Staycation Sext Fling Part One: The Big Dick Talk

 

Staycation Sext Fling Part One: The Big Dick Talk

When The Coach walked me to the car after the movie, the conversation got smutty real fast, though we were still at least three feet apart. For not-the-first time, he mentioned having a big dick and said he’d be happy to (presumably after his second vaccine shot) “stretch me out” any time. Which felt…ew? But also, yay?

The big dick talk was equal parts appealing and sweetly sad. Appealing because, as has been well-documented here, I do have that preference, even though it still feels like kind of an unfair preference to have. (S/O to Steampunk Guy, remember how much I fucking LOST MY MIND about him, another one who introduced himself big dick first? What a fucking WORK OF ART/piece of work he was, probably still is.)

But the big dick talk is a little endearingly sad too because, dude. It’s okay. Just relax and be a person. If I want to fuck you, I’ll be fucking your whole self, there’s no need to hustle for it that way. (But also, I liked the hustle, and I missed it a bunch when it left.)

Anyway, The Coach texted to make sure I got home okay, and that was the last datelike thing that happened.

Oh sexting. I love it/hate it the way I love/hate the rote “good mornings” of early dating (None of those from The Coach, just, like, “I want to be inside you” at 6 am before I’ve even made coffee, which was jarring but not unpleasantly so.) I love/hate sexting the way I love/hate the little red text numbers, which (as The Coach, a young millennial, probably wouldn’t remember) used to be the red answering machine numbers.

Anyway, this time around with The Coach, I pretty much just LOVED sexting. It was a rush to be so graphically, smuttily desired, so all at once. He had come (ha) a long way too—where his 2016 (or was it 2017?) texting style got too porny and harsh, this time he was present, more specific, more just with me, or at least it felt that way. Respectfully filthy, like he’d learned his lesson. Like he’d heard me all those years ago. He called me a filthy princess and I called him, toward the end, a good, good prince.

I liked the way our stories switched the power back and forth between us so easily, holding him down by the wrists one moment and being completely possessed the next. He even, in one sexty story, got gentle towards my asshole when I told him I’d never done that part before. (Typing that sentence reminds me that that was my dream so long ago, the Kind and Patient Ass Guy that I couldn’t quite feel like I deserved. Kinda glad both Steampunk Guy and Cute Master dropped the ball on that one, because I would very much still like that character to come along.) (For a few quick days, I hoped The Coach might be that character.)

Sexting felt like a good way to deal with my whole post-quarantine overwhelemed-by-touch thing. I could let the desire spark though me, be ravished both together with The Coach and at my own pace. When it got to be too much, (the sensation I mean, what we were saying was never too much) I could let go of myself literally and physically, be still and feel my whole body full or warmth and light and peace. Plus, I can neither type left-handed nor ever truly let go of punctuation.

 

 

 

 

 

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years: Part Four

Back during my divorce summer, when I swam away from Sweetie and came to the realization that what I really wanted was a husband, what I wanted more than anything was a man to play with me in the waves. Wherein Sweetie was grumpy at the prospect of fighting the surf, I wanted someone strong and vital who would change into the water the way I did. I had a vision of being picked up and carried and kissed in the water. This night came so close to that picture that no wonder I ended up diving into him.

When we got back from dinner, it was dark and a huge orange moon was rising over the pretty/samey houses on view from his back yard. He’d told me many times that I didn’t need a bathing suit, but I’m still in my privacy phase. I wore my pretty blue one printed with hydrangeas. I am at my heaviest right now so I felt a lot of worry that he wouldn’t be attracted to me anymore when he saw my thighs.  We sat at the edge of the pool with our feet in the water on the little swim-out seat.

He said, “I think you’re scared of what’s gonna happen after this.”

“After the pool?”

“I’m scared too. I’m out of practice.”

“Me too, high five!” I may be more shy in some ways, but at least I’m still a high-fiver. “What I’m really scared of are the bonding chemicals that are gonna come afterwards. Because science.”

He didn’t seem to object to the bonding chemicals. Honestly, every step of the way, I was sure that he liked me. I still kind of am, though that doesn’t explain how things turned out. When I stepped into the pool, I put my foot down weird, so that the edge of the seat smashed me between my toes. My middle toe hurt so badly that I wondered if it was broken. Nonetheless, I jumped the rest of the way into the deep end, a little conscious of the nondainty splash I probably made.

