It was the third time it stung and hurt in rhythm to his thrusting digits that night. I told him to stop, but his long fingers kept moving inside of me. He’d pushed things farther than I’d wanted all night long and now we were naked on my bed.
“You’re hurting me!” I said and pushed at the arm and wrist connected to my body.
“Stop!” I said again, firm and angry. “You are hurtingme!!”
He pulled his hand out and kissed me drunkenly. “I’m sorry,” he said.
I explained to him how to touch me and let him restart.
It hurt again. I cried out again. I yelled at him to stop again. I pushed his hand away again.
He wanted to fuck then, but I said no. He pouted and begged, kissed my neck and touched my pussy. The wine fuzzed my brain and it was much too dark in my room to clearly see that he needed to just go away.
I let his touch calm me and when he slithered down to put his mouth on me I held my breath. “Do not suck on me,” I said. “It will hurt; I’m too sensitive.”
“Don’t suck!” I said again and pushed at his shoulders. He didn’t budge and continued to suck. I felt my labia pulled away from my body by the suction and I hated it, that awful, tugging sensation.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” I shouted. “I just told you not to suck!!!”
I told him to lap at me. “Like an ice cream cone.”
I wasn’t there anymore.
I was in a black space with no exit, thick and viscous. My arms and legs were mine, but they weren’t free. This man was doing these things to me that I was supposed to enjoy, but I wasn’t. It hurt, it pissed me off, it felt pointless, I felt lost.
It finally ended somehow and I was submerged in upside-down darkness and only wanted him to leave. He wanted to stay the night. “No, you need to go home. My mom will be here at 8 in the morning.”
He pouted again and recoiled from me. As he gathered up his clothing he complained they were wet from my ejaculate. I told him to shut up, incredulous.
Because I’m a woman and trained to be polite I hugged him goodbye, but he was terse and walked out stiffly. Several minutes later he texted to tell me how much he liked me.
Late the next morning he texted to say he’d left some things behind and that he’d had an incredible night with me. I’d found his boxers already, but he’d also left his work keys. I searched the couch hoping they weren’t there, but they were: two shiny silver keys on a ring, a big one and a little one, much like my delusion and self-respect.
I haven’t told him they are here. He wants to see me again. I don’t want to. Keys or no keys.
I don’t know how to proceed. Do I tell him how I remember the evening or do I just say “Sorry, this isn’t going to work out for me.” I want to disappear and not think about the disaster that was my Friday night, erase it completely from memory.
I wonder if I could be wrong about everything, that maybe I was begging for it. Maybe I did sometimes, I don’t recall that clearly. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. It will soon be rolled into the other stories I have of nights similar to that one. Of being over-powered by their desire and choosing the path of least resistance and saying, Fine, ok. I’ll do it, when truthfully, I don’t want to, but am too scared to say No only to have him say Yes we are because then it really is bad. And scary. And my fault.
I am clear that No means No, but when a drunk woman is half naked on your lap and her hard limit is your hand in her pussy, but it’s ok to suck on her tits I get the confusion. I understand the risk, I understand the world I live in. It’s not set up for me to have hard limits if others are soft.
I blame myself for not having the guts to kick him out the second I felt it was sideways. Instead I tried to salvage it, make his mistake and boorish behavior ok so it wouldn’t be a scary assault, so he wouldn’t see he’d gone too far and reached a vulnerable place in me – both literally and figuratively. I let him stay and I attempted to make the night mine, not his, and all I really accomplished was confusing him and hurting me.
The Neighbor ended things with me on February 11th and I waited until March 27th before I sat across a live man again. Since then I have been out with 11 men on approximately 29 different occasions in 10 weeks.
I’ve had sex with 4 of them 12 times and did a whole bunch of oral fun with a 5th man. I can’t even count the number of men with whom I’ve interacted with online and text. I’d guess 100+ if you include brief replies, shut downs, and quiet fades.
I’m sure one of you could crunch those numbers better than me, but according to my poor math skills I have close to a 50/50 chance of sleeping with a man when I go on a date and I spend a little less than half my waking time on a date.
