The Goodbye Boys

Connection and attraction are weird. The two times that Mr. Adorkable came over, I felt like we were almost supernaturally linked, not just the way our bodies fit together, but personality-wise as well. We chatted and laughed like friends and played so beautifully. And then he’d go back home and hardly ever text—I should have taken that signal and kept it moving, probably.

Not-texting wasn’t how it started though. The first weekend that he had my number, back at the end of August, he was attentive, flirty, infinitely selfie-able. He was my cute text company on my solo birthday trip, to the point where I missed him when my hotel room turned out to be a Wifi-hole. I sent him a picture of a sunset mountain, of my outfit matching a wall of Warhols. Company.

But after our first date, the textiness stopped, and I don’t know why I didn’t just admit that I HATED that. Anybody can text anybody every day or so! Still, I was mindful of bandwidth. And he was so lovely and present and playful in person.

Before our second date, I reached out to ask him if he’d ghosted, a really bad sign! But he said he hadn’t, and I got more attached. Again, a song came on at the right time like we were in a movie.

But then, the not-texting again. We made a third date, but it took some nagging.

(My work life is mostly nagging--it’s my superpower! I vow to not opt into any more of it in my free time.)

(And I also vow to just recognize the next case of He’s Just Not That into You when it comes along!)

Anyway, when Mr. Adorkable told me a few hours before the planned third date that he “wasn’t feeling connected.” I wanted to be like: Duh. You didn’t even try. But I know things don’t work that way.

My point is, besides BEING TEXTED BACK IS NICE, that I’m feeling burned out from the goodbye part of dating.

A partial list of goodbye boys since last fall:

The Coach, (didn’t want to be in person, possibly dick-catfishing me)

The Lovely Guy, (very lovely, it just ran its course)

Superhot hookup guy who looked like Finn from Star Wars, (Gave me a fake last name)

This Charming Man, (Love, heartbreak, Chappelle fan)

The very-not-a-match-hookup who probably gave me Christmas Covid,

The Good Boy, (Can’t really complain about that one)

The Shy One, (GLAD I UN-SAID THAT GOODBYE!)

The Southern Charmer, (“Sometimes it’s all just…too much.”)

The Adorables,

The boy with the Sonic the Hedgehog tattoo, (Also one that said “Keep it real”)

The high school principal who had First Corinthians tattooed on his arm, (I thought this was the most romantic thing ever.)

The goth boy who was delightfully dommy in the car, (Also a terrible texter)

The Song Sender Part Two (Electric Boogaloo),

and Mr. Adorkable.

No wonder I’m so tired. I’m not writing this to slut-shame myself, far from it! I just want to acknowledge that that’s a LOT of hope/hotness/goodbye for one year. Some disappeared, some ended in wrenching conversations, one re-ended in a sweet, healing way, one un-ended.

So it’s time for a little break from strangers, time for my body and heart to process all the sexiness and wonderfulness and sadness and shame and loss and phone-checking. This year of adventures was a busy, beautiful, ravishing gift, but Mr. Adorkable was one goodbye too many for now. Just for now though.

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.

 

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.

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.

 

 

Knotty Thursday! Somerville Bowline

 

I'm still all hurty and lonesome from letting go of The Coach and my to do list is SO full of nonsense today, but I did THIS before I even had coffee this morning! Very therapeutic, I want to practice more and more!

Here's the tutorial I'm using! Talk to you soon!

Postscript: The Coach (Imaginary Asses Are SO Easy to Google!)

 

I guess it’s not a good sign that I’ve been feeling nostalgic for a breakup dinner from like eight years ago: I was looking for a hot story to send The Coach and I landed on part two of my Real Date/Car Sex story with Steampunk Guy. Here’s part one: https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/07/real-datecar-sex-with-steampunk-guy.html It’s not great that I refused to admit to myself that it WAS a breakup date until a couple weeks later, but looking at the story through my current pleasantly-poisoned-by-hookup-culture view, the dinner part of the story felt like a miracle. Steampunk Guy had like nine partners, including a wife, plus a kiddo to take care of, but he still took the time to break things off kindly. I felt, here in Slutty September of 2021, a burst of gladness that Steampunk Guy had, well, broken my heart, but in such a dignifying, humanized way.

