We continued our online flirtation. We never discussed that last text conversation. We kept it light and casual. This I understand. The back and forth dance of seduction, learning each other's predilections and quirks. He's a self-proclaimed romantic. A relationship guy. A guy who likes Disney movies, for God's sake. He refers to sex as 'making love' and talks about how much he wants to kiss me. I don't like kissing, don't do it often, and suspect I'm not very good at it. It's interesting that I can suck, swallow or fuck a guy that I don't know, but kissing him makes me uncomfortable and kinda grosses me out. And yes, kissing is very personal.
But kiss we did. Our online flirtation came to a head one night and we agreed to meet. Up until the moment he texted the address, I was still wondering if he really was local. On the drive over, I was uncharacteristically nervous. You'd think that going to unfamiliar places to meet strange men, to do naughty things would make me anxious, but I tend to be pretty calm during these assignations. I've learned to trust my instincts which are usually spot-on when it comes to physical danger. They may be spot-on for emotional danger as well, but my heart is a complete idiot and has no compunction about disregarding instincts and going off half cocked.
Which brings us to Aaron. I couldn't make heads or tails of his motives and yet here I was, on my way to meet him face to face for the first time. When he got into my car, I did this thing I do where I seem to be looking at you but really I'm looking through you. Eye contact can be difficult for me sometimes. Plus I didn't want to see that look of disappointment that I occasionally get upon first meets. I'd warned him that I was uglier in person to which he replied, “aren't we all”. In truth, he was cuter in person than he was in his pics. Jerk.
I continued to not look at him as I fidgeted and babbled nervously. He wanted to hold my hand. I was self conscious about my rough, dry hands but he insisted. We chatted about nothing while he held my hand and the rain on the windshield made for a ridiculously romantic setting. I didn't feel a physical chemistry with him as much as a mental one. I suggested we address the elephant in the room and get the inevitable blow job out of the way. He said he wanted to kiss me.
We made out for awhile. I enjoyed kissing him but didn't feel that elusive zingy, swirly sensation (as described in romance novels) that I've been waiting for all my life, perhaps because I was too preoccupied with how not good I am at kissing. As things progressed we decided to move our little party to a more secluded location. We found a dark corner in a nearby parking lot and I was happy to let the oral games begin. I was perfectly happy to suck him off but he wanted to fuck. I had my doubts we could do this in my smallish Toyota, but he was confident, so into the back seat we went. For back-seat sex, it was pretty good. Sure, I could've done without the cramped space, my head banging into the car door, the sauna-like heat (I'd forgotten to crack the windows). At one point early on, while I was blowing him, he said he was getting a bit light-headed (high praise indeed but not my highest; one guy said I made him feel like he was levitating...). We switched from bj to missionary to doggy and I ended up finishing him off with my mouth.
I did my best to redress myself. I may or may not have put my panties on inside-out. I didn't quite know how to take it when he said that “now, I'm feeling on edge...”, echoing my earlier words to him. I thought maybe he was having that male post-sex/escape-hatch syndrome but since he was in my car, couldn't make a graceful exit... Who knows. It didn't occur to me to ask; men baffle the hell outa me. I drove back toward his house. He was helpfully telling me where to go to catch the freeway home. Honestly, I wasn't really listening (that's why God invented Google maps). He told me I could let him off and he'd walk the block back to his house. I hate it when guys do that. I take it like they can't wait to get away. Monsoon, rain, tornado...they'll take their chances out in the open just to escape. So I pull over and say goodbye.
“Goodbye?”, he says with a slight chuckle.
“What?”, I reply, puzzled.
“Nothing,” says he and gets out of the car.
“Got everything?”, I ask.
“I think so.”
I must've hesitated to drive away because 3 seconds later he peered through the passenger-side window which was still open.
“I think I left my suspenders in here.”
I find them and hold them out to him with a suggestive grin. He takes them from me with a wicked grin of his own...and he's gone.
I wonder if that's the last time I'll ever see him.
I didn’t hear from him for 5 days. I send one super-ultra-casual text. Crickets. Five days of me torturing myself wondering what egregious sin I’d committed. I wasn’t pretty enough. I wasn’t a tenth of my online, scintillating persona. I’d stumbled into a patch of horrifically bad lighting. He must’ve known the moment he saw me whether or not he was interested. Even if he only wanted me for blow jobs, why bother with the hand-holding bullshit? Why kiss the wits out of me?
After 5 days of self-doubt, zero self-esteem, and the endless taunting of my inner critic, I get a text from him saying he’d been down with the flu and had been feeling like death. The moment of pure happiness I get when I see his message is downright nauseating. My sad, lopsided world tilts back on its axis and I can have a bit of peace from the nasty voices in my head. Over the course of the next week I send two more super-ultra-casual texts inquiring after his health; my third text is an exasperated one.
Me: feel free to continue to kiss me off, just do me a favor and let me know u didn't die from the flu. Just for my peace of mind.
Nothing. Nada. Niente.
Another week of denigrating every aspect of myself from head to toe, inside and out. The only part that remains in high confidence is my oral skills. I know those are en pointe without a doubt. I begin to spin a fantasy in my mind… I dangle the coveted blow job in front of him and he can’t refuse. This time when we meet there will be no hand holding, no goddamned kissing. I’ll work my magic on his cock and after I swallow all he has to give and he lies back to collect his wits, I’ll lean close and whisper, “Now you’re just like everyone else.”
“What do you mean”, he’ll ask.
“Despite all the hand holding and kissing, after all your claims of being a gentleman, you’re just the latest dick to get sucked off in my car.”
BOOM. And that’s how I roll. Now he’s just one of the masses; nothing special here, ladies and gents.
That’s not exactly how it went down (as it were). I texted him:
me: mobile bj calling…
him: erect and trembling with excitement
He texts this 7 HOURS AFTER MY MESSAGE. Asshole.
me: u snooze u lose, butthead
And I make a happy discovery: I don’t have to actually blow him to bring him down a peg. His responding to my text already makes him no different than all the other guys panting after my blow jobs. I don’t get to rub his nose in it but hey, you can’t have everything. Yes, I’m angry. At him for treating me like a person instead of a cumslut. For getting my hopes up although I fought it every step of the way. For inadvertently tapping into the secret desires I’ve worked so hard to keep contained.
But I break my own rules (again) about texting first. I decide to give him one last chance to be a bj buddy. Perhaps I’ll get him addicted to my mouth. Play to your strengths, girl, play to your strengths...