Knotty Thursday! Farrimond Friction Hitch

 

It's a little janky, I should practice a few more times before This Charming Man comes over for our Gremlins 2 date tonight. He might be practicing it a little today too! :D 

A Bad Date, Good Hookup, and a Helpful Google, Part Three

There was something about Hookup Guy having such a narrow window of time that made him seem a little sus. Sure, he could have just been horny and urgent (like, you know, ME) but it felt like he was on more of a cheating husband schedule than a divorced dad schedule. I knew I had to look him up before I let him come over anymore.

These moments never don’t remind me of Psyche bringing the lamp into Cupid’s room and wrecking everything. Darn lamp!

I couldn’t find anything under the name he’d given me, aside from a lower-rung Marvel actor. A facebook search turned up various not-hims. He’d told me that in addition to his teaching work, he had started doing real estate on the side, so I tried “fake name realtor” in the search bar and still found nothing. I know not everyone is an internet open book, but sheesh.

So I typed in his phone number and up came the same him with a different last name. He did seem divorced on his (mostly professional) facebook page. And there he was, a ways back, holding up his “I’m vaccinated” sticker, so at least he wasn’t lying about that? I suppose anyone could get a sticker though. Should I be asking to see vaccine cards? I mean, you can fake those too! Will this fall’s adventures land me in Deltaville?

It’s very Nineties to wonder if fucking is going to kill me. And also very now, very always, I guess.

I texted him to ask why he’d given me a wrong last name, but I knew there wasn’t any answer he could give that would change things. After a few skeptical-but-hopeful hours, I blocked and unmatched. People are just gone so fast sometimes.

I felt more off-balance from Hookup Guy’s lying than from the morning’s bad date, but the combination of the two left me feeling discouraged, self-slut-shamed, and generally turned upside down. The sense of unreality that permeates all of 2021 life and especially online dating descended like a not-cute cloud.

I talked it over with Pagan Boy’s Crush (I’ve come to think of PBC and Sweetie-Now-BFF, along with my new therapist, as my emotional board of directors. I stole that idea from someone, but I forget who.) and realized that I’d been handing out so much trust and generosity lately, and I needed to turn some of that towards myself.

Now, a week later, I’ve basically stopped swiping for the time being. New therapist referred to The Lovely Guy as my “regular (his name)” and I think I’ve got us into a nicely casual place. (knock wood) There’s This Charming Man who has nothing to do with The Smiths and everything to do with ropes and good texting! I should probably write about him soon.

And there’s friends. And work. And sleep. And time’s almost up on my 2021 goals. I’m happier and less scattered than I was a week ago, so that’s good. And it’s only mostly because of the ropes. 😊

A Momentous Knotty Thursday! And What Is This Called?!

 

The rope is orange because I had a really good first date last Friday! I asked the new possible guy what color he would like and ordered it before I even took my post-date afternoon nap. He's practicing tonight too, for brunch and unrestrainy beginner-ness tomorrow.

I could NOT remember what this one was called, so googling was pretty futile. Luckily, BFF-Formerly-Sweetie stopped by for unrelated reasons and was nice enough to teach it to me on the railing. I think it's possible that everyone in this post is pretty amazing at life. 

A Bad Date, A Good Hookup, and a Helpful Google, Part Two

 

I fucking LOVE THIS.

That night back in September when I texted The Coach right after Casual Guy left, The Coach was helpfully explaining hookups to me. “It’s only about what you want,” he said, meaning I guess that’s true for both parties. I can’t tell if that idea is heartless and lonely or if it’s just liberating. On this particular Sunday afternoon, it was the latter.

Hookup Guy and I had our first (couch, wine) date a week ago tonight, and it really did seem like a date-date. We talked for a good while about our lives and work. He (said he) is a special ed teacher in an alternative school, so of course that melted my teacher-heart. He (said he) was recently divorced, just back in March of this year.

As with the Sunday Morning guy, Hookup Guy’s recently divorcedness made me feel tenderness toward him, made me want to provide all the comfort and empathy and warmth. He was so gentle-voiced and deliberate that talking to him gave me kind of a contact high—I don’t smoke weed but he does, this guy’s vibe was like the best of it.

Because I am me, we fucked that first night—warmly and sweetly but also roughly, with some hints that he might be a little too much with the boundary-crossing, or at least that he’d gotten some minor-but-easily-breezed-past bad ideas from porn. He felt so vulnerable and fragile to me that I originally named him Mr. Kindheart in my head. I felt a little guilty for not being as loopy about him as I was/am for the seemingly-at-the-time-more-withholding Lovely Guy.