After a few minutes of watching me swim (I loveloveloved when he watched me swim. I love the satisfied way he admired me—it’s been a long time since I’ve been looked at like that.) he jumped in too and it was like something I’d already lived, like I was fitting into one of my life’s puzzle pieces. The water was cold and it was a breezy evening, but the shivers came from somewhere down deeper. He held me and kissed me gently until I said “I’m torn between being really turned on and really cold, do you want to go in?”

I borrowed his shower to rinse off the chlorine and he lent me his scratchy grey robe. I wished I had nice warm pajamas to change into, but instead, I had nice warm him.

It hurts to remember how right our bodies felt (one of my poets wrote in a poem once that bodies are the easiest ways to fit), how well he kissed me, the softness of his skin, the scratchiness of his beard, the strength of his arms. More than anything, I loved remembering how sometimes sex just runs itself, how at first we knew what to do with each other like it was destiny, and in its own way, it was. I’ve never been more ready to have someone inside me, never this sure that what I was doing was real. I felt free to look in his face, in his eyes, and saw only kindness there. The barriers I’ve almost always felt to connecting with men were not there. It felt solid and sweet.

There were hardness issues at first, which he explained by saying that he had trouble with condoms, that he wasn’t used to them. It seemed bonkers to be talking about not-condoms at this (or any) stage of things and I felt a little surge of impatience. I was kind of like “Well, welcome to my world” but sympathized/rationalized that maybe he was just missing married sex. It tugged at my heart strings but at the same time I was (in my head) like dude, just grow up.

The hardness issues worked themselves out in good time, he lost all tentativeness and hard and long and perfect—that feeling that’s so delicious that I can’t even deal with how much I want it, how much I miss it. He pulled my hair and pinned me down and went deeper and I looked up at him and saw someone who was mine, not somebody else’s boyfriend whom I’d have to turn in at the end of the night like in the poly days. In that teensy spate of time, he belonged to me, there was nothing and no one else, and the inside of me was (just for right then) sated and quiet.

This happened a few more times until we ran out of condoms, at which point he mentioned again that what he really liked going without. He said that, although he didn’t like blow jobs (You guys! Was I really willing to give up blow jobs for someone? Yes, I was.) (Also, did he really not like them or just want a bargaining chip? Gross line of thought.) he might “Let me try it,” but I said no thanks, there were plenty of things he was enthusiastic about for me to do. (This turned out to be perfectly not the case in the end, but we’re still several posts away.) Because he kept perseverating about the no-condom thing after I’d said no a couple of times, I told him I was scared of him again. I asked him about his fantasy of being sleep-ravished, he wouldn’t do that to me, would he? “Not if you don’t want me to,” he said,

“Because then I wouldn’t be able to say yes…” I honestly wasn’t sure he saw the problem.

I slept badly. He snored and my body was so far beyond awake. Although he’d brought me an ice pack for my toe, it was throbbing. If it had been up to me, we’d have stayed up fucking and snuggling and chatting all night. I tossed and turned and apologized for tossing and turning. I got him to turn off the radio and all of the devices that beeped at random intervals.

I had maybe two hours of sleep and was awakened at six AM by an alert-in-every-way J. listing off the things we could do about being out of condoms. “We can not have any more sex today, we can go without, or we can go to the drugstore and get more condoms. Are you coming with me?”

All I wanted was to be asleep and I had this creepy obligated feeling-- he was treating his morning wood like a contract I’d already signed, possibly in my sleep. And I was PISSED that he mentioned going without again. I was beyond trying for patience and snapped “Not unless you want BABIES,” knowing he didn’t. Now I can’t help but wonder—did he not know how this thing works? How could he be married with kids and still seem like he skipped seventh grade health class?

“Just because I said it doesn’t mean it’s a real option. I honestly don’t think not having more sex is an option either.”

I jumped out of bed, found his robe, and ran down the steps. “Help me find my glasses, I need to get out of here now.”

“Wait, what? So you’re not going to my U.U. fellowship with me?” (Oh for Christ’s sake, just fucking call it church!)

“I’m not going anywhere with someone who says I have no fucking choice.”

I was too tired and upset to drive home so I lay down on his couch in the scratchy robe and cried. His golden-eyed black cat came over to see me, rubbed his ears against my hand. J. didn’t even bring me a blanket until I sniveled for one. He went out to get me some coffee and I simmered down.

