My heart turns blacker: The new rules

I am at that place again.

That place of keening frustration and battered ego, hopelessness.

I had a magical night with a beautiful, charming man Thursday night.  A tall, lean welder.  I leaned in for a kiss at the bar and breathed in his woodsy soapy scent.  “You’re a good kisser,” he said smiling, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re not half bad yourself.”

“Wanna get outta here?”

I texted him my address and we jumped in our cars.  Back at my place he stooped to kiss me and turned me around and pressed his body against my back.  His hands reached around and squeezed my breasts and I pushed my bottom into his hot jeans.

He pulled down my panties and curled his fingers into me.  “Harder,” I coached.  “More, faster!”  His hand obediently slammed against me and I filled his hand with my juices.  He groaned and ground his mouth down on mine.

We half-assedly pulled our clothes off and let them hang on our ankles and waddled awkwardly and hornily into my dark room.  He said he had rubbers except we didn’t use any.

I sucked on his chubby — it was only two-thirds hard, I could tell.  I was shocked that he could possibly be intimidated, he was stunning.

Six-foot-three, loaded with muscle, bald as a cue ball with a trimmed beard.  This man had no reason to be afraid and yet there he was at half mast.

To take the pressure off — and to possibly turn him on more — I sucked and slurped on him.  I stuffed all of him in my mouth, a very full mouthful.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a Magnum condom in his hand.

He pushed me off of him and spread my knees apart.  “Please don’t suck,” I told him.  “You suck on me and I’ll die.”  He tried it anyway and I yelped and pushed him away.  “You can only lap at me.  Like an ice cream cone.”

His bald head shone from the moon outside and he lapped willingly at me.  He slipped a finger in me and I educated him to a climax – twice – then hauled him up and grabbed my Hitachi.  He still wasn’t 100% hard.

His pretty face latched on my nipples and I rode the vibrations to a crushing orgasm.  He rolled on top of me and began rubbing his bare cock on me.

“No,” I panted.  “Don’t do that.  It’s not safe.”

“But oral sex is ok?” he countered.

I was out of my mind from orgasm and lust and wondered if forcing him to wear a condom wouldn’t kill the rest of the night.

“Ok,” I relented.  “Do it.”

He pushed into me and instantly got hard as steel.  And big.

We fucked and panted, gripped each other’s pale skin and I came and came again.  I writhed on him, willing him to lose his shit, and suddenly he did in a long, low, undulating orgasm unlike any I’ve ever witnessed.

He shuddered and humped and groaned and cried out and finally fell limp.

“Holy fuck,” he panted.  “That’s… that’s never happened to me before.”

“What?” I asked, my arm covered my eyes and chest heaved.

“I never lose control like that.  I can always wait to cum, but you…” he searched for words.  “You have a magic pussy.”  I laughed.  I’d never heard that before, but ok.  “You wanna take a shower?”

I was startled.  No one has asked me to do that in a decade.

In the shower we kissed and held each other.  I noted his back tattoos and felt shy in the light of the bathroom until he kissed me harder and turned me around.

I spread my feet and let him reenter me, 100% steel once again.  I came with my hands on the cold tile, his hot cock pushing into my body.  “Will you cum?” I asked, my head hung low.

“No.  I’ll have to wait until morning.”

I hardly slept.  The animals decided to make every obnoxious noise in their repertoire and I never sleep well with a stranger in my bed.  Before dawn his alarm went off and he rolled over and fondled a breast and fell back asleep.  I was happy he was able to sleep, the bastard.

But I wanted more and so I stirred and he rolled onto his back.  His abs were hard and rippled even asleep and I marveled at this warm, marble statue beside me.  I dipped my hand below the covers and felt his hardon which jutted almost past the waistband of his underpants.

“Mmm,” I said.

I kissed his nipple and stroked the heat beneath the cotton.  He was fully erect this time, way more than I could fit into my  mouth.  I lathed on him and he moaned and said beautiful things.

I crawled up on him and sunk gingerly down and immediately came.  He gripped my hips and we moved together and I came like a monster on crack, his cock hitting me in all the right spots.  My hands went numb and my hair swung in long blonde sheets, my breasts bounced like manic beach balls and I cried out along with my squeaky bed.

Twice, three times.  Each time I collapsed on him and heaved for breath in his neck.  The fourth time I sat up and giggled, bashful and greedy.

“Do it again,” I said sheepishly.  I felt like a child asking for yet another scoop of ice cream, more sprinkles.  Just more. 

He laughed and bucked into me while his hands pushed my hips down and back and forth.

