Matt was a ginger-haired, slightly pudgy dental student. God only knows why I did any of this. It was October of 2010. I didn’t know who I was sexually, yet, but I think you can see how I was searching for something, what, I just didn’t know.
I met Matt about a week ago on OKCupid. He’s 6’0″ and freckled. We quickly jumped from the dating site platform to Yahoo! Messenger and a little video, though all the clothes stayed put. Into the wee hours of the night we chatted — I liked his easy going attitude and enthusiasm for conversation — and then I crawled into bed, grabbed my vibrator, and started texting him pictures. A few minutes later I had three decent orgasms under my belt and a new cock pic.
A couple of nights later and we were talking on the phone. He’s fast-paced, a little unfocused, but still enthusiastic and I determine that I can trust him; our styles seem very much in line as do our attitudes. We talked about sex, fantasies, a little about our personal pasts, likes, dislikes. He’s thicker around the middle than what would be considered “fit” (as he has on his profile – ha!), but I like a little extra padding on my men because it makes me feel smaller, more feminine, easily over powered, and since I’m built like a farm-girl this is a high commodity.
After one or two more chats on the phone we figure out that a meeting is imminent but due to our schedules it’s not going to happen until the third week of October…
Until I got the bright idea to have him come over last night despite not having childcare and despite him not having anywhere to stay but at my house.
As I type this he’s asleep in my bed and my kid is on my couch. Um, yeah.
Trust me, I know how fucking convoluted that is, but my kid has seen me with multiple strangers in recent months walk out of the back of my house in the morning (and none of whom I’ve actually fucked). This includes old high school girl friends, male college roommates, and random other friends who either crashed on the couch or shared a platonic side of the bed with me. My child is also little. I can still get away with introducing people that will be quickly forgotten. I know that I won’t always be able to do something like this.
And this was my reasoning to extend an impromptu invitation yesterday afternoon. And the man came. He dropped everything he was doing and drove 2+ hours to my house.
He was as cute in person as he was on webcam and we hugged and I was jittery and bashful. We sipped some boxed-wine (because I’m classy like that) and flirted, knees touching, while on the couch. Eventually, I was tired of the song and dance and leaned in to kiss him. His nicely groomed goatee tickled my lips, his tongue danced on mine. I was hopeful and excited. We stood and he moved me in front of him, bent my neck to the side and nipped at my shoulders and pulled my ass into his crotch. I grabbed his hand and pulled him back to my bedroom.
A bedroom that, until recently, had two occupants; that until recently, was a sacred space; that until recently housed crushing self-doubt, sadness, and shame. However, over the last two months wherein I was the only resident, I have been working on exorcising the relationship demons from that space and reclaiming it as my own. It’s where I masturbate, where I talk to men, where I share images of my body arched in pleasure. It’s mine, and so it was with a clear conscience that I fell onto the bed with him falling down after me.
Now here’s where it all starts to splinter and the experience becomes two-in-one.
During our most recent conversation I told him that I wouldn’t fuck him without protection unless he went and got tested. I knew I was clean, but when was the last time he’d gotten checked? He agreed, but that was when we thought we had a 3-week window; obviously he didn’t have time to get a test in 24 hours. So, imagine my surprise when the clothes were peeled off and he entered me sans condom.
I thought for a split second that maybe he’d put one on, but then I got swept up in a torrent of emotion: he wasn’t as endowed as I like and so I wasn’t getting that “ahh, I’ve just been filled” sensation I was craving, I was confused and put-off by the lack of condom, it all seemed stilted somehow, reminiscent of the nervous love-making I’d been having for the last seven years. And then the fucking got a little better. Which confused me more. I struggled to get out of my own head and eventually I pushed him off of me and confirmed that he was, indeed, bareback.
I laughingly scolded him, but really, I was pissed. At myself, at him. He had the decency to act chagrined. I mean, this was my chance to get rogered good and with a clear conscience and I felt taken advantage of. I grabbed a condom and rolled it onto his dick — nothing was going to stop me at this point from getting off — grabbed my vibe, too, and pushed him back onto my pillows. On his back his cock was more to my liking, deeper. I leaned over and let my breasts stick to his chest, I kissed his neck and soft lips; his hands grabbed my ass and spread it wide with each deep thrust. I sat tall and put the head of the vibe on my clit. As I turned it on his eyes flashed open and he smiled. He liked it, he said.
