of learning new bodies at the moment, they never fail to surprise me. I thought incorrectly that a quicker tempo would work for him, but long and slow sucking got him hard and he placed a hand on my head and guided me softly. Again, I was incorrect as I assumed from his earlier behaviour that he’d be rougher. He soon said he was going to come and spilled a small amount of fluid in my mouth and sank against the bench. I nestled against his smooth stomach as he recovered.

We had to go and replaced our clothes before clambering down the track again. A van was parked close to my car and we could hear excited giggling from its interior. We smiled and I silently bid them as good a time as we’d just had.

We parted and exchanged thank you messages later. I am not allowing myself to feel or predict much because he was the man in the last paragraph of the previous post who responded to the ‘looking for an arrogant but likeable kinky bastard’ words in my profile. However, he has come across as one of the most frank and kind people I’ve met: earlier in the night he seemed eager to impress and I took a while to warm to him as the superhero body shots on his profile were topped with a mild-mannered face and I couldn’t imagine him being the arrogant sod behind the approach, let alone being as assertive in his sexuality as he showed later. I’m confused as all hell but somewhat intrigued by his contrasts. He is either a master player or far nicer than I am and my cynicism may not be worthy of him. I wish I was posting with a delay so I already knew the outcome.