Except that isn’t even remotely true.
Less than half the men I’ve gone out with have seen me naked or gotten to touch me and I have a very lustrous life outside of meeting strangers for drinks and the furtive hope of chemistry. This isn’t all I do, but it is my past time.
I was on another date with the Bad Texter on Tuesday and it’s the first time we’d seen each other since he left for London the morning of my texting mistake 3 weeks ago. He asked what I’d been up to. It was so good to see his smiling, bearded face and light sherry-colored eyes. But I couldn’t answer him, not honestly.
I couldn’t tell him I woke up the other day with cum dried in my eyebrows or how I’d been on a ton of terrible dates or how I’d hit 10,000 followers on my Instagram account that’s connected to a sex blog that is a true labor of love and a huge part of my life.
In that moment I realized I have an arguably very large and secret double life, so I only answered, “Not much. I’m pretty boring.”
The truth is I’ve been very busy over the last 3 weeks and particularly the last 70 days. Let me fill you in.
Blake – He was the first man I went out with after The Neighbor. We hung out about 3 times and on our first date he asked me what my deal breakers were. Not what I held to be true about other people, but what a man would find about me to be a deal breaker for him.
The first thing that popped into my brain was, “Well, I have a secret fucking sex blog, so there’s that,” but what I said instead was, “I need a lot more attention than what a single man can give me. He’d need to allow me to get feedback from elsewhere.”
I was up front about my sexual proclivities, he gave me some nice bruises once, and then he very oddly opted himself out one day as he spun out in a frazzled mess and broke a date citing stronger feelings for me than I had for him.
Tall eHarmony Guy – We texted for a month leading up to our date scheduled for March 28th and spoke once on the phone. He’d offended me twice and shown himself to be insecure and close-minded, but I liked that he was watering a little seed with me with his daily check-ins and obvious interest.
The day of our date I met with Troy and Jack beforehand for drinks even orchestrating our destination to be within drop-off distance of the shitty restaurant TeG had chosen. An hour before we were to meet he texted to say that the first reservation available was at 10pm.
He thought I was seeking perfection when I told him I wasn’t interested in driving around with him – a stranger – looking for another restaurant at 7 pm on a Saturday during a festival weekend. He figuratively huffed off out of my life and phone and I merrily waved goodbye.
The Little Marine – He was intense and we clicked until suddenly we didn’t and I left him face down and naked, crushed, on his black sheets. He knew I wasn’t returning.
He was diligent in scheduling sex and I obliged a time or two, but something was off. Our sex was never as good as that first time when I realized that desirable sex did, in fact, exist outside my broken heart.
It ended for two reasons: 1) he was pressuring me to schedule too much and I found myself leaning towards untruths about my availability and 2) our last date was a semi-disaster. He arrived drunk, rushed me out of the hotel bar across from his apartment, didn’t listen to a goddamned word I said, and at some point smacked my ass in the basement hallway of his building. It wasn’t the smack that bothered me, but the aftermath.
He insisted it’d pissed me off, I asserted only surprise. He wouldn’t drop it, even after I begged him to. My attraction for him was evaporating as quickly as he formed his words of rebuttal.
We attempted sex — I was there to get fucking laid, after all — but it didn’t work. Neither of us were into it. He didn’t want me to go, but I said I had to. He asked what he could do differently, could he have avoided this. My simple reply was, “You could have listened to me.”
David – The fireman with the giant hose. We met for beer and made out in my car a little so I could feel his beer can cock for myself. The sex has been subversive, challenging, and unimaginably hot for me, but I struggle to communicate with him. I avoid arguments because, like with The Little Marine, an argument is a sure sign of an imminent exit and I still really like fucking this giant, crudely funny man.
Ray – A man I met on Tinder who explicitly stated he wasn’t looking for anything physical. Intrigued, we met for a casual meal where I discovered it’s actually possible to have zero chemistry with an incredibly good looking man. We haven’t spoken since, though I’ve seen him at my favorite coffee/bar place a couple of times.