I came with a hot blue swell and fell forward and half-sobbed into the pillow as he continued to fuck me from below and then with a long, protracted moan, peppered with shudders, he came deep inside of me once more.

He had to be at work by 7 and it was at least a 30 minute drive so while he showered alone I made him coffee.  I debated on what mug to send him with and landed on a travel mug I’d brought home from my folks’.  I’d be seeing him Saturday night and could get it back then.

::

The next day was Saturday and I texted good morning.  He texted back an hour later saying how busy he was at work and how they’d worked until 10 pm on Friday.  A few hours later I texted again to ask if we were still on for 7.  He didn’t say yes or no, but said he was currently “stuck at work.”  It was 5:30.  I told him my night was his and I was happy to be flexible.  If he was too tired to go out after work (whenever that was) we could chill at my place.

I never heard from him again.

::

The night I met The Welder I had a date that nearly cancelled on me.  I’d yelled at him about trying to bail 40 mins before a date and he’d agreed to one beer.  He stayed for 2 then left.  The second he left a short, older, round man invited me to sit at his table where for the next hour or so they grilled me about my dissolute life and then he asked me out despite knowing I was waiting for Date #2.

The following night I went out with a 21-year-old who’d also tried to cancel on me due to cold feet.  I’d told him to go to hell and he’d begged me to meet him after all.  I couldn’t call him a man unless you judge maturity solely on how big one’s Polo shirt is.  I sent him home with apologies, but I wasn’t able to bridge the age difference gap.  He was too childish.

An old friend, a man whose wedding I’d attended 9 years ago, was at the bar where we’d met with a work colleague and so I went and sat with them.  They were drunk and became increasingly inappropriate with me; their jokes thinly veiled sexual advances and filthy innuendos.  I felt masochistic sitting there wedged between them and then I began to receive texts from the rebuffed 21 yo.

Honestly I couldn’t stop thinking about fucking your tits the whole time [sly winky face]  Sorry for being young.

I responded with, “Well, I’m flattered, but I can’t get beyond the age thing.  I am impressed with your gumption, tho.”

The men I was with howled with laughter.  “He’s propositioning you!” they claimed.  I didn’t believe them until he sent this:

As a 40 yo you need to figure out how to get past [the age difference] so you can be sexually satisfied.

Lol [crying upset emoji]

[cry-laughing emoji][devil mask]

I kid btw… But really I would like to have some fun sexually [eyeballs looking left] IM 21!!! Plenty old [indignant-huffing emoji]

I didn’t respond until the next morning to give another hard NO.

::

This morning I felt wrung out.  I’d spent my Saturday night quietly optimistic about The Welder and filled with hope that he wouldn’t do exactly what he did to me.

Last Monday Bones “got lost in a book” and forgot to come over when he said he would.  I told him he was a dick and he agreed.  We haven’t spoken since.

Remington hasn’t returned my texts in days despite his last text being an emphatic “Yes, please!” to hanging out this week.

Men fall into two columns in my life.  In one, they utterly disgust me.  I am buried under an avalanche of men’s lust and equally repulsed by their methods.  The equivalent of them hunchbacked and jerking off all over me like fiends with their foul words and hideous pictures.  Unsolicited dick pic after another, gross come-ons and pathetic attempts to hump me virtually from all sides.  Me, Hy, just my very person in any incarnation I have.

And in the other they use me and lie.  My attempts to counteract such abuse are pointless, however.  The second I step outside the safety of my home I am contaminated.  The Welder claimed to be a human male, but was actually a fucking punchline for online dating and hope that anyone around here besides me acts like a grown up who respects others.

 

Hy & The Welder chat 1

Hy & The Welder chat 2

Hy & The Welder chat 3::

I fought tears as I purged the darkness of my feelings to a friend earlier.  Surrounded by hipster coffee-drinkers I tried to be invisible.  I feel trapped and hopeless; I can’t not be me, but this level of disregard is more than I can bear.

There is no “fix” to this other than never dating again.  This is dating.  It’s a fucking war of the senses, of the heart, against the clock and all rational thought.  You’d think that finding a man who’d like to be cool and fuck would be easy, but it’s about as equally hard as finding love.  If I wanted to find callous, greedy men then I’d be in luck.  Those are everywhere.

I am distant, I am private, I have issues with intimacy.  I am not looking for a boyfriend.  I am asking to be acknowledged as a human being who doesn’t want anything serious. Why do men think it must be either a serious relationship or a one-night stand?  Why is there nothing in between?? 

I don’t want to be cast away again and again and yet I am.  Repeatedly.