A fraction of the time it usually takes me to orgasm later and I’m writhing and twitching on top of him, showering us in my juices. I fall on top of him and he holds me, shushes in my ear to just breathe and relax.
I said, “Now is the perfect time for a cigarette. Come on.” I stand up and start putting on scrub bottoms, but he’s behind me again and his fingers are dipping into me. He’s taken off the condom and I’m reticent, fighting with myself. He hasn’t cum, yet, and I get the feeling he probably won’t due to some meds he’s on. Maybe one more fuck won’t be so bad?? But really, I’m only telling myself that because the fact that he’s still not listening to me is more upsetting than standing my ground.
I brace myself on the dresser and he enters me from behind, a hand on the back of my neck, and once again bareback. I let him fuck me for a few seconds, get shaky from my g-spot, and then stop, look at him in the eye and say, “We are not doing this. Do you understand?” He laughs and says, “You’re right, you’re right!” I get dressed and he follows me out back to the patio.
We smoke a couple of cigarettes and we talk about our partners and marriages. I’m beginning to feel more mind-fucked than anything else. His reluctance to respect my wishes regarding protection has me doubting the entire fucking night, a night that could have otherwise been pretty fucking fun, first-encounter jitters and awkwardness aside. When we go back into bed he starts in on me again, but I tell him no. He backs off while I struggle with guilt that he hasn’t cum yet — yes, even after all of this, I’m still feeling guilty he hasn’t cum — and we discuss exit strategy.
I tell him he needs to leave before 7. He moans and says he’s not a morning person. I sit there flummoxed and increasingly angry. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I mean, was this a mistake? Was I off base to trust him to respect me? He was giving such mixed signals to that end: at once tender and present, the next off in his own little world.
So I sit up and arrange the covers over me protectively and say, “I feel like you’re not listening to me here,” and indicate the bedroom. “You listened to me out there [while we were smoking], but you’re not hearing me in here.” He was looking at me intently so I continued, “My child is extremely important to me and I didn’t think this through, how I was going to get you out of here. That child my priority, not the fact that you’re not a morning person.”
“Oh God, am I being weird now?” he asked, hands pressed to his face. He’s a father himself and he suddenly seemed to get it.
“A little, yeah.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. If I had somewhere to go I’d just leave,” he says with genuine feeling.
He apologized some more, said of course, whatever, whenever he’d leave and he was “so very sorry.” He pulled me onto his chest and wrapped his arms around me, an embrace that should have made me feel better for that was his intent, but instead I suddenly felt trapped and sad. This is how my husband and I used to fall asleep together. Now I was under an avalanche of emotion I was totally unprepared for. I pulled back and told him I couldn’t lie like that; how my feelings were piling up on top of me. I felt a small thread of guilt in all of it because of the sadness that was still hiding behind the books in the shelves and under the bed. I guess I’d missed a few spots when I was sweeping away the marriage cobwebs. Not to mention the fact that it’d been a rocky night of trust for me and I felt like I had fucked up. This so wasn’t how I’d imagined my first foray back into sex.
“I’m not going to fuck you again tonight. I might again in the future, but not tonight. I’m too fucked up right now.”
He listened and cupped my face with his hand then kissed my forehead. “It’s cool,” he said.
I fell asleep with my arms wrapped around a childhood stuffed animal and a safe distance between us. I woke up off and on to the sounds of his gentle snoring and by the time I woke up a few hours later I no longer felt the need to kick him out before dawn just to avoid a toddler interaction. When I told him he hugged me and rolled back over to sleep.
“Yeah, I don’t feel nearly as crazy-town as I did last night,” I said.
Minutes later my baby started calling for me down the hall and now it’s back to Mommy mode. I told Peyton that I had a friend here and that he was sleeping. Peyton said, “Who is it?” and I just answered, “You don’t know him, honey.” And truthfully, neither do I, but I guess I gotta start somewhere.
[Post script: Reading this again for the first time in years my eyes are filled with tears. My baby calling to me while a stranger slept in my bed down the hall. Jesus fucking Christ. I feel like such a piece of shit. We all ended up hanging out a little bit together, not for long, and then I got Matt the fuck outta there. What was I thinking?? I’m so embarrassed. Utterly disgusted with myself, really. And I can tell you there’s a lot more where that came from… fuck.]