Incidentally, Ray was the man I was off to meet the night I ran into The Neighbor for the first time in weeks which tipped the scales for us in so many ways.
Ginger Viking – Tall and with a beard the color of a redwood, GV talked at me animatedly for 2 hours one day across a picnic table. He was funny and had an easy energy and I didn’t even mind that he spoke mostly about his masters degree program. I was able to interject here and there.
He sent me lots of cock shots before the Sunday morning he came over to fuck. He grabbed me in the entryway and kissed me with a loose, wet mouth, and backed me into my bedroom. We peeled off our clothes, he rolled on a condom, put it in for 3 to 5 thrusts then froze.
Apparently, he’s a quiet cummer.
He rolled off of me, said he needed a nap, but didn’t leave for another 2 hours wherein he told me all about his multiple DUIs and subsequent non-drinking life.
He recently hit me up for some “non-mommy time,” but I have let this one slip away. Premature ejaculation and quiet cumming are not fatal flaws, but quitting once you’ve orgasmned and not giving me anything, even a sign of pleasure, is. Also, all the jibber jabber.
The Bad Texter – This man is figuring prominently in my thoughts these days. I met him May 1st and felt an instant connection. He’s very tall, bearded, ginger, and about as guarded as a mother fucker can get. He’s also 75 lbs overweight. I’ve never been so attracted to such a large man and when he touches me I feel small and safe, two things that rarely occur together. The former, sure, the latter almost never.
We’ve been out 4 times and we haven’t fucked. Tuesday night I straddled his face and pulled his hair, his big paws clawed at my back in long, heavy swipes. I came with my head against the giant, padded headboard his mama made him.
I climbed off of him and sucked his uncut cock and could feel the foreskin slide in my mouth. He moaned my name, coached me. I came up to kiss him and asked where he wanted to cum, he could do it anywhere, I said. He whispered, “In your mouth,” then even more softly whispered, “and on your face.”
I knelt below him and looked up at his towering, hulking body. His face was glazed with passion as he watched himself disappear into my mouth. I leaned back and let him finish all over my face and held his pulsing cock in my mouth.
We lay together then, me cuddled up in his nook, and he threaded his big fingers through mine for many minutes on end. I couldn’t remember the last time a man played with my hand.
We’re going to see each other again on Sunday.
Randy – The exceptional date who has proven to be a nice young man, but is apologetic about his sexuality. He liked me a lot very quickly and I have been gentle with him to put distance between us. I am not here to teach anyone about the coolness of their bodies and sex.
Chase –My sexual brother, who as I predicted, told me just last night that he’s going to stop playing around. He and the Bad Texter are the only two men who have shared the conversation with me. I’m going to miss him.
Mat – His name was misspelled from birth — that should have been an indicator of something. He withheld very important information, such as having 4 children with his ex, and never once asked me a question.
McSweeney – This Monday’s date blamed me for over-dressing and discussed power-lifting for the first 20 minutes of our date before sticking his head up for air. When I was able to interject he would react negatively or argue with me about my own beliefs and feelings. Oh, and then more power-lifting talk. Good times.
We kissed by my car. He must know by now that it’d be his first and last with me. His cologne was cloyingly musky.
The Chemist – Wednesday’s date. Let me just share what I told a friend about him:
shorter than me WITH cowboy boots, thinks his mother is a shitbag, told me how much money he makes, he’s got Crohn’s but doesn’t care because he knows he’ll die from it anyway, he dips, he didn’t ask me one question, he argued with me about metaphysics v existentialism, hates bjs and thinks they’re degrading to both parties, has an exfiancee who put all the dicks in her unbeknownst to him, hasn’t seen/talked to his parents in 12 years…
That’s just what I wrote to her. He is also in the process of getting his face tattoos removed. I’m sure I’ve forgotten more gems from the evening, but that’s plenty of red flags for me.
Take from these tales what you will. I’m certain there’s a How not to get laid message in there somewhere.
I might have a date with someone else tonight, maybe another Friday and Saturday and then the Bad Texter is Sunday. This could possibly be the busiest dating week of my life, but I feel light as a feather. The force is strong with this one, as the saying goes.