But it was clear pretty quick that this would be actual-casual if it was anything. His texts were short and infrequent, all logistics. He asked to come over a few nights after that, and I asked too, but there hadn’t been time. I was happy to see his “Hey” in my texts when I got home from my yucky date and nice hike.

Hookup Guy said he was getting ready to drop off his son at a birthday party, and he was thinking he might “come over and fill me up.” after that. (This script is so close to The Coach’s game that I’m again convinced there might be an at-least-semi-alarming how-to-seduce-middle-aged-ladies Reddit thread out there. I mean, there probably is.)

I was already in bed for a nap, so I said sure, why not? I was instantly soaking wet at the idea of Hookup Guy interrupting my nap. I snoozed a little and woke up when the text chimed that he was on his way.

Waiting for Hookup Guy in bed, naked, with the window closed in case I was (because I was definitely going to be) loud, with the door unlocked for him, was one of the sexiest feelings I’ve ever felt. I was wired and sleepy at the same time. At no point in his visit would I get out of bed even a little.

“Hope that’s you!” I said when I heard the door open. I was so, SO happy to see him come up the stairs.

Hookup Guy is BEAUTIFUL. He looks like a combination of John Boyega and Jordan Peele, and he’s even close to my age. He’s tough and kind of softly military-built, with a couple of fraternity brands that fucking make my head spin to think about.

I took his shirt off and he did the rest. I just lay there all cozy in my freshly-laundered sheets and girly comforter watching him strip down. His dick was hard as a monument under his black boxer briefs, and soon those were gone too.

It was good, good, GOOD sex, urgent and matter-of-fact and joyful in a way I’m only starting to get used to. He did, in fact, fill me up.

I wanted him to come back again at his/my convenience, so I asked for his last name so it didn’t have to be “Hinge” in my contacts.

And then, when he was gone, I googled him. Nothing drastic, I promise. But I’ll tell you what I figured out another day.

 

A Bad Date, A Good Hookup, and a Helpful Google, Part One

 

It’s been a long time since this many (mis)adventures happened in one day. I guess it was really only two, but yesterday felt 3-5 Sundays long.

I should probably be a better friend to myself. When recently-divorced Sunday Morning First Date started Bumble-texting me a couple of weeks ago, he mentioned being leery of my bi-ness because his wife had slept with his sister. (And like eight other people. Not, I don’t think, in an ENM kinda way.) (My only regret about this particular morning is that I didn’t get more details about that (sounds made-up) story.) If a friend had fielded such a conversation, I would have been livid, like WTF kind of bi-phobic bullshit is this?

Instead, I let tenderness and compassion take the wheel. I reassured him, giving a vague outline of my still-beginning dating life. Before a first date! This seems excessive in hindsight. I don’t even know anymore.

We met up at a local nature preserve on just the most beautifully paradigmatic fall morning you can imagine. I even packed us a picnic for after our mini-hike. I’d chosen him because he was sweet and artsy by text. I watched him take a beautiful photo of the trees’ reflection on the water. He had a lovely Georgia accent and a cute Ron-Funches-but-grumpy vibe. I liked the way he pronounced the Great Blue Heron’s name as we passed one from not too far away: herr-RON. I love it.

It was chilly so I was quick to slip my hand into his pocket with his. We didn’t get to hold hands for very long.

“There’s just too much feminism these days. Nobody can say ANYTHING.”

I pushed back in a measured way, but things only got worse. When I called BFF later (like five minutes later) she explained that a lot of what SMFD had to say came right out of Dave Chappelle’s latest standup special, which has apparently been making her Twitter feeds miserable lately. She recommended this article and I read it later in the car with lunch: https://www.nytimes.com/2021/10/13/opinion/dave-chappelle-netflix-trans.html

Anyway, back to the end of this short nightmare: SMFD and I were standing on a boardwalk platform in the middle of the wetland, next to a placard about an invasive species of turtles. He (the date, not the turtle) launched into an impassioned talk against “too much division,” saying the left and the right were equally to blame, equally hateful. (It’s this kind of false equivalency nonsense that makes me swipe left on every singly guy who identifies as “moderate,” in his profile even though many (WRONG) lefties would accuse me of the same.)

“Okay, we’re done.” I pointed to the other side of the bridge. “You go this way and I’ll go that way.”

As wrong as he was, I sort of understand the impulse he might’ve had. I know I’ve thrown my own conversational firebombs when I haven’t been ready or a match for someone. But it’s really not the same—never have I ever resorted to semi-quoting a famous transphobe/homophobe/misogynist as a Get Out of Date Free card. I guess Chappelle goes in the folder with the Bern and all of the other snuggle-wreckers.

