But I answered a Craigslist ad anyway.
The reasons I don’t meet men with the soul intent to fuck are threefold.
Initially, it intimidates the fuck out of me. If I show up and he thinks I’m a sure thing then I have no wiggle room to gracefully exit stage left. There might be a scene, I might be hurt, I might have to be rude about maintaining my boundaries versus coyly deflecting. I’m American, I don’t want to offend anyone, even a man in whom I’m not interested. I want to feel that no decision has been made yet as to how the evening will end and just because I’ve met with him is in no way a guarantee I won’t find him repulsive in some way.
Nine times out of 10 just knowing that we are both aware of my escape hatch is enough to embolden me to push past any reservations or bashfulness that might otherwise trip me up and have me run for the door. When a man tells me he has no intention of fucking me what I hear is, “I am a safe man,” and my body is launched into action. When he says, “Well, we’ll see what happens,” I understand that he isn’t picking up what I’m putting down. I hear, “I am [possibly] not a safe man.”
Meeting a stranger just to fuck also crowds me out of the equation; I’m reduced to a walking, talking glory hole at that point. Neither of us have to work for the reward of cock in pussy, instead it comes down to a matter of an agreed transaction and cooperating body parts. No muscles of seduction are flexed, it’s like dogs in heat without all the sniffing first. I need to sniff and be sniffed. A lot. Then we can fuck like dogs.
And let’s not forget how women are so often [and easily] brutalized, raped, or murdered by men. On BuzzFeed’s main page yesterday alone I read three articles reminding me in great detail how vicious unstable men can be. Women are fucking vulnerable at all times for any goddamned reason a crazy, homicidal man feels like it and therefore I tend to avoid complete strangers who might mistake my willingness to fuck as offering myself up to them to do with as they please.
I’ll tell my friend Amy where I’m meeting him and send her a pic. I’ll also give her his room number at his hotel if I decide to go back with him. He’ll understand; my Spidey senses tell me this Seattle dude with the softly chiseled torso and meaty cock isn’t a bad man. “I’m man enough to know that even if you come back to my room No means No.” Not quite an “I won’t fuck you,” but certainly good enough for me as I venture into the slightly frightening world of CL.
So why did I respond to this guy then?
I read his note and I liked it. He seemed relaxed, yet adventurous, inviting and eager.
He’s in town this week for a wedding. He’s, tall, fit, safe, clean, friendly. Really loves to kiss and cuddle and wants something to do in his down time. And he’s hung. A detail he added almost as an after thought.
I thought about how I’m trying to merge the two parts of me, Hy and “the other woman,” and decided to go ahead and email him from Hyacinth’s email account. If he Googled me and found the blog, I’d be straight up about it and more careful about letting slip any identifying real-life facts once we met. (Also, I was lazy and didn’t want to switch to my “real me fake account”.)
I wrote something blithe. Like how I’d never answered a Craigslist ad before and was he real? He’d asked for my age and eye color to be in the subject line to ward off bots. It was the first time I’d ever written 40 to identify myself. I told him that was weird.
He wrote back and immediately asked for pics. I sent him a few, but he didn’t believe they were me. I laughed and thought if only he’d Google Hyacinth Jones he’d think I was trying to catfish him with pics from the blog never knowing I’m her. But he hung in there despite his doubts and we moved to text.
He sent me pics of his cock and it was resplendent — big and fat — and the way in which he talked about it reminded me of other well-endowed men I’ve spoken to. There’s an ease with which they discuss it that clings to them like Axe body spray. They have nothing to prove and that confidence lodges itself in my senses.
However, I wasn’t doing as good a job of dispelling his doubts about me, and so he asked to hear my voice.
I called after work on Friday and chatted on my drive home, nervous and bashful. He’d been texting me some fairly filthy things, but hearing his voice I decided to be bold. “Well, you did say that this time on Tuesday you could be ‘licking my pussy,’ after all,” I said.
I could hear his smile. “Yeah, I did say that,” but he dropped it with a laugh and we talked about the weather in our respective cities.
We only spoke for a minute or two, but it was enough for me. His voice was deep, pleasant, playful. I liked him.
We’ve texted off an on the past few days, sent more pics. He’s an ass man and I am sorely lacking in the ass-pics department so he coached me. “Over the shoulder, in the mirror,” he said. I laughed as I posed awkwardly, but sent the photo anyway.
He loved the pic, seemed to forget himself, and typed, “Damn, we are so fucking,” and then quickly added, “If I’m not charming enough in person tell me and I’ll turn it up a notch or 2 ;).” It made me laugh and I liked his visceral response to an image I don’t find remotely sexy.
We texted yesterday right around the time he landed and was getting his rental car and sketched out a plan. I was seized with a blush from head to toe. My reaction to the idea of fucking a stranger wasn’t unsurprising, just unfamiliar. Then, as if by telepathy, Troy texted me some hardcore body-pounding sex .gifs.
“Getting any of this lately?”
I exhaled breath I hadn’t known I was holding. Troy, my sex friend in arms, was always there for me whenever we had sex with a stranger. He made sure I never felt pressured and always felt safe. I told him about the sexy stranger and sent him some pics of his pretty cock. He approved.
“I wish you could come with me tonight. How were you always so cool and calm?? I always relied on you!”
He laughed and said he didn’t know, but it’s true. I do wish he could come with me.
As the clock ticked and I hadn’t heard from Sexy in Seattle I checked in with him. Our plans had only been a sketch, not set in stone.
“Probably tomorrow,” he wrote back.
I chuckled, told him that was cool, and that I was looking forward to getting pounded by his giant cock. His ongoing promises that he didn’t expect sex from me turned up the volume on our interactions.
I took another ass pic and pulled out a breast like he’d asked me to earlier when I was too busy and sent them off. No hard feelings.
Even if I don’t meet this man it doesn’t matter. What matters to me is that I’m pushing my own boundaries, being adventurous and bold when I typically duck my head. The flush of bashfulness I experienced talking to this guy is the same rush I felt with Troy whenever we met men. That moment before they touched me together, the moment the strange man pushed deep inside of me, the moment my lips touched his and I tasted a stranger’s breath.
I don’t have Troy to hold my hand in these moments anymore, but I do have me. I have the ability to recreate the beauty of raw, unadulterated passion and so long as I follow my gut and my own safety rules this could fun as fuck.
Later last night, sexy Seattle man texted me in response to the pics I’d sent him. He was a very big fan, but I was in bed already.
If all goes well, this little flower will be properly debauched this time tonight. I’ll be reduced to a sobbing, sweaty, flushed pile of pale, heaving skin. And I’ll have checked another box.
Maybe I’m not so scared of meeting strangers, after all.