Dating is inherently awful. The Chemist called it something like the “reconciliation of vulnerability,” that we all just assume we’ll be hurt by the strangers we continue to meet online. I call it an exercise in futility because no matter what it is you’re looking for — be it love or lust — you’re offering yourself up for rejection and to attempt to avoid it is futile. I also have my double-life to think about. I’m lying right out of the gate if you include omission as a fatal character flaw.
I really like the Bad Texter, but the current rules of dating mean that he’s probably talking to half a dozen girls on any number of platforms and therefore I don’t have 100% of his attention. Ever. It’s certainly true of me.
Focusing on one man doesn’t increase my odds of a successful connection, either. That’s the sad part. We all play the field because it’s deceptively easy (thanks, online dating!) and it seems like the right thing to do, but what we’re really waiting for is the Big Kahuna, the one that takes us out of the churning waters of singledom and into the kiddie pool of a stable relationship.
Having said that, I don’t know that I’m fit for a relationship. I wonder all the time if I mean that for right now or for always because the idea of letting my guard down, of actually being vulnerable enough to say, “Hey, I need this from you,” and risk this person not stepping up and therefore forcing me to end it with him as any healthy adult should and would makes me itch. Also, double-life.
I’ve told the Bad Texter his way of communicating has really bothered me. That was a baby step to real vulnerability, but I can’t say that I’ll be able to go further. The Neighbor is a closed book, but if I could rewrite our chapters I would have left him last summer without question, but I was incapable of admitting to myself that what he was doing was unacceptable because then I would be forced to end things and it is nearly impossible for me to stick up for myself like that. The loss of someone I love, despite them not treating me well, is akin to raw abandonment.
I don’t want to find myself trapped in that place again and until I trust myself enough to admit to when things are indeed not ok, then I will be swimming in the deepest pools of men I can find, because here I am a strong swimmer.
Pussy-licking devil jokes aside, Noodle’s advice was good. I felt (somewhat) relaxed and confident. A minute or two later the obnoxious fella who was going to meet me out tonight, Wednesday, texted me. He wanted to join me for a drink. I conferred with my dating coach and she said, “Do it! It’ll give you a reason for being there!”
He was a young (27), blonde, Bill Pullman type with lacquered black jeans and a too tight pearl snap shirt. He wore his insecurities high on his flag pole. There was no avoiding them. We clicked in a mismatched way. I was far too perceptive, he was far too sensitive. The thick, warm summer breeze tossed his locks like in a shampoo commercial. He squeezed my waist with his hand and pulled me close. I let him.
We chatted, he flirted, we kissed. I liked his weird, nervous energy. When I was done with my last glass of wine we closed out and made a deal. He wanted to come home with me, but, “We’re not having sex,” I told him. “No touching, no hands, no fondling, nothing.” He agreed.
“We’re just getting tanked. Got it.” He laughed his baby-faced laugh.
He followed me home and watched the sway of my hips up the 40 steps to my front door. I filled two wine glasses, pumped up my music, and we sat outside.
He kept going to dark places and I kept pulling him out. “These kinds of chats aren’t meant for first dates,” I said.
He touched my legs and massaged a foot. Eventually, I straddled him and kissed him passionately. He spanked me and moaned that he’d destroy me in bed. I reminded him of our pact.
“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled into my lips.
The velvety night around us layered upon the wine which wound its way through my brain and limbs. I felt heavenly and happy. Completely and utterly distracted.
“When was the last time you had sex?” he asked me suddenly.
I looked down at my bruised knees and thought of beefy, but nerdy. I took a breath and forged ahead. “Yesterday.” He went rigid in his chair like he just went from cooked to raw spaghetti.
“And before that?”
“Well, yesterday was with a cool guy I know and Thursday was with my neighbor.”
“That neighbor?!?” he emphatically waved over at The Neighbor’s black balcony.