It felt weirdly like a relief to be so clearly not a match, after a month or so of grey-areas, which aren’t my specialty. BFF was happy to join me on the rest of the hike by phone, debating with me about the categories of clouds in the pictures I sent. Lots and lots of pictures of water and leaves and clouds. I ate my half of the lovely picnic lunch in the car with the window open, catching up on Dear Prudence and How to Do It. I think this counts as reading outside, one of my most important (And most neglected!) fall goals checkmarks.

I was proud, slightly relieved, and ready for a nap. When I got home, there was an over-succinct “Hey” in my texts from Hookup Guy, who is so fucking beautiful I can’t even deal. I’ll tell you that part tomorrow.

Animal Crossing and Chill Part Three

All night we just played. On top of his perfect switchy playfulness, The Lovely Guy is also steadfastly thorough and determined to give me what I’ve asked for. He held me down in so many different ways! His dick was like a friend all in itself, friendly and open, letting me be gentle or curious or ravenous at my own pace. And! This should not be a rare and precious thing, but The Lovely Guy knows how to use lube! *angel choir sings* I wailed into the night, just rattling the windows with joy and relief.

The last time we fucked that night (I asked him what time it was but he wouldn’t tell me…) it was from behind. I looked over my shoulder and saw just the truest smile on his face. He pushed in hard and I absolutely fucking LOST MY MIND, stuffing my face in the pillows in a (maybe inadequate) effort not to alarm the neighbors.

OHmygoodness the way he held my waist like I absolutely belonged to him. So perfectly powerful and hard and just-rough-enough and

“If you can scream, you can talk.” He was so gruff and commanding that I not only melted into a puddle, I evaporated into a fine mist.

“Tell me why you want me to come inside you.”

I can’t really remember what I said but it must’ve been something like “Pleeeeeeeease. I need it. Come on, come for me.”

“Good girl,” he growled and pressed harder, as far in as he possibly could and then stayed, stayed, stayed there.

I lost my knees and fell flat, panting/sighing/apologizing for falling over/thanking him profusely.

“I lost you…” he said sleepily as we rearranged into a more cuddly shape.

“I’m sorry I lost my knees, I just haven’t been fucked properly in…possibly ever.”

The Lovely Guy is just THE BEST cuddler, he wraps up all around me. He apologized that he might snore and I said “It’s okay, I snore too. We can be just like Bob and Linda Belcher.”

(Way to compare us to a married couple on a first date, Ribbons! This is maybe why I scare ‘em away?)

It’s not always easy for me to fall asleep with a non-cat someone in my bed, but with The Lovely Guy, I did. He was warm all around me and I was so zonked out on all the snuggly brain chemicals that it seems like I could have been glowing.

When he left the next morning, I immediately started missing him, because I am ridiculous and he is lovely. That was a couple weeks ago, and we had another Switch date not too long after. He’s still in the mix but I’m trying to have just the teensiest bit of chill, trying to just keep it moving. My dance card is pretty full, but he’s the only one getting the power of the “good girl” phrase. I hope he’ll come over and use it before too long.

Oops I Forgot to Post My Lark's Head for Knotty Thursday!

 

I did learn it yesterday though!!!

Animal Crossing and Chill Part Two

The Lovely Guy joined me under the covers and our bodies just fit so nicely together. He was so warm and open, I just loved being all wrapped up in him. It’s hard to access what order things happened in, the whole night (And I do mean the WHOLE night) was such a lovely, moan-y haze.

I played at trying to hold him down, pressing his wrists into the pillows behind his head. He very temporarily submitted. The power/tension between our bodies felt easy and fluid, like watercolors. He looked so beautiful beneath me, glowing and sweet but also amused and just barely letting me have the top—like there was only so long he would let me be up there. I thought I’d better make the most of it. I had to spread my legs wide to straddle him. I loved feeling his dick get harder between my still-legginged legs.

Some of these clothes had to go. I wanted him to tear them off, but I got the feeling he wanted me to show the initiative, so I stood up and stripped before I kissed first his face, then his neck, then his chest, then his tummy, his smooth obliques, his thighs. I gave him a few unselfconfident caveats about how I still need lots of blow job practice, and he PERFECTLY understood.

He gathered my hair into his big hands and gently and sweetly guided my motions. His cock, friendly and cheerful, tasted salty and delicious on my tongue. He gave directions so kindly and patiently. He knew the phrase I wanted to hear, but he would hold it back nearly the whole night, until EXACTLY the right moment.