The Coach didn’t break things off, he just finished getting vaccinated and still didn’t want to spend time with me in person. He still sexted a few late-nights a week, and I was still having fun with that until I wasn’t. But I can’t fathom, and I really wish someone would explain to me, how sexting could have been fun for him with someone he did not want to be in a room with. Why not just look up some porn or pay a cam girl (and tip her well!) instead of keeping someone he didn’t like on the line for longer than he wanted to?

When I responded to his messages/comments a month ago, I’d put a pin in the prob he and I had encountered long ago, the feeling of him having a fat fetish (rather than simply being attracted to whole hot fat people) or thinking I was just someone to be humiliated. I saw the physical mismatch of us—him twenty-nine and slight except in one particular way (I found out through unsolicited-but-not-entirely unwelcome dick pic, obvs.) (But is there such a thing as dick-catfishing? Probably.) and traditionally fit-looking, me 47, Amazonian and weighing in at 302 pounds. We WOULD have looked a little funny in public together, but someone who liked me as a person wouldn’t have cared.

What started as feeling appreciated, celebrated, overwhelmingly desired a month ago turned into hidden, erased, dirty-in-a-bad-way. Maybe he did feel attracted to me but ashamed about it, or maybe he just wanted me to be a sex-typing-bot whose feelings, bad days, and vulnerabilities he didn’t have to care about. Maybe he wasn’t brave or kind enough to turn me down directly. Maybe he was just a jerk. In fairness to him, I knew that trying to be casual would get me to this emotionally untenable place eventually. I just shouldn’t have let it go on until it hurt this bad.

This past few weeks have been a (not un-fun) scramble to find the things The Coach couldn’t provide in someone else, to distract me from the loneliness while I kept him in the mix. Not! A great! Strategy! As sad as I am to lose (and reblock) The Coach, I’m grateful to be done with that scramble. I’m so impatient with what I really want, it’s so annoyingly specific and (imaginary in this case) snuggle-prohibitive sometimes.

Yesterday, a car plowed into my side mirror and smashed it off on my way to work. I wasn’t hurt but I was heartbroken—I love my car so much, and the mirror metaphor was a little too on-the-nose. Sweetie-Now-BFF immediately sprung into action ordering a replacement mirror and rearranging her schedule to get me to work until it was fixed. And while that was happening, I was worrying that I would seem too needy when (okay IF) The Coach texted after ten. I know it’s not superfair to compare a TWO DECADES LONG friendship/love/friendship with a recent not-quite-a-fling, but BFF’s kindness and concern reminded me of what I’d like to have eventually with a guy. The Coach was not going to get me there.

So at quarter to ten, I said texted him the things I was feeling. He was was an entitled, bratty jackass about it. So ends my foolhardy foray into hookuptown. I can’t promise it’ll be the last, but I promise to keep trying to embrace wanting what I want. But first, wallowing.

 

Yay Knotty Thursday! (For Real This Time!)

 

Single column tie with a double knot! Also I really like being a column.

After my recent IRL adventures and text-Ma'am-ing, I decided it's past time to start up my knot-learning project again. This is the only rope I have left, from the early KC adventures. It was my crotch tope with Sweetie-Now-BFF, but it's become just a lovely low-key member of my toy drawer. I want to order the rest of a pink set, but I'm not ready to be that optimistic/ambitious.

I like this cutie-pie's teaching style so I think I'll just work my way through this video one Thurs at a time!

Actual Casual Sex Part Three: The Kinda Emo Part

I’ve been thinking a lot about what the word “romantic” actually means to me and in this particular case I think it means being all fizzy and lonesome from no-cuddling-but-very- competent stranger sex and getting a hankering to tell my hot unavailable friend all about it. I wanted to tell The Coach about the hookup in detail to get him off, but I also just wanted to confide and get his perspective. Plus, there’s a story between us, however mismatched, and I wanted some grounding.

