She doesn’t know why no one wants to date me. Four men in my whole life have ever wanted to and obviously none of those were the best fit. Hundreds have wanted to fuck me, though. They’re lining up practically.
“If they actually knew you, Hy, they’d want to! Not that they’d know you like I do, but…” her voice trailed off. “But you are so sexy and so big. I don’t think most men can handle it.”
Her little blue eyes sparkled at me surrounded by wrinkles.
“Everyone wants to date Hy,” I said, “and that’s the real me. I just don’t know how to get anyone to get to know me in real life.
“I don’t have any opportunities. Work isn’t an option and when I don’t have Pey I work long hours. All I have is online – like everyone else – but how can anyone know me in one date or in 4 weeks? It’s all set up for me to be meaningless to them.
“Look at Early Afternoon Lunch Guy. There’s a reason I didn’t program him in to my phone. What’s the fucking point??”
I began to tear up when I told her I’d programmed my Saturday night lay into my phone. The Golfer. His real name is almost a “Chad.”
We’ve been sexting a little. An auspicious start to nothing, I’m sure. Nothing says “future relationship,” like, “I want your cumm [sic].”
The man from Saturday, The Golfer, has been flirting with me and I honestly can’t figure out why.
In the harsh Tuesday morning light I look at myself and don’t see much worth physically desiring. He was drunk, that’s how he ended up in my bed, otherwise why would a gorgeous 35 year old man want my middle aged and rapidly sagging-where-it-never-used-to-sag ass?
It’s not the right time of the month for me to be feeling this way – I can’t quite make sense of it – except that I must still have an emotional hangover from that night.
He came and sat with Tina and me already drunk, but massively charming nonetheless. I watched her drape herself all over him and flirt like she was drowning, but I sat in between them and seemed to inadvertently block any real foreplay between the two of them.
He was there for something, but he wouldn’t quite come out with it. Then he told us he’d hit a major professional milestone, a jackpot, if you will. I heard him say “multi-millionaire.”
Tina, lover of millionaires that she is, perked up and convinced him to order the most expensive bottle of bubbles on the menu then left to go to the restroom. Now just the two of us, I inquired further about the moment for him.
“I’m gonna get sad for a minute,” he said with his head in his hands, “then I’ll be ok.”
I rubbed his back a little and told him it was alright, not entirely sure what he was about to say and not wanting to get overly invested in a drunk stranger’s drama.
“I mean no offense, but today is a really big day for me and I’m spending it with two women I don’t know.”
His friends, nearly as drunk as him, had tried to pry him away to go home earlier, but he’d refused. “I never leave the house, I don’t date, I’m totally alone and I had no one to share this with. Not really. I just tagged along with them, crashed their date.” I kept rubbing his back.
“I know how that feels,” I replied. “Take a deep breath and just enjoy tonight. It’s how I do it.”
Tina returned with her signature bad attitude and the moment was over. We were at a swanky hotel, after all, drinking Veuve Cliquot. The tears would have to wait.
That’s not a normal convo to have with a random drunk dude.
Maybe that’s why I went ahead and programmed his name in my phone, for the simple fact that I’m sad, too. I’m sad that I’m alone and drifting, bouncing from hookup to hookup like a skipped rock on the Lake O’ Many Mens.
I haven’t programmed a name in so long I barely remember the last time. It must have been Elliot, and before that Luke? God, I don’t even know. Both men who for whatever reasons didn’t want to be with me in the end.
As TG and I fucked each other senseless in the soulless black of my room it seemed we both held on for dear life. I wept from the sheer force of pleasure coursing through my body and he acted high on the perfume of my ejaculate and cries.
He flipped me over and licked my asshole and bit my cheeks, he pounded my pussy with his cock and his hands and buried his face between my legs like a starving man with a mouth made of the softest petals.
And then he texted the next day and tried to convince me to come over so we could do it all again. Not only was I hungover and recovering emotionally, but I felt embarrassed. Would he even want me in the light of day? Is it even worth my time even if he did?
He’s tried to get me to come over each night since. He’s funny, awkward, viciously self deprecating, and from what he said at the hotel, hates his mother.
It might appear that he’s one to avoid without question, yet his name is in my phone all the same because I’m sad, too, and for just a minute I’d also like to pretend that someone cares I exist.
I’m so proud of myself for getting this one posted BEFORE Friday! I feel like a grown up meme owner/runner/whatever! Woohoo!
Thanks as always for bearing with me to all of you who rise hours and hours ahead of me and sometimes have to wait 20 hours before a link is available to you. You are all the very very best and I appreciate your kindness and your continued support and participation!
I’m watching Season 4 of the Great British Baking Show (not sure how I managed to skip that one!). It’s by far the best thing ever made for TV, I’ll tell you that much. I’m watching them sculpt “plaited bread showstoppers” at the moment. Fucking brilliant.
Also, in less than a month I will be in London for Eroticon! OMG, I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see everyone! All the hugs and kisses and loveliness.
He texted me every day for two weeks. Parried and played with words, flirted and flitted about my little phone screen.
I told him I could be free either Friday or Saturday nights, but it all depended on Pey and my parents and which night they wanted to spend together. He said he preferred Saturday and then it all worked out. Saturday it was.
No, he didn’t need help picking something to do because he was brand new to town. He’d be happy to figure something out. Yes, he’d follow me to the table to check out my sexy rear end because he prefers meaty women like me. Of course he’s certain I look cute every day. Wow, he thinks I’m really pretty! Morning darlin, he said practically every morning. What are you wearing today? And we’d joke at how filthy such an innocent question sounded.
And then on the bright, cold morning of our date I read the following text:
Early afternoon lunch
No punctuation. No context. No more anything.
I responded with question marks and confusion and lots of space so he could play with the rope. By late afternoon I couldn’t help but send one last text to at least acknowledge the event that was occurring:
I get the feeling we’re not having our date tonight since I haven’t heard from you since that 8 am text about an early afternoon lunch…
All the words, all the darlin’s, all the flirty, flitty, parrying, and playing amounted to one big fat fucking black hole of my energy and hope. And a last minute appeal to a girlfriend so that my rare Saturday night would not go to waste.
Thanks a lot, Mr. Forgettable. May you get a nasty rash and wake up 30 minutes too early for the rest of your selfish and impolite life. Now excuse me while I go deal with my quiet, impotent rage over the betrayal of a simple social contract: do what you say you will and if you cannot then you say so.
Have a nibble on that for your bitch time slot early afternoon lunch, why don’t you?
It appears I’ve abandoned my Dating Like It’s 1995 project. I know because I’m back on Bumble and I’ve jumped into a pile of dicks — I mean dudes — again. It kinda feels good. Too good. Like I’m not all here, just tethered by a string dancing in the gale.
Time to carefully back away again and get back to 1995. I liked it there a lot. It was quiet and real and rooted through the ground beneath my palms.
“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.
“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever. I don’t want to stop.” His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.
I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his. This didn’t even feel real.
Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real. Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real. Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real. Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.
“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.
“I wish you could, too.”
He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby. His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder. I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.
He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails. I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.
I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him. Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day. No one is ever interested in my day. But Peter is.
And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle. When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height. We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs. Oh, Peter.
Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night. No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all. Eat your heart out, perfumers.
We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms. Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.
No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.
And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.