When he got back, we talked and somehow made it back to cuddle mode. I had to give him credit for staying calm and weathering the triggers—I still couldn’t be sure if it was him or my baggage causing them, probably a combination of both. We went and got condoms, a picnic breakfast, and a toothbrush for me so I could make myself more comfy. We fucked through the morning and then dragged ourselves out of bed to go jump in the pool. It was a sunny, dazed feeling of fear, judgment, and bliss.

I wanted to accept him, to embrace him without fear, to honor his (sometimes) generosity and the eagerness of his gorgeous penis, but I couldn’t stop finding reasons to be afraid.

Next time: My heart opens and I let him in.

Okay, So, Really Heartbroken Over Steampunk Guy

Last night I sat on the stoop outside the laundromat watching the cars go by and trying to write this post in my notebook. I started it two or three different ways but kept getting stuck, mostly because I wanted to be saying it to him and not the internet. So I tried to consolidate all of the emotions into a flirty text:

“Not getting over you very fast. Would rather be under you! ;)”

To which he wrote back:

“The fastest over a guy is to get under another one! ;)”

He was just being cute and encouraging, but that text just opened up a floodgates and let me go ahead and be heartbroken. It struck my frustration so perfectly: I don’t want some stranger, some random other guy, I want him.

When we were first breaking it off, I had faith that I would find someone who is actually what I’m looking for—available, open, willing to offer up the occasional “Good girl.” He believed in that guy for me and I appreciate that so much.

I was so proud of how well we broke up that I never let myself have the heartbreak. I think part of me was still trying to mitigate my emotions, to try and be cute for them so they wouldn’t go away, but they’re already gone, at least for the time being, so I have to figure out again how to stop censoring the feelings.

It may be less fighty, but it’s just like any other breakup. I’m hurt and sad and I wish that I could have found some way to make him see me, make him love me, make him actually clear the time out for me every other week. I have that awful feeling of not being good enough, even though that has nothing to do with it at all. I have that childish feeling of wishing I could be like the girls he loves, wishing I had whatever quality they have that made him go ahead and love them. It’s the thing that I’m still afraid I’m missing, the magical ability to be loved by men.

And yes, I see the pattern here; I see the futility I keep setting up for myself, choosing someone who doesn’t have enough attention and then being hurt that he didn’t have enough attention. Crazy, I know, and I’ll try not to do it again. Though of course I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on this time.

I’m still hurt that what ended up being so meaningful to me—all of those deep, transformative experiences were just sex to him, just something it was easy to scroll past once it was over. And I’m so angry with myself that I have so little experience that everything is still such a goddamned big deal.

I hate my stupid heart for taking away so much fun stuff, past and present. There’s so much shiny and good about the Steampunks that I just won’t be able to enjoy for a while and I feel left out. I feel like another way towards community and connection is cut off, and that makes me feel like I am not doing what I am supposed to be doing. I wanted it to be simple and fun. I wanted to go to their parties and be excited about all the possibilities there. The last thing I want to lose is more parties.

I’ve tried for years to accept the fact that I fall for people so easily but it just seems to cost so much. I didn’t want to love him, I wanted to accept and enjoy what he had to give and keep looking for the one who’s right for loving. Why does that make so much sense on paper but not translate to real life? It irks me to no end.

I know I’m not going to get significantly less lovey-dovey any time soon. I need somebody that I can just go ahead and be bonkers about. It’s just torturing myself to try and fight the current of it. But if I can only have sex with people I can fall for, that feels so constricting. It feels like there’s going to be too much waiting around—maybe waiting around forever. There’s so much about bodies that I’ve just discovered, I don’t want to back away from them now.

Part of the reason I’m having trouble getting over him is that I can’t quite see the way forward—I can’t imagine finding the right guy and being adored when I don’t even know where I’ll work or live. I want to go back to the beginning of the summer when I had a job I loved, three snuggle pals, and a wife with whom things might work out. Or I want to go back to the immediate relief of the divorce decision, that floating, sunshiny powerful feeling that came just before I realized how much work and grief were ahead of me.

I still just really don’t understand why I had to give him up. So much of him (Ha. So very much of him.) was making me happy. I miss the spark of joy whenever I got a text from him, I miss the emphatic kisses, I miss just saying hi and taking off our clothes. It was only a few times. It shouldn’t be such a big deal. But it is.