I sent the text to The Coach at 11:11. (Didn’t time it that way on purpose.) I even checked this time if I was interrupting some other lady’s evening, and he said I wasn’t.

He was slutty/sweet/curious, instructive and encouraging. I opted not to get explicit, but I liked telling him this new adventure. After I was pretty sure he’d fallen asleep, I confessed that if I was gonna casual anyway, I wished I’d casualed more with him.

When I woke up the next day, I saw that The Coach had texted at 4:33 AM and offered, you know, some more casualing.

I asked about friends with benefits, and that was fine with him. I don’t know what that means, really, or if it’ll result in any more adventures with The Coach, but I like that door being left open, even as it also makes me want to jump out of my skin. If nothing else, it would be really nice to have somebody besides my ex-wife to talk about my sex-life with! (I don’t give her much info, but I’m pretty sure it’s more detail than she’d like!)

As for Casual Guy, I’m grateful. I liked his instructions, his sweet voice, his unequivocal fucking. I needed it so much.

With all this adventure in the past month or so, of course there are also triggers to care for. The line between arousal and anxiety has always been shifty for me. I would like to spend some time being extra kind to myself, give myself space to think and feel and crush and process. (And get back to learning my knots!) And then I would like MORE PLEASE, UNIVERSE, if you don’t mind.

 

 

 

Actual Casual Sex Part Two: A Lot to Think About

“Do you have a condom?” I asked as we started to aim for upstairs.

“No, do you have any? I mean, you said you hadn’t been fucked in a long time so I didn’t think we’d need one.”

“I mean yeah but I’m not crazy!”

(Seriously people, it’s basically legal to bounty-hunt abortion seekers in Texas these days, is there anything LESS HOT than trying to shirk safer sex? There might be one thing less hot, stay tuned.)

He admitted he *might* have a condom in the car so I smacked his ass and sent him out the door to go get it. I felt impatient and not exactly hopeful.

But yay! He had one and we went upstairs.

“Okay I want you to kneel down.” He wasn’t so much dominating as he was gently instructional.

It was nice to have a dick in my mouth again after aaaaaalllll this time. I really missed the taste (Didn’t make him have the condom on for this part, probably I should have.) and the fullness in my throat.

“Deeper now,” he said, guiding my head with his hand. The tip of his dick hit that part of my throat that makes me feel a little squirty and a little scared. I gagged in a way that I didn’t mind but that definitely shifted me away from my own room and into porn-mind.

“I want you to spit on it.” Yeah no. I ignored that request and I humbly ask that everybody look at porn just maybe slightly less.

Realizing I wasn’t going to be spitting on anything, he shifted to helping me do the best possible job, which I really appreciated. Love any time spent getting better at penises, learning about angles and rhythms and…

“Okay now I want to see how tight that pussy is. Take your pants off and get to the edge of the bed.”

Ahhhhhhhhhh he felt sooooo good. We fit together so nicely and he was both confident and competent enough that I didn’t have to worry about a single thing in the entire world for a few minutes.

“Move back onto the bed, I want to fuck you right.” And ohyes, he did. I hung onto the bars of the headboard and made all the noise and felt. Just. Relief. Welcome, hooray, thank you.

He started talking about how he was going to take the condom off and come inside me though, so I said “Wait, what?!” and wriggled out from under him until he convinced me it was fine, it was on, he was just talking shit.

(Again! So gross! Be a good citizen of sex!)

A lot of his talk was so much fun though:

“You deserve this. You said you haven’t been fucked since 2018? Tell me about 2018.”

“It was…this guy...from down the street…and we liked to watch…Gilmore Girls…afterward we…argued about the…midterm elections…”

And:

“You like this, don’t you? You watch a lot of porn, don’t you.”

