Cats keep it real.

Kitty don’t care.
Still not caring.

Nothing more humbling than a four legged alien who’s plotting to kill you.

Or a 27-year-old man who thinks he knows what’s up.

Picture this: A Bumble match with a very tall, lanky muscular fella whose profile says that he’s there because the girls on Grindr are too hairy matching with me, a mid-40’s woman who says she’s not interested in men with “outdated views on sex, women, and the world in general.”

He asks me what that means, so I decide to throw caution to the wind and really dig in, throw the whole damn book at him.

The misconceptions that sex is all about erections, women who fuck on first dates aren’t worthy of more, and how it’s a man’s job to perform for the pleasure of all.

He’s diggin’ it, parrying beautifully.  I’m intrigued, excited. I tell him all my philosophies and he’s right there with me. And then…

“So… I feel like now is the time that I ask to see you naked,” accompanied by a couple of kissy faced emojis.

I balk, say that this is why I don’t go there with men because it can be confusing and I ask him how I gave him the impression I would send such images before meeting him.

He calls me rude, condescending, and pretentious.

I am laughing in my kitchen, phone in one hand, coffee in the other.  The boy’s feathers are ruffled, but I don’t want to let it go.  I press my case, point out his defensiveness isn’t beneficial to our discussion.  He apologizes and I explain my point of view.  He apologizes again.  I still want to fuck him, but now he says he’s too scared.

He wants to bang, but now he’s afraid because he’s intimidated even through the ether and what if – God forbid – we get together and he can’t get hard.

It’s like he never heard me.  I don’t care about a man’s hardon, but I care about him caring that I’m in the room.  He doesn’t get it, can’t get it, won’t get it.

I might still see what happens over a drink.  Let him see my short, curvy stature, a deep line of cleavage and my piercing glare; maybe take his hand and let it rest on my thigh.  See what happens.

Or maybe I’ll let him watch this ride coast right on by.

February Photofest

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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