I so badly miss the person I was at the beginning of the summer, or sometimes was, anyway. I feel a million miles away from the sparkly confidence it took to date him, from the simple faith of just going ahead and giving him my number.

I’m still sad and hurt that he wouldn’t go to the beach with me and didn’t play with me in public. On bad days I still wonder whether he was embarrassed by my age or body, but even if he was, it would just mean that he wasn’t the right person. It wouldn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with me.

One thing I know for sure is that these feelings won’t be solved by plowing ahead to the next partners. As not-romantic as it was supposed to be, the thing with Steampunk Guy was special and specific and I don’t want to move on from it by doing something that means less. With some possible special-occasion exceptions, I want to be really dating the next guy who puts his stuff in me, and I want to like him at least as much as I like Steampunk Guy. It’s such a vexing thing to decide, but I don’t think I can do the less-romantic kinds of sex until I have some basic needs met.

I have to give him credit for raising my standards in a lot of ways. He set the bar pretty high for how attracted I want to be to somebody, for how important chemistry is. In the past I’ve sometimes been able to talk myself into someone because he has nice qualities, but I’m a very sexed-up girl and I want someone I’m superhot for, and who’s just as hot for me. And I feel comfortable saying now that a nice, big, friendly dick is a star priority too. That particular part of him is especially difficult for all of my parts to let go of. Oh, it was a good one. If I were still a poet I would write it poems.

Being mad at myself for loving him doesn’t seem like a helpful emotion. It would be better to just accept it and let myself feel it until it changes into whatever friendly thing is next. Hating my heart is not going to get me where I need to go, that’s for sure. Better just to say thanks and let it do whatever it needs to do, impatient as that might make me.

So thanks, pal. I know you like changing lives and you did. You showed me what I should expect in a man and that it’s safe to trust someone enough to let down my guard. You pulled down a whole set of limits that I was using to keep the world at arm’s length. You showed me what I really want sex to be. And what’s wrong with falling for a really excellent penis? Nothing.

During that text exchange, it felt much better when I stopped trying to be cute about it and just went ahead and told him how I feel, making it clear that I didn’t expect him to do anything about it but still wanting him to know. So many guys would’ve just not written back, but he of course was magnanimous and kind. Knowing he’s rooting for me to find what I’m looking for helps so much even though it hurts too. Even if I love another guy I can’t have, at least this time it’s somebody who was worth it.

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Two: Spanked Before Kissed

“Music or back episodes of Arrested Development?” I asked when we got upstairs, and he chose music.

I sat down near him on the couch and we sat apart for just a moment. He smiled big. He is almost always smiling big, or laughing for some sometimes-indiscernible reason. Charming. Adorable. I smiled back and giggled nervously and he put his arm out for me to snuggle under.

He just radiated warmth. I’m sure I did too. From my perspective, the energy between us was instant and joyful. How awesome is it that someone completely new can just be such a fit sometimes. I heard his heartbeat and felt his beard against my neck. It’s possible that he kissed the top of my head or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. I know he was squeezing my boobs, hard enough to hurt until I told him those aren’t for hurting. (Even after that I still ended up with bruises—should negotiate for unscathed bosoms next time.)

I got up for some reason (Probably to hit skip on the music. He suggested rightly that I might want to make a playlist, but I haven’t been able to really work iTunes since about two updates ago…) and when I came back to the couch, I told him to scooch himself over towards the middle.

“Okaaaay…” he said and then I showed him why—of COURSE so that I could drape myself across his lap for a spanking.

And now it is time to stop and rhapsodize about Steampunk Guy’s hands. Ohman I am smitten with them. They’re big and muscled, with thick, long fingers that don’t always know their own strength. I would go through a whole lot to get to those hands again, to see what other places I can convince him to put them. I miss him already, but he has, like, eight other partners and who knows when/if I’ll see him again.

Anyway, back to me across his lap, girly shoes in the air. At first, he pulled up the back of my dress and left my undies and leggings on. His hand landed on my left ass check with such a perfect and resounding THWACK. Ohboy I missed typing the word THWACK.