“No just a little…Hentai… once in a while…I don’t…really need it…I have a good imagination…”

And:

“I love all this hair you have on your pussy. Don’t shave, do you understand me?”

(Okay points for that but I probably would shave for The Coach if he asked me nicely.)

And:

“This pussy is mine now, right?”

“Um, no. It’s actually mine.”

But then there was this moment that I can’t quite get my head around. Now, I don’t mind being objectified as a white woman, that seems totally fair, a little bit satisfying and corrective. And I should not be in the business of yucking anybody’s yum or getting protective of a grown man while he is CLEARLY having a good time.

But:

“You like that. You like that n****r dick don’t you? It’s okay, you can say it.”

After I winced and looked away, he dialed it back to “You like that big, black dick, don’t you.”

“We don’t need to make it about race.”

(Okay. I am attracted to black guys (and also, white guys are fucking terrifying) but I also spend maybe too much time worrying that they’ll think I’m fetishizing them, that I’m Allison Williams from Get Out. I should think a whole bunch about this later but first let’s finish the scene.)

After that jarring/heartbreaking moment, we got back on track.

“Okay are you ready? Can I fuck you harder now?”

“Oh yes PLEASE.”

It felt so good to wrap my arms around his big sexy strong arms, his muscular shoulders, to kiss him one more time and feel him let go inside me.

And then he was dressed so fast. He made noises about owing me cuddling another time, but I knew I wasn’t going to take him up on it. I put my pants back on the come down and lock him out.

In a warm, fuzzy, kinda-shocked-at-myself daze, there was exactly one person I wanted to talk to about this. Not super-advisable, but my guard was all the way down so I texted The Coach.

 

Actual Casual Sex, Part One

After my week of phone adventures with The Coach, I guess I decided to play a little more like he plays. (Or I guess, the way he looks like he plays, I really don’t know his life!) I switched my very sensible 37-57 settings on Bumble to a more playful 26-57. I stopped automatically swiping left on anybody who looks like he goes to the gym a lot. I realized (!!!!!) that dating apps could just be for looking at cute people instead of steadfastly looking for The Right One. I slutted up my opening lines by a little bit, which means a lot of kissy-talk and emojis that involve hearts because! If they’re scared of hearts they could just not say hi back!

Note to self: They are NOT afraid of emoji-hearts. What have I even been doing with my life?

It is a whole. New. WORLD in my inbox now. Which was good because Friday night I was antsy, and I was (for basically no reason, it turns out) trying not to text The Coach, and I was trying to just read my library book but it was in my phone where all those guys were.

There were a few dating-y guys in the mix, but when Casual Guy was like “What are you doing right now?” I didn’t tell him about the library book I was trying to read or about looking for a Real Relationship. I didn’t even ask if he was allergic to cats (no) and if he was vaccinated (yes) until he was already on the way.

(Let me just stop and give credit to The Coach, because he could have said he was fully vaccinated too and been done with me like two weeks ago.) (I mean, kind of a low bar, but being a good citizen of both Covid and sex is superhot.)

I didn’t believe that Casual Guy would come, or that he would like me (well) or that he would look the way he looked in his picture. He did show up and he WAs beautiful. He was dark-skinned, dressed dapperly, and had pretty that’s-how-they-get-you eyes. A softly West Indies accent. A round tummy but/and jacked arms. (I believe that is the first time I’ve described someone using the word “jacked” on this blog and it sort of makes me feel one hundred years old, but it IS the right word.)

I poured us some wine. My supersweet lesson-planning Pink Moscato was the only one I had cold but it didn’t matter because nobody drank any wine.

OH MY GOODNESS I DID NOT EVEN STOP TO PUT MUSIC ON! Scream emoji!

He had told me to put on something sexy for him and I, because I am lazy and it was all-the-way after ten already, decided that meant cute PJs, a lacy purple bra, and no underpants. No things were shaved or even trimmed. He could not have given less of a fuck.