My new approach will be less subtle: Some hoop-jumping and Magnums.  No exceptions.  Since I’ll be used up and tossed in the bin regardless of what I do I will no longer suffer through inflexibility or soft, little dicks.  I will demand what I want and move on, expect only one night with each man who meets my criteria and put my hook back in the water the following day like a good littler fisherman.  And lord knows that I seem to have the fattest and juiciest worms, so I’ll have no shortage of men flopping into my bed, their dead fish eyes staring back at me.

These are the new rules.

 

I was picked up in a bar

First (and only) time in 8 years I was organically picked up by a man I met in person, just me, no internet dating site between us.  This happened in July of 2011.

I returned to a bar at 10 pm on a Saturday, alone, to pick up the check card I’d forgotten there the night before during a horrendous first date. Once there, I decided to have a glass of wine at the bar and a couple of glasses in I decided to let a man I’d been talking to on AFF come and meet me, Steven.

Funny thing is, is that I wasn’t dressed to meet anyone. I wore a black tank top with some sequins on it (not fancy, or cute, I assure you), a green skirt with multiple holes I’d sewn shut, and sandals. I was wearing minimal makeup, my glasses, and had my breast-length hair tied in a knot. Seriously, I couldn’t have cared less about my looks and it showed.

And why should I, after all?? Clearly, according to my bad date the night before, I was a troll even at my best, so fuck it. I was gonna sit at the bar alone, lavish attention on my iPhone, drink some wine and meet some dude I was moderately attracted to because he was available for the job and I didn’t want to sit at home alone watching Murder, She Wrote reruns.

No sooner had I pulled out my phone to play games than the man to my left asked me how to spell “rhythm.”

“R-y-t-h,” I start, “No, wait -” and then I was interrupted by the man on my right. A fit, handsome fella with a twinkle in his eye.

“Nope. You got it wrong. It’s R-h-y-t-h-m.”

“I knew that!” I laughed, “I swear!”

“Oh, really?” he countered. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

It was roughly 10:15 when he moved a seat closer to me. I couldn’t stop laughing as I kept pushing my glasses up higher on my nose. WAS I REALLY GETTING PICKED UP IN A BAR LOOKING LIKE THIS??

The answer, he told me, was a definite YES.

I told him a man was coming to meet me later. He said I should just come hang out with him instead, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“My name is Hy, by the way,” I say hurriedly. I felt like Steven was going to walk in any second.

“I’m Hunter. And I was just about to ask you your name.”

We talk and flirt for the next 45 minutes until I got a text from Steven that his arrival was imminent. Hunter graciously bows out with the excuse he has to use the restroom.

The second his seat is empty, Steven fills it. I hug him hello. My first assessment is he’s not as attractive as I’d hoped: “I’ll be right back. I have to go to the bathroom,” I tell him.

And it was true. I did. But it was to wait for Hunter.

He was surprised to see me standing outside the door. I was startled to see how tall he was. “Hi,” I manage to say. “I want to get your number.”

He smiles mischievously and gives it to me. I text him, “Yo.”

The next hour consisted of me giggling and laughing over what appeared to Steven to be nothing. And I felt awful that he couldn’t figure me out, but how could he know that Hunter was texting me intermittently that I should ditch my date and hang with him instead? So, eventually I text him back, “Ok. Midnight,” and let Steven nuzzle my neck and squeeze my thigh.

(I know, right??)

I even had to turn Steven down when he asked for a ride home. But, really, come on. Presumptuous much?

In the end I met Hunter at another bar where he kissed and held me and asked me to go to his place where he said he promised he’d not try to fuck me. I agreed. Nothing hotter than an empty promise, I tell you.

Turns out he was house sitting for his boss and the place was gorgeous. His girlfriend was moving out of their place and he needed a place to crash. Lucky us.

A couple of glasses of wine later and we were all over each other. He discovered I was pantiless and soon had my skirt soaked through with pussy juice. I looked like I’d been hosed down.

“Oh wow,” he murmured into my mouth passionately, “You’re a squirter!”

We romp and fuck and laugh all over the upstairs. I soak the bed he was sleeping in and two towels. We had to move into a different guest room.

I woke up up this morning cradled in his arms. I was shocked at how good and normal it felt. Maybe I should let more men do it. We fucked some more (a good, hard pounding and a spank or two), then I suckled his cock dry (nothing like a good cum cocktail to start the day off right).

I wanted to keep sleeping, but I could sense my welcome was running out, so I got dressed and said goodbye. And now I’m sitting in a taco shop with ridiculous beard burn and fuck hair contemplating the universe and its mysterious ways and relishing my sore pussy.

[Epilogue: I’d hook up with Hunter one more time about 6 months later.  He was sunburned and too drunk and I was dry as a bone as he silently came.  I never called him again.]