He pushed his hand up into my hair and pulled, then pushed my head back towards him so I could reach for a kiss. Please recognize that it is a compliment when I say that he kisses like a teenager—as if some girl had never come along and told him to tone it down with the tongue. Feel free to not tone it down, pal. I liked him in my mouth. I liked his beard soft against my check.

And oh, I get it, I like him. This post is coming out dreamier than I expected.

His spanks alternated between thuddy (another word I’m glad to be back to typing) and stingy, and when I started to wiggle and writhe too much, he tone it down for a sec, let me pause for a sip of my excellent Manhattan, then go harder. He pulled down my leggings but left my underwear (purple with a little white ruffle) pulled down around the bottom of my ass. I wanted his fingers in there, in everywhere.

He pulled me up by the hair to straddle him, and I could feel him hard beneath his jeans. He and his partner has already told me about the excellence of his penis, (Steampunk Guy is braggy and wouldn’t mind me saying so.) and it was living up to the hype. I pushed my wet self against him as he pulled my hair, kissed me emphatically, and ravished my boobs.

I lay back across his lap, facing the ceiling in a breathless haze. He unbuttoned the top of my dress gently and deliberately and pulled each boob out of its bra cup. He sucked my nipples too hard and I had to tell him again, “Those aren’t for hurting. Hurt other things.”

Next Time: We fold down the fold-down couch.

Midyear Heart Inventory

Fresh from a Sweetie spanking, (First thing in the morning! Before she even had her coffee! That’s love.) I think it’s time to take a look at my adventures’ progress so far this year:

1. My New Year’s Resolution was to connect, and for a while there, it felt like I was screwing it up like crazy. But when I look at the year with perspective, it has been a year of connections: I’ve had amazing big dates with Sweetie and a million little porch dates, too. We’ve had fantastic trips and family visits. I’ve been able to forge deeper connections with my favorite friends, through long walks and long phone conversations. I’ve had good, deep, loving scenes and some that totally revolutionized my idea of myself. And my job (where I would never let a first-grader start a sentence with “and.”) on a good or even a not-horrible day, is nothing BUT connection.

I’ve been sending favorite old posts to Mr. Sweetheart and rereading them makes me feel rich with experience, even though things sometimes do go spectacularly awry.

2. That being said, I am JUMPING OUT OF MY SKIN. I want everything. I want ALL of the penises in me. I want very nice bad men to do very nice bad things to me. The weather’s driven me back into my shorty pajamas and is fanning the hoo-ha flames. Unfortunately at the moment I don’t have a lot of ideas about what to do with all of this urgency. I love jumping on Sweetie, of course, and I will, but this is a man-craving, and I can feel it in my teeth. And hair. And ass. Please, universe, you’ve been so kind, send me some ideas. And some strapping men with nice, fat fingers.

3. But I like the way that things have settled in with Mr. Sweetheart. After the festival,  he’s kept in touch nearly every day. He’s the first guy-who’s-interested to text me heart emoticons. (My BFF Angelface sends them all the time, but that’s different.) Mr. Sweetheart lives a ways away but we agree that we should be able to see each other about four times a year. (How hot is he with the planning-ahead? *swooooon*) He calls about once a week, promptly every time. (again, hot) We talk for a long time and I doodle drawings that for whatever reason keep ending up looking like vaginas. As we talk, this lovely warm energy descends over my shoulders and I feel oriented and safe. He’s good. He’s romantic. He says he likes the idea of us having all of this time to talk and get to know each other before we do more stuff, but of course I’d love to just take the sexTARDIS over and give him a smooch. They’ve got to build me one of those.

4. Mr. Shiny Eyes is going through a lot in his life right now and also lives far-ish, so I really don’t know when I might see him, but it seems like there are more fun times to come with him as well. I hope so.

5. The other guy (He’ll be Steampunk Guy if we have any adventures. The blog needs one of those, don’t you think?) that I like is local, and let us now toast the fact that all of the guys I currently like have cars. (And excellent penises, though in this case it’s only hearsay.) I met him at Poly Speed Dating a few weeks ago. The algorithm hadn’t paired us up but I liked him instantly so I bypassed the checkmarks and just gave him my number. He’s an excellent flirt and a fantastic texter, but he seems kinda overbooked. One-of-six might not be special enough for me, even in an FWB situation, but I really enjoy him, so we’ll see.