I thought it was really sweet that he didn’t want to move my cat from her spot on the couch. I scooted the cat over and sat as close to Casual Guy as I could without touching. I thought there would be…banter? Time to drink wine and settle in a little bit?

Instead he was like, oh, you’re shy? Let me help you. He took my hand and put it on his knee. He gently put one hand on the back of my neck and pulled me into a kiss as the other hand went right up my pajama-top, roughly (but not too roughly) pulling my nipple up and out. OHboy, the lace and nipple and his rough hand gathering me up with expert pressure, that’ll stick with me. I’ll picture and feel it for so many alone-times to come. He put my nipple in his mouth and sucked sweetly. I groaned and lay back, disrupting the cat.

“I mean, I do have a bed…”

Staycation Sext Fling Part Three: I Recognize That Tree

I was looking for the original Blair Witch quote, but Lorelai makes it even more apt.

The last time The Coach and I text-played, he called me Ma’am and for a second I got so swoony that I had to make him tell me what should happen next. Once I regained my senses and my upper hand, we wrote through a quick but very sweet scene of me tying him to the bedframe with my pretty pink ropes. There wasn’t much chance of not having warm feelings after that! Getting Ma’am-ed woke up so much nurturing, protectiveness, and not-that-gentle gentleness in me. I guess I knew that was out of place in such a casual arrangement.

The next night was one where he didn’t text, and I ached to hear from him, literally felt a literal ache in my abdomen waiting/hoping for that little red text-notification number. I could have texted him I guess, but I didn’t want to be stepping on any other lady’s time and sure didn’t want the comparison if he was busy with someone younger, prettier, and (somehow!) more game.

My brain does this thing when I’m not hearing from someone I like, creates a whole cast of characters for them, each partner more beautiful and experienced and slutty-in-the-right-way than the next. This is almost never a slut-shaming feeling, I’m always happy for them and the adventures I’m imagining for them. I just don’t ever understand how I could keep up or fit in.

So I knew it was time to get oriented, to find out who the other partners were, to check in about the Ma’am stuff, to generally hang out and be humans together. I also knew that kind of an interaction might already be off the table.

So I asked if he wanted to go for a walk or a drink sometime so I could get to know him better. He took it as me asking him on a date (I guess it like 40% was.) and balked. I’d been pretty sure he only wanted me for strictly sexy times, and now I knew I was right.

It ended very kindly this time, to the point where I could feel a little of the Trump-era defensiveness we started this acquaintance with leave my body a little. He texted some very sweet “it’s not you, it’s me” type stuff that made me like him (and want to be Ma’am-ed by him) even more. While we texted it through on my morning walk and maybe in the middle of his workday, I cried a little. It’s hard to let him go.

I’m glad I’m able to get so much feeling from such attemptedly-simple interactions. It’s a hard-won skill and what gives these adventures so much meaning. But it feels a little lonely too. Are there really ladies out there being the just-sex thing he wants, the just-sex thing THEY want to be? I mean, there must be, he is superhot. I’ll always admire those casual girls, even as I try to let go of ever being them. But hey! I was casual for like eight whole days! And it was a very good eight days.

Dear Coach, Dear Goodgood Filthy Prince, Dear Kind-Of-But-Not-Really-A-Fuckboy,

Thank you. I’m so proud of how far we’ve both come. (Pun absolutely intended.) Go do all the things, go be exactly you. But part of you (not that part) (okay also a little bit that part) will always be mine now. I’m keeping your swagger, your bluntness, your sunny, sexy optimism. You’re inside me now always and I’m so, SO glad.

Spanks and vaccinated kisses,

A Princess

Staycation Sext Fling Part Two: I Need an Ass Photographer

Part of my staycation festivities was a visit to the record store for car CDs—I’m trying to be more album-y lately. So that’s how I ended up listening to Nirvana’s Nevermind three times, smiling big and screaming along, on my short roadtrip to see some out-of-town art. No BFF to judge me for playing “Drain You” like a bazillion times, just me, a dramatic sky, and Kurt Cobain’s fucking perfect caterwauling and boss-of-me guitar.

