Man #36, Wanted: Cunning Linguist
The last time I mentioned The Mystery Date, he and I were getting to know each other, discussing our long, sexual drought periods, and toying with the idea of ending said droughts together. Well, my drought has finally ended, and I will go into all of the gory details shortly. During my It’s Finally Final party, one of my male readers told me he likes how I always warn everyone when things are about to get raunchy around here. Well, folks, it’s cocktail time again. My readers with more delicate sensibilities will want to skip today’s post and return tomorrow when I’ll be posting pictures of everybody’s favorite pit bull, Thor.
Not to give away the ending or anything, but today’s mixed drink needs to be a shooter (pun intended.) If you would take a moment and mix yourself a Screaming Orgasm please…we can get started.
In a cocktail shaker, mix:
Shake well and strain into a shot glass. Ah hell, you’re probably going to need multiple orgasms, so you might as well make yourself a whole shaker full.
I’ll let everyone get their drinks mixed, get settled in, and we’ll get this story started.
I live in a pretty quiet neighborhood composed mostly of people approaching retirement and professionals with young children, so after about eight o’clock at night, things get pretty quiet on my street. It was a dark, quiet Friday night made only more so by the fact that my son had gone to spend the night with a friend, and I was at home alone writing with Thor sleeping beside me.
I received a text message from The Mystery Date. He was wondering what I was doing and we shot a few messages back and forth before he commented that it was a shame that we were texting and not together on a Friday night. Recently, our communication had become increasingly steamy as we discussed our sexual droughts, fears, and expectations. I had specifically asked him if he felt he was a good lover, and he said he could get the job done and included some hand motions and finger gestures to drive the point home. He also mentioned that his ex-wife thought sex was dirty, so it prevented them from doing certain things in the bedroom. Our conversations always left me feeling a little horny, but I had not acted on it.
Our texting conversation that night had actually ended. I had turned him down yet again, and, then, sitting there, alone with Thor, I started thinking about it. What was the big deal? He seemed like a nice enough guy. He was no couch potato. He had a rock hard body, cute, strong, muscular. He probably looked great naked. Plus, we had pretty good chemistry from what I could tell. I had told him all of my fears about having sex for the first time since my husband, and he seemed understanding. And finally, I’m a big girl, and I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission if I want to have sex with someone. Getting over this hump, so to speak, seemed like something I needed to do.
So, I did something I have never done before. I booty called him. It was already quite late, and I called him back with the expressed purpose of asking him to come over for sex. I didn’t need to be wined and dined. I didn’t need to talk about it anymore. I just needed to finally have sex with someone who wasn’t my husband, and The Mystery Date seemed like a good choice.
He arrived at my house in less than thirty minutes, faster than a pizza delivery. I didn’t wine and dine him either. We both knew why he was there, and I made Thor stay in the living room as the two of us went to my bedroom. We started doing what two people do when they are extremely horny, and just as I was starting to get my groove on, he said, “WAIT,…oh,…don’t move,…aaagghhh.”
What. The. Fuck! I suppose it was my own damn fault. Perhaps I had underestimated my sexual powers. What was I thinking booty calling a man who hadn’t had sex in two years? Plus, he said he doesn’t even masturbate, so it’s not like he had been working on his endurance during his drought period.
I wasn’t going to let a little premature ejaculation stop me though, so I said, “you can keep going, right?”
It wasn’t really a question. I had made my first booty call of my life. I had put a lot of time, conversations, and thought into the decision to invite this guy over, and goddamnit, I was going to get my orgasm. To his credit, he kept things going. We tried a little bit of this and a little bit of that, but nothing was working. To be honest, I was struggling with my own demons, or rather, memories of sex with my ex. I was trying to sexorcise him from my mind. I wanted to know I could enjoy sex with someone else and the fact that The Mystery Date had already ended his drought did not help things.
I asked The Mystery Date if he enjoyed going down on a woman, and his answer was that his wife never liked it because she thought sex was dirty. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman. What the hell was she thinking?
“You mean you never go down on a woman,” I asked.
“I’ve just never been that into it,” he said.
Ah huh! So, the truth was out. It wasn’t because his ex-wife thought sex was dirty. It was because he thought it was dirty. I suppose I can understand that, man or woman, you might not want to go down on someone the first time, but from the sounds of things, this guy never went down. AND, he had the balls to ask me for a blow job. What? Why the fuck should I do that if he’s not willing to reciprocate? It’s always the selfish pricks that want a blow job. I suddenly wondered if his ex-wife really thought sex was dirty or if she had simply left him for a man who would perform cunnilingus. I assumed she faked a lot of orgasms.