6. And then there’s this grief. I’m still a bit broken over what happened with The Man. We were supposed to be friends, after all, and I had such a deep affection for him. There were so many hopes tied up in that first good scene (I should really get around to writing about it.) that the loss still feels like a big one. The grief still makes me run away from guys, but luckily my heart and pants keep me running toward them.

7. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but my publisher dropped the Kitten Calendar book early this year. Something about the press being over-committed, it was really sad when I found out. A “no” from a beloved editor is a particularly hurty one. Looking back over the posts, I still thing there might be a book there, so maybe I’ll make it my summer project anyway. Or else I’ll just work on not having tanlines.

Well, dears, the strawberry waffles are ready and it’s time to crawl back into bed with Sweetie. Happy adventuring to you. May the second half of the year be equally fruitful.

How I Found Out I’m Kinky, Part One: You Had Me at Duct Tape

Backtracking is never as much fun as writing about current adventures, but I might be a little bit stuck right now, so I’ll tell this story. Oh, The Song Sender.

I had a vague idea all along about wanting to be dominated, but I didn’t have any idea of what my BDSM imagination could come up with until I met The Song Sender last fall.

Before I talk about him, though, I should stop and give credit to the Mayor of Kittentown. Last fall when I first started dating guys, MOKT was the first guy I really clicked with. I could tell he was trustworthy because the first time I ever went to his house, my first urge was to lie down and take a nap. He was a safe and fun person to have a whole bunch of first-in-a-long-times with. He treated me kindly, told me I’m beautiful, and let me take my time. Also he has a really excellent penis. I’m just such a fan of it. He was the first guy that I had PIV sex with (after a date to see The Muppets, no less) in sixteen years and my reaction was I CAN’T BELIEVE I WENT SO LONG WITHOUT THIS and also MORE PLEASE.

The Mayor of Kittentown deserves a lot more paragraphs and will probably get them, but for this story, it’s important to remember he is in my life all the time making me feel beautiful and generally doing things right.

At the same time as I was getting to know MOKT, I found The Song Sender on Ok Cupid. I wrote to him despite the fact that he had 666 in his username because I liked that he had a link to a party clip from Beyond the Valley of the Dolls on his profile (I just go nuts for a B-movie aesthetic) and, under “Things I Cant Live Without,” he had a bunch of synonyms for the word “moxie.” His is still my favorite profile ever, blocked though it may now be. I told Sweetie that he had a picture of himself looking snarly/thoughtful in a throne made out of bones and another one where he posed next to a girl covered in stage blood and I asked “Is this guy a serial killer or just kind of metal?” and Sweetie said “I think maybe you’re less likely to get murdered than you think.” I found that very comforting!

He was very untoward. When I told him I’m a Hermione Grangerlike fussy straight-A student and asked if Harry Potter references turn guys off, he said no, especially now that Emma Watson had turned 18. This would ordinarily be a dealbreaker- I can’t stand guys who are over-focused on youth, but I couldn’t help but just laugh and agree about the hotness of Emma Watson.

Another time, when I told him I was having my students write about daylight savings time, he said “Well, I’d prefer dirty limericks about duct tape, but hey, it’s your class.”

I should have been mortified, I think, but instead, I felt something click, my usual ok-we’re-friends-now feeling—he was scary but I was so curious. I wrote back and said that in my extremely limited experience, pretty ribbons > duct tape. I felt all scandalous for saying that, even though it is really mild compared to the conversations I have these days. So we’d kind of agreed to a tying up situation by, like, the third email.

I used to start Ok Cupid conversations by asking guys to send me some songs. I am in graduate school for teacher certification and sometimes the classes are really boring and my soul needs to be woken back up. He was soooooo good at sending songs. Tina Turner singing “Whole Lotta Love,” 60s go-go music that made me think of dancing naked in the woods, the occasional Bjork heart-melter. He sent Elvis’s Suspicious Minds and I opened it at work—the librarians swooned and I told him he’d made everyone’s day. He wrote back “I’m just here to help.”

The song that ended up on repeat the most often was Brian Eno’s “Baby’s On Fire” which includes these lyrics:

“Baby’s on fire, better throw her in the water. Look at her laughing, like a heifer to the slaughter.”

There were a fair number of creepy songs like that, but instead of scaring me off, they drew me in. We made plans to meet, and I warned him that I’m much more brazen over email, that I’m awkward but not this awkward:

Next time: He gets jealous of the famous rope guy.