So, through the combined influences of Kurt’s rasp and The Coach’s pre-trip forwardness, all the doors of my body and spirit were flung open by the time I got to my hotel, changed into my coziest PJs, settled amongst the many pillows, and lay down for a nap. Of course I couldn’t nap and of course I couldn’t wait and see if The Coach would send his eager-grin-emoji version of a “You up?” later. It sure didn’t matter that I hadn’t packed lube. I was soaked. I’d been soaked for days.

Even by myself, I could feel him all the way in me. I could feel his eagerness to please. I could feel myself holding him down. I could predict some sunny future where he’d get a little too rough with my nipples. The Coach has never been inside me, but also now he’s in there anyway, permanently, with the rest of them.

Maybe I started to feel the tender feeling creep in that night when he did text and got me into a helpless bliss and then (Pause to look up fuckboy in the dictionary. Not really but kind of.) fell asleep without saying goodnight. (The hotel bedding was REALLY soft.) Maybe in a just-got-off-hard-twice-and-about-to-see-some-amazing-art haze of happiness, the daydream machine whirred to life.

Or it could have been a couple nights later when a teensy bit of regular conversation preceded another nice smutfest. Or when he texted “Wide awake baby!” when it was taking a long time to get an ass-angle I liked enough to send him. (He put on The Dark Knight while he was waiting. For some reason I’m glad it was the Heath Ledger Joker and not the Jared Leto one. Not sure why that matters!)

I’m not sure how warm feelings happen with someone who texts “Oh can I cum on your tits too?” (Obvs yes! Hooray!) (Point of grammar though--I think it should be “cum” for the noun and “come” for the verb, but at least autocorrect didn’t wreck his “your” game!)

But yep, warm feelings. Smutty as all those gorgeous sentences were, it did feel like a sticky, slippery, phone-getting-all-messy kind of intimacy. A weird Miranda July kind of intimacy, but still. It took a lot of trust to keep writing and writing and writing to him, letting him know my fantasies without physics or even much friendship to ground my body, heart, or mind. Just naked, momentarily-uncomplicated desire. The ungroundedness would eventually make this playpalship unsustainable, but I’m glad for a little while it got to be exactly what it was.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

OMG First Horror Movie Date, Part Two

It wasn’t a long time of Messenger-ing about movies and catching up on everyday stuff before The Coach started calling me “sweetheart” and telling me he’d thought about me. (Some people, and I’m probably one of them, mean something real specific and sticky when they say they’ve thought about you! I don’t dislike it!) Around the time I was seeing the opportunity and thinking he and I should hang out sometime, he asked if I wanted to hang out sometime.

I told him I’d been dying to see Candyman and hadn’t wanted to go by myself. (BFF will tolerate a horror movie, but she isn’t a fan.) He’d already seen it but didn’t mind going again. He found the showtime. He got the tickets. He picked the seats. Is that all it takes for me to feel cared-for, looked after?

There was some talk about movie makeouts, but the morning of our date I remembered to ask that one annoying life-or-death question and no, he wasn’t fully vaccinated. (I am, but I’m not trying to get the Delta!) Only halfway there. So I told him there couldn’t be any snuggles until after his second shot. I think I knew, in my heart of hearts, someone who’s right for me would have been vaccinated by the end of May. I think you’ve gotta be at least that much of a team player. Still, I know we’re all coming at medical stuff from different angles, and I REALLY wanted a movie date, so I didn’t make it a dealbreaker.

(Before I asked about vax status, I’d fully decided I would take him home after the movie if I got the chance. I was/am horny, nothing wrong with that!)

(Honestly I half-expected him to back out when I told him there wouldn’t be snuggles for a while.)

I got READY for this 5$ Movie Night date. I took everything off my todo list that day (not much was on there since I was on staycation) except manicure and pedicure. I bought a pretty new dress (light blue and fairy-ish with a little gold glitter) and a tiny butterfly necklace for transformation. Possibly this is a story about having a crush on THE MOVIES themselves, or on totally femme-ing it up, but The Coach brought it all together so nicely.