“Is this how you want me to come?” He growled, looking into my face with an expression that was somehow hungry and indifferent. (Fucking SWOON)

“Uh-uh. I want you to fuck me.”

And because he is a very good first-date guest, he’d brought condoms.

No more initiative for me now! I sprawled out lazy and submissive underneath him, hands back, legs open and ready. He bent my legs all the way up and went in and …oh. That relief. That letting go.

He fucked me so powerfully, so expertly, so easily, generously, looking me in the face so much that it was almost startling. But it wasn’t startling. It was natural. It was (part of) how this is supposed to be. I said THANK YOU lots of times. I could NOT believe I’d gotten SO VERY lucky.

When he came inside me, it felt so absolute. I know it wasn’t a promise, or a bond, or a declaration, but those were the feelings at the center of me and in my heart. A long-awaited completion.

I know! I totally want to be chill about this guy! All signs point to FWB at this week-later point. But I can let the feelings live in these moments, can keep and take care of them, right? Let’s try that.

I forget sometimes how deprived of closeness I’ve been, so many of us have been. I’ve spent so many years, even before quarantine, being as determinedly self-sufficient, and closed-for-business as I could manage. I’ve been boarded up against the fires and the storms. Letting The Lovely Guy in felt so ordinary and also like such a dazzling revelation.

There definitely would NOT be any sleep that night.

Knotty Thursday! Single Column Tie with Slipknot

 

Not much else to say except GO ME!

Animal Crossing and Chill Part One: He Actually Brought His Switch! Delight Reaction!

After I broke things off with The Coach, I felt a little leery toward the young millennials, so I didn’t message (30-year-old) The Lovely Guy right away when we matched on Bumble. I was still semi-convinced there was a Reddit somewhere where these young guys were mocking my middle-aged horniness. (Do young millennials even Reddit? I have no idea.) But then, he extended the match, and he was really adorable, and I had a few minutes before work, so I said hi.

He was a good texter and we clicked. I was glad I’d stuck with my new age range (27-57) and stopped automatically swiping left on anybody who looked like he went to the gym. We settled on Animal Crossing and wine, and I was so relieved that he was willing to be embodied with me, even as I didn’t dare hope that he would actually play Animal Crossing! I was ready for it to be a hookup, though I hoped for more.

Of course, I always think everyone is a catfish, these beautiful men willing to come to my house, until I see them. He was taller than I’d expected and yes, very fit except for the MOST adorable quarantine tummy that I REALLY hope he might keep. The Lovely Guy is a bald and bearded black man with just the fluffiest eyelashes in the world and very kind dark brown eyes. And he did bring his Switch, the bigger kind than mine, all cozy in a fancy leather case.

The Lovely Guy’s animal neighbors chided him for having been away so long, and in fact we was not even out of the tent part yet! While I tended to my own (ALWAYS five star) island, I alternately helped and mocked him. Good “flimsy fishing rod” banter was had. He was shocked that Tom Nook would want the moth he’d collected—so rude to the moth! But very sweet to me.

And we talked. And talked and talked and talked! He drank a lot of wine, I drank a little wine with fizzy water in it, and we talked on my couch until one AM, which is very late for me these days.

I honestly don’t remember the last time that happened on a first date with a man, if ever! When he (at last) turned his hand up so I could hold it, I fully lost my train of thought. Such a long, beautiful strong hand. Placing my smaller fingers against his was like opening a very welcoming and cozy portal, one stocked with infinite pillows.

Of COURSE he was coming upstairs.

More Nineties! Pagan Boy Part Four/Conclusion

Our bodies never quite fit together for PIV sex, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. But OH! The tongue on this man! He ate my pussy with such hunger and gusto, such speed and suction I could never quite even figure out what was happening! We had other ways of pleasing each other too, even one hurty afternoon with candle wax and clothespins, but the real treasure of him was kissing his wet, exhausted face after long spates of shivery, bewildered pleasure.

When he wasn’t blowing my mind or taking me dancing, we talked endlessly about books and music and movies. I read (and loved!) (Except maybe Watchmen!) every book he recommended. Thus began my love affair with Sandman and my on-brand tendency to style myself like Death, complete with the oversized ankh necklaces and the little eyeliner curlicue at the corner of my eye. We spoke mainly in quotes.

When I hear The Smiths singing about “spending warm summer days indoors,” I always think of Pagan Boy, of the absolutely GORGEOUS days we spent with the curtains drawn, sprawled on his living room floor watching MST3K or an occasional “should” movie. (I would gladly take the Godfather hours back, but Liquid Sky? I should watch that at lunch today!) 
 

