I had butterflies and little lead balls tossing around in my belly. The Golfer kept changing his mind about where to meet him. Country club, no, his house. Then country club again, no, house! I called him en route. “You can’t keep changing your mind! Where do you want me?” He clearly wasn’t sober.
We agreed on his house, but when I arrived with my sex toys, bottle of wine, and his pack of American Spirit Yellows only the dog barked back. I pressed the doorbell button again and heard loud music coming up the street. Windows down, head banging, white country club baseball cap on, there he was in all his smiling glory. He waved emphatically at me, his teeth glinting.
He was so happy to see me, he said. I was so nice, he said. He held me and cooed into my neck, told me how hot I was. We went out back to smoke and he laid down in the shade of a tree. He’d picked out his outfit just for me, had his house cleaned just for me. I told him I didn’t believe any of it, but he insisted.
We laughed at his drunky drunkenness and I sipped my rosé, nonplussed.
He suggested we take a bath together in his Japanese soaking tub, a deep, circular shaped tub with a little seat in it. The water was cool-ish and we contorted our bodies so that my knees were under my chin and his legs were wrapped around me. We were nose to nose as he massaged my breasts and chest and shoulders.
“I really like you,” he said. I could see the amber shine in his brown eyes.
I looked him squarely back, “I like you, too.”
“We have this… connection,” he continued. “This chemistry. It’s special.”
“It is…” I answered noncommittally, but sincerely. He was drunk, after all, and while lovely to hear, there’s a lot of salt to add to this.
We sat in that tub for what seemed like forever, folded together like twins in utero. His penis tapped against my vulva from the Jacuzzi bubbles and I laughed. It was like my own fleshy vibrator.
He spoke about his general loneliness and how much he looked forward to seeing me each visit, how it took him days to recover from our sexual escapades and how much he loved fucking me.
I decided to give him the better spot in the tub and, wrapped in a towel, sat on the edge. We laughed hysterically as he drunkenly tried to maneuver up onto the seat. It felt good to feel something other than lust with him.
He asked me to guess how many women he’s slept with since meeting me. He seemed to think we’d been seeing each other for 4 or 5 months (it’s been since the end of February, so… 3 months, I guess). I knew the answer must be zero, but I guessed 2.
“Ha! Not even close!” he said triumphantly. He made a “zero” with his hand. I suppose there was some implied significance for him on that. Of course, I couldn’t say the same. I’ve been sleeping with Peter and The Vet since I met him. Combine the 3 men and I’d say I have a pretty great relationship.
Peter is sweet and loving and listens to me with rapt attention. The Vet texts me on the reg and takes me on dates. And The Golfer is a blast to be with and fucks me senseless.
The other side of all those coins is that Peter had a girlfriend and is a liar. The Vet wants a swinging partner and is newly out of some crazy relationship. And The Golfer ignores me for days on end.
I guess they’re also all the worst relationship.
The Golfer didn’t press me for an answer on my number, but he did want to know how I felt about us, sexually. “Do you have this with anyone else? Have you ever??”
I answered him honestly. “No, I have never.”
And it’s true.
I have never in my life been ridden over such cliffs of sheer rapture. Each time together seems to top the one before and I never think I’ll actually survive. I didn’t explain it quite like that to him, but I assured him that I wholeheartedly believed that what we have is special.
The rest of the evening’s timeline is blurry for me. I’d finished the bottle of rosé on my own in an attempt to level the playing field and was feeling no pain. We ordered sushi and he promptly passed out. I tried to wake him up, but without success. I dozed and woke disoriented. His phone lit up in his dark bedroom and I looked at the locked preview screen.
Someone said they were 15 minutes away.
Another girl wrote simply, “Heyyyyy.”
Forgetting that we’d ordered delivery I panicked. What if some girl was on her way over right now?? He’s passed out in bed, I’m all alone! Shit fuck fuck!
I tried to wake him again, but he was incoherent, so I moved his phone to touch his hip and texted him myself in hopes his phone might reach the lizard part of his drunken brain and wake him up. It didn’t work. However, I did get to see how he has me programmed into his phone.
“Extremely Wet Hyacinth.”
Jesus Christ. Well, that’s better than Old Gross Hyacinth. I’ll take it.
It was about then that the doorbell rang and it occurred to me it was sushi. I ate alone at the coffee table and put his half away and padded back into his room. It’d been at least an hour since he’d fallen asleep and I’d kept myself busy patting his dog and generally trying to sober up.
I easily roused him this time. “Sushi came,” I said. “Yours is in the fridge.” He grabbed me and pulled me in for a kiss and we rolled around. I reached for his cock, but it was only half hard. I kissed his neck and he sucked on my nipples. He was apologizing about his hardon and I was telling him to shut up about the time I stuffed it inside of me.
He was hard now and I moved clumsily on top of him. The roller coaster drop was tamer this time; I wasn’t screaming and holding on for dear life. I was cumming, but more quietly. We stopped after a few minutes and he apologized some more. I could see him struggling to be present, the booze continued to tug at his consciousness.