I liked how decisive and swaggery he was, carrying the snacks for us and leading us to our back row seat. I liked how he knew the movie was directed by Nia DaCosta, not Jordan Peele.

I moved the soda from the armrest cupholder so our elbows could touch. I got chilly and he lent me his jacket. I hid behind said cozy hoodie during the grisliest scenes and made him tell me when it was safe to look. It seems like this particular gender-sparkle should have happened to me long ago, but somehow, I’d missed it.

It was just the best time. The crowd was talkative in just the way I prefer, just the way I’d missed for all the quar-months. This really is a little bit a love story about the movies.

Even though (Or because?) there was a makeout embargo, The Coach gave me such an unexpected new kind of joy. There’s only two or three more more installments left of his story, but long live femme-ing it up at Candyman—one of my favorite adventures yet.

OMG First Horror Movie Date, Part One

I’m not being falsely modest when I say I didn’t understand what The Coach was seeing when he first asked me out at my college bookstore job in 2016. I was in a real post-adventures schlubby phase. I probably had on my heather-purple college logo shirt with loose AND ill-fitting jeans and (still my faves admittedly) the Payless version of black lowtop Converse. It was first thing in the morning so my long hair was probably damp in its lazy bun. This was (only a little bit) before Mr. Makeout Music came into the picture and made me want to doll things up again.

But here he was, getting sports-guy snacks before work or class or whatever. Slight-but-strong, a little less than my height, skin the color and smoothness of caramel, fluttery innocent dark eyes. In retrospect, the way he hit on me was delightfully old-fashioned and direct: He wrote his number on the back of a receipt and JUST CAME OUT AND SAID (something like) “I think you’re really attractive and I’d like to take you out. Give me a call sometime.”

Honestly it was tempting to think he was trolling me, but he really did seem sincere! I was working with BFF at the time and, well after The Coach had left, I was all “I think ______ _______ asked me out?” (He’s a full-name guy. Love it.) I couldn’t imagine us having anything in common.

Next time he came in, he looked a little shy-but-still-swaggery and said “ You didn’t call!”

I was a little snappish about it—I had this idea that nobody should be hitting on someone when they’re stuck behind a counter, but seriously, 2016 me, I was a middle-aged assistant manager, not a kid! It’s not like there was a power imbalance, unless you count the part where he was 24. (As was Mr. Makeout Music! Should I stop automatically swiping left on the under-30 set? Maybe not.)

A few months later, I apologized for being kind of a B and asked him out, but he’d gotten a girlfriend by then, so I happily/flirtily wished them well.

After he and the girlfriend broke up and after I was COMPLETELY DECIMATED by Mr. Makeout Music/the 2016 election, the thing with The Coach came around again. We’d planned to get together causally, but got derailed by some mismatched sexting—I got triggered by the way he talked about my body, too porny and harsh. The ways he talked about my fatness felt fetishizing, so I blocked him. We were still friendly in person, so we meandered back into each other’s feeds. And then I blocked him some more.

In her book, What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Fat, Aubrey Gordon has a chapter about different forms of objectification of fat people that really shifted my perspective. Why, she asks (I’m paraphrasing) does it have to be something shameful when somebody is attracted to fat? Why do we consider it a bad fetish? I mean, he did need to learn a LITTLE bit of manners, but I wondered why I was so triggered by this particular (sporty, fit) person finding my big ass hot? (NOTE: Aubrey Gordon is way better at talking about this than I am. You really should read the book!)

Anyway, last year sometime, I sent a friend request from The Coach into the ignore pile, but he must’ve still been following. When I posted about loving the new Shang-Chi movie (Speaking of deliciiiiiiiiious men) The Coach commented/messaged three different ways to try and talk to me about the movie. And of course, I’m superslutty for talking about movies!