Update: Liquid Sky is WAY too harsh for 2021 me!

Those warm summer days were where the mismatch came in, though. Where he was content to sprawl and lounge and kiss the days away with me, (Sounds pretty good now, actually!) I wanted us to sometimes go out into the sun.

For a while that summer, I tried to be what I thought of as a “real girlfriend” I tried to take care of him. He wasn’t a hoarder in the whole apartment, but his (BEAUTIFUL, treehouse-like) side porch was stacked with empty pizza boxes and soda cups. I did my best to clean it all up. I’m not sure what he was doing while I was washing and rinsing and stacking and bagging.

Once, we did plan a little hike. I wanted to go skinny-dipping at a local waterfall known for its nudism, it’s hard to believe we had a bad time there! But I was crabby, needy, and crampy, worrying about my tampon string, and he felt too self-conscious to take off his clothes. I sat in the shallow water at the creek’s side while lovely bodies frolicked nearby. Pagan Boy and I were an island of sadness.

I was painting him a small acrylic Moon Card when he called me (I was staying in my mom’s attic kitchen at the time) to break things off. I was sad and irritated and absolutely certain that the club should be mine.

Much later, as grownups, we were friends. I liked having coffee or pancakes with him whenever I was visiting my sister’s town. He was a little oasis of poly/kink/bi in the middle of family stress, though at times he could still be infuriating. I miss him every time I’m there now, or maybe I’m just a little haunted. It was love, or as much love as both of our depressed brains could share. I’m never going to let it go.

Practicing a Sensation

Not really! But sometimes!

(There is/might be a new lovely human in the picture too, but I’m not quite ready to write about him yet except to say:

1.     WHOA.

2.     Yay!

3.     “Good girl.”)

Anyway trigger warning for this story—sexual assault, abuse.

During my twenties and for a good chunk of my time with Sweetie-Now-BFF, the sensation of a penis inside me felt like an elusive, impossible grail, something I wanted WAY to much and absolutely COULD NOT figure out how to get with any kind of healthiness or consistency. I think I accidentally acted out this weird story I tell myself if getting stuck on sexting with The Coach—just another (really fun for a while!) way to convince myself I couldn’t get that feeling. I’ve always thought I’d better become SOMEONE ELSE ENTIRELY to get a dick in me, like other women somehow knew the secret I just couldn’t grasp.

I know. It’s very silly. But I still feel unfuckable-in-this-one-particular way even as the evidence is mounting (ha) to the contrary.

When I was text-playing with The Coach, I got a little sick of fucking myself—all of his delightful big-dick-describing made my fingers feel inadequate and though I came over and over for him, I craved the inside release. I had toys, nice gentle still things that usually do the trick, but I wanted something to take the edge off the yearning, off the power The Coach had over me.

So, having done absolutely no research beyond remembering that one Sex and the City episode, I ordered myself a Rabbit and a whole bunch of lube. Sometimes, I do make good decisions.

My new toy did take the edge off enough, gave me enough of a self-esteem boost that I could admit that The Coach wasn’t going to give me what I wanted. But more importantly, that sensation! The coming-from-the-inside sensation that always felt like an impossible treasure now waits in the drawer for me at the end of any given day, good or bad.

Not only that, it TURNS OFF MY BRAIN long enough to just melt and bask in the pleasure.

It seems a little odd to want to learn to take this feeling, that amazing-superhard-cock-inside-me feeling for granted, but that is exactly what I aim to do.

I want to learn that I deserve that feeling as much as anyone else who wants it. I want t0 practice feeling the joy and comfort and brain-tingle without wondering who exactly I would need to be to get it.

I have to acknowledge that I am massaging out a lot of pain that lives in there too—the loss, the heartbreaks, the losses of autonomy large and small.

Some of that pain is even inherited, I think. My mom may have actually taught me this inside-orgasm-craving-lack-of-agency. I used to overhear her berating my dad for not satisfying her properly, which one night culminated in something-like-ten-year-old-me overhearing him rape her.

What a memory to live in my body along with all of the recent traumas, likes, loves, and grief. I’m happy to be taking ownership of this particular sensation, giving myself a safe, private (well) space to learn what it’s like to feel entitled to, and safe receiving, inside pleasure.

I would like this to be part of building up my self-esteem and confidence enough to actually look for a guy who LIKES me, someone who wants to be close as whole humans. It’s a pretty basic wish, the PSL of dreams. I’m glad to have written it down.