“Yeah. But it’s over. It’s no biggie.” I could tell that he was having a hard time processing. I gently brought him back around, assured him none of it meant anything and that I really dug him as much as he dug me. He relaxed under my words and pulled me back onto his lap.
“I really have to go. I can’t stay. I will end up trying to fuck you if I stay and I can’t. It’s only our first date.”
I tried to persuade him, but he was firm. I walked him to the door, gave him a hug and a kiss and he left. It was 2 am.
I wobbled back to my phone and picked it up. TN had texted 15 minutes earlier. He wanted to know why he wasn’t invited to my party with Downstairs Neighbor.
“Come over.” I texted back.
“Put on your pants. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Then, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. His sweet, pale face and icy blue eyes were a sight for sore eyes. I hadn’t seen him in days. The strap on my sundress had just broken and it flopped down over my black bra and swung lazily from the swell of my breast. I hiked it up when I saw him looking at it.
“Who was over here, Hy?”
“Oh, nobody. Just some kid who ran out because he was afraid of fucking me.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. But, whatever. What’s up?”
We lay on the couch together, as we always do, and canoodled. I told him I’d gone out to avoid him. He looked sad. I told him to fuck off. “You’ve been with your goddamned girlfriend every night since Friday. I couldn’t take it any more.”
“I wasn’t! I was only with her two nights!”
“Well, whatever.” I crawled up his chest and got nose to nose with him. We just sat there looking at each other. Me, bleary and drunk. Him, well, him. “You cheated on Thursday.” I said flatly.
“Yes, I did.”
“You’re cheating right now.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
His erection was huge and pressed up against the cradle of my hips. We were still nose to nose, his sweet breath tripped over my mouth. I inhaled hungrily and ground against him. “How about this?”
I dipped my mouth to his and watched his eyes as our lips touched. I closed my eyes when he did. He grabbed the back of my head and crushed me to him. I kissed him like I know he loves to be kissed and nibbled his neck and lowered down to his arousal. His fucking cock pulsed and jumped for me.
I pulled his basketball shorts aside and gripped his shaft. He moaned. I looked at him again for permission. He made no move to stop me. I bent my head and took him in my mouth, his salty precum a decadent treat. “Fuck, I love your mouth, Hy. You are so good at that.” His hands were on my head holding my hair back, his eyes locked on my face. The taste of his skin, the stretch of my mouth around him, the pure awfulness of it all made my pussy gush.
I sat up and straddled him, but then jumped off and ran into my room. I came back with two golden wrappers. The meaning was implicit. “You’ve had sex,” he said.
“Yeah, I did. With a nice guy. I like him. We wrestled.” He looked wounded. “What? You’re over there fucking your girlfriend.” I said it matter of factly with no trace of malice.
“Yeah, I know.” The pain on his face was endearing.
I sauntered over to him and climbed back on him, but the mood had shifted. The reality of using condoms had pierced whatever revery he’d constructed to be with me. “I can’t,” was all he said. The bubble had been burst.
I didn’t push the matter. It was enough. We lay in each other’s arms and discussed him vacuuming for me before my friend arrives Friday. “I’m going to make you wear my panties.”
“Yep. And you’re going to love it.”
“It’s true. I’ll wear them for you, Hy. I promise. I always wear them for you.”
He left then and I went back to my phone. It was 3:30. Bill Pullman with the painted on pants had called me and texted; completely flipped out over the news I’d had sex the night before. He called me a ho.
When I could catch my breath from my hysterical laughing I texted him to get a grip and that we probably shouldn’t go any further.
This morning he said he was “beyond pissed.” I told him I couldn’t figure out what his problem was and that calling me a ho was laughable. He said, “What’s laughable is your description of your body.” I laughed so hard again I nearly cried. I describe myself as having rounded arms, breasts, hips and a curvy form (and that it’s not a euphemism for fat); that if you imagine a farmgirl, that’s me. I even give my measurements (43-32-44).
I told him “Peace out. lol” and it enraged him again. I deleted him out of my phone and texted TN to set a time for vacuuming. When I get back from my party tonight I’m going to call him.
All I can think about is what panties to put him in.