I go on first dates. Three of them, actually.

Date #1: Tuesday at a neighborhood bar. 35 yo. A bottle and a half of wine to myself; badly played trivia; Camel-scented kisses. He wants to see me again.

Date #2: Wednesday at another nearby bar. 26 yo. Doesn’t know he’s gay yet.

Date #3: Thursday. Cancelled. Too fucking tired.

Date #4: Friday, dinner and drinks. 41 yo. Brilliant, sweet, sexy and shy. May be too much like my exhusband. He keeps squeezing my hand. [Update: he fawned over me, clung to me, put his head on my shoulder like a little boy or as if we were having a moment. I squirmed. He wants to see me again.]

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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