We moved to the living room and he ate and we watched the finale. I barely paid attention, it sucked so bad, and he was asleep with his head on my lap anyway. When it was over he took my hand and led me to his room where we fell asleep spooning.
I can’t say that what I experienced for the next handful of hours was sleep. He snored, a drunken buzz saw. I didn’t bother to wake him, but my pussy was wet and ached. I pushed my ass into the cradle of his hips hoping that when he awoke in the morning we could finish what we started.
I got up and peed, I drank some water, he kept snoring, I pushed my ass into his belly again. Finally, a little before 6 am he stopped snoring and slept peacefully and I, too, sunk into slumber.
At 6:13 I felt him sit upright in bed and fling off the covers. He started the shower. “Hey, you,” I said sleepily.
“I’m already 30 minutes behind,” he said.
Without a word he got in the shower. I took it as my cue to leave and gathered up my clothes and things. Fully dressed I opened the shower door and he leaned out to kiss me. Once, twice, three times on the lips.
“I’m so sorry for being so lame last night,” he said. Also once, twice, and three times.
“Don’t be. I had a great time.” I fondled his warm, wet penis and sac. “I want to see you this weekend. I’m out of town next.”
“I might have a golf tournament,” he answered.
“Well, we’ll figure it out. I want to see you.”
He kissed me again, on the corner of my mouth.
I grabbed two cigarettes and left.
On the way home, dawn just barely over the hilltops, I wondered why I’d had such a good time. The man was hammered when I showed up, remained drunk, passed out, wasn’t able to fuck me due to his inebriation, and was non-committal about seeing me the following weekend.
But he’d also been sweet. So sweet.
And complimentary and funny and fun and easy to be with. I wasn’t inhibited – who was he to judge me? the guy was plastered on our date – and that chemistry he spoke of was palpable. Half the time I can’t even remember what we talk about, but there’s a constant stream of chatter between us. It’s easy.
When I got home, still high from it all, I texted him a photo of me on my balcony, legs up on a chair with my coffee mug on the patio table.
“You weren’t lame at all in case you’re still thinking that. I had a great time – hope you did too!”
I sent it knowing I wouldn’t hear back from him. The night had been intense, intoxicated or otherwise; I was still processing it and I hadn’t been a drunken fool like he had. I would give him space, me too, and then text him today, Wednesday to check in about the weekend.
I sent a pic and decided to be direct.
Good morminggggg. I want to cum see you this weekend. Are you working Monday? I’m out of town next weekend
I wasn’t expecting to hear back for another two days, but not long after I got this:
I’m not working [on the Monday holiday] but have a golf tournament
True to form: exact, factual. That’s him. I decided to stick with my directness.
Is any day this weekend good to hang out for you? I’m flexible so…
He didn’t respond to my pic, he didn’t offer a solution, he hasn’t replied to my last text as of this moment. My Irishman sits on my shoulder and whispers sweet, positive nothings in my ear. He’s a big fan of The Golfer and thinks that he and I will ride off into some delusional sunset together. We routinely make bets that end with his scrotum decorated with a fanning of clothes pins because I won (or lost).
He thinks that TG will call or text me in a timely fashion. I say he won’t. Currently I won the Monday morning bet that I wouldn’t hear from for at least two days. MI said that of course he’d call me because of everything he’d confessed to me the night before. I think we just like playing our glass half-full and -empty roles at this point. TG isn’t relationship material, lets be honest.
And here’s where I repeat that: he isn’t relationship material. Not like this, anyway.
Not drunken, non-communicative, golf-obsessed, and neglectful. He doesn’t fit into my New Universe.
Then why keep going? Because I genuinely enjoy spending time with him. It’s easy. I have 90-95% of my energy going towards mothering, my career, my home, my friends. Five-to ten per cent gets siphoned off to worry about whether or not I’ll hear back from him. If that.
I still struggle with why he feels the way he does about me and I fight hard against any body-shaming my mean and shriveled inner voice wants to cast my way, but I am learning to accept whatever comes my way for however long it feels almost-effortless.
My Irishman said this to me in his beautiful lilt: “So you know he likes you now, and every day after that you have with him is just a bonus.” How very “in the moment” of him, but things now feel weird between TG and I.
He shared a lot of stuff that felt really great to hear and I just don’t know where to stick that. In my cap, I suppose, but he’ll inevitably return to the planet Hyacinth and beg me to cumm [sic] all over him again and things won’t be weird anymore.
For now he’s left me hanging with one more text:
I have golf planned all over the place. I’ll let ya know
Except The Vet has asked me out, ready to see me any night of the weekend I am free. When I find out from my mother which night they want Peyton I’ll let him know.
And since I am languishing in TG’s communication purgatory I’m not committed to his inattention and am ostensibly free; I’m a busy woman! Unless TG gets back to me first and it matches with my night off in which case that’s where I’ll be.
It will be a race to see who fits into my busy schedule first – The Vet or The Golfer – not whose schedule I can fit into.