My booty call was turning into a fucking nightmare…literally.
From that point on, I’m not sure what came over me. I was like a woman possessed. I had never before in my life booty called a man to come over to my house. He had over sold his goods, and now I wanted what he had promised, an orgasm. Come hell or high water, this little, no coochy eating, premature ejaculating mother f#$%&* was going to help me get my orgasm.
Two hours later…
…The Mystery Date was sweating. I was thinking I needed to get up early the next day, and I felt no closer to an orgasm than when he walked in the door. At this point, we had tried every creative position and every asana I knew. I mean what good is pigeon pose if you are not going to employ it in the bedroom? I had asked him three times if he would consider travelling downtown, and when he refused, I did what any muscular, Amazon woman would do when faced with a selfish munchkin who had over promised and under delivered. I sat on him.
Yeah, that’s right, goddamnit. I sat on him.
I sat on him and when he tried to start moving around, in low voice I said, “Don’t move.”
You see, men like to fix things, and they always seem to think they need to be DOING something during sex. I didn’t need The Mystery Date messing things up and breaking my concentration by trying to do any fancy bouncing around with his hips. I didn’t need him poking at me. I just needed him to shut up and stay still for a minute.
Let’s face it. There are certain times in life when it’s best to shut up and stay still…
…like when you meet a bear in the woods,…
…or when a 250 pound woman sits on you and says, “don’t move,” it’s time to just shut the fuck up and not move. Just lie there and be stiff or someone’s getting hurt.
I just needed to be able to do my own thing for a minute. It is my opinion that the reason the vagina remains such a mystery to men is because they fail to admit when they’re lost, and when they’re lost, they won’t fucking ask for directions! The Mystery Date and I had tried things his way. Now it was time for me to take over navigation.
The thought of my ex came back into my mind. I fought off the thought of him. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on what I was feeling. I needed to banish the fear that I might not be able to orgasm with another man. I needed that thought out of my mind. I just desperately needed to get past this first sexual encounter since my divorce.
…I just needed…
…Aah, aah! Oh. My. God! AAAAAAHHH!
Ok, so everybody take a shot of your screaming orgasm.
When it finally happened, a wave started from deep in my core and moved up to my head until it hurt, like a massive headache. I felt like the top of my head was going to fly off. I’m sure I made the ugly, squished up orgasm face where your mouth gets all twisted and your eyes start to roll back in your head. I think I even growled like man, not that delicate porn star bullshit, but a primal sound that had been dying to escape for months. My normally quiet neighborhood awoke. My neighbors, through a poorly insulated wall and across the shared driveway, sat up in their bed. Raccoons chasing a neighborhood cat stopped in their tracks. The Mars Rover, the earth a distant blueberry, picked up and recorded my screams.
Thank goodness I’m a woman who knows and is comfortable with my body, because The Mystery Date would have never gotten the job done on his own. And really, a man shouldn’t be expected to do all of the work, should he? However, this booty call made me realize something very important…
…I suddenly had deal breaker number two. There is no way I can be in a long-term relationship with a man who doesn’t love…and I mean LOVE…giving a woman pleasure by going down on her. Sex is supposed to be about giving and receiving pleasure, and when a man won’t go down, it sends a message that he thinks of her as dirty. Nobody should have to feel that way. I would much rather be with a man who views me and my vagina with the adoration we deserve.
That brings me back to the Joe Six Pack versus Smoothie Type in my last post. I don’t care what anybody says; the Smoothie Type is better than the Joe Six Pack type any day. If given the opportunity, the Smoothie Type can steal a woman away from Joe Six Pack pretty easily. I would say my ex was the Smoothie Type. He actually bought books at Barnes and Noble, studied up, went to classes, and put a lot of effort into treating me like a Porsche. Believe me, there are worse things in life than being fine tuned like a Porsche. However, wouldn’t it be nice if a woman could meet that one in one thousand guy? They don’t give him a name in “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men,” but I’m going to call him Joint Venture Guy. Wouldn’t it be nice if sex could be a joint venture? I don’t think I’ve met that guy yet, but I’d like to.
And as for The Mystery Date…I think I ended up being more woman than he bargained for. He will not be invited back.
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