When I wrote my last post, the one about Shenanigans, I was sitting at my kitchen island, crying, having a personal pity party. I had come home from time with a work colleague who is turning into a friend. She had taken me out for dinner and we’d had cocktails, shared a bottle of wine, and ate what she called “obviously we aren’t trying to pick up” food because it was deep fried and plenteous. It had been a fun night.
I was fine when I was out, surrounded by people. But home alone in a quiet house, the noise in my head telling me how much I missed Tony was impossible to block out.
I didn’t need any more alcohol. It was too early for me to go to bed. I was filling my time writing my post and discussing Tony and Mr. Tinder via text. I hadn’t heard from Tinder since I sent a thank you note after our date the night before. He had asked me what I was doing this night and said he would come over after our respective engagements, to f*ck me.
I was in the process of saying to a girlfriend that I didn’t particularly care that he hadn’t texted me back, since I was devoid of attachment or emotion. I decided I was going to go to sleep. When – ping – my phone interrupted me with a text message. It was Mr Tinder: “you up”?
After laughing at the improbability of it – but again wondering how the universe works – I said “yup”. Ever clear as to his intentions, he followed with “what’s your address”.
A found it a bit impertinent after he hadn’t bothered to respond in kind to my polite text the night before. So I said “really?” (also because it bought me some time to figure out how I was going to answer) and he came right back with “well do you want to?”
Did I want to.
It was a very good question.
Was I curious if he would be good? Did I wonder whether my body would respond well to him? Did I want to get out of my head and quiet the voices? Did I need a distration? Was I horny?
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. I was also encouraged by the friend who passed him off to me in the first place. So, I gave him my address.
He was there in 15 minutes. I had time to check my makeup hadn’t run down my face from crying and to put on better undergarments. Which was pointless because when he showed up, he refused my offer of a cocktail and had undressed me in 2 minutes, before I even got back into my kitchen to fetch my drink, 10 feet away. I almost wanted to say “hey, bud, did you notice that spectaular bra before you threw it to the ground?”
This time, my body told my brain to bugger off. It was a traitor that wanted only to feel pleasure. This was not an act based on a need to fill an emotional void – I didn’t feel loved, or cared for, or accepted. I wasn’t seeking any of that from this man. I knew I was simply a vessel – and Mr Tinder was no different.
I just wanted to get f*cked.
Never before has a man gotten me to squirt so quickly, and so often. Before I went to sleep that night I had to strip my entire bed of linens, including my duvet. I had to sleep on towels underneath my sheet, and use my son’s blankets.
Mr Tinder was very good with his hands. But he was too aggressive for me, right off the bat – he tried to fist me after I squirted, but a) I hadn’t given him permission to try, b) he had huge hands, c) I didn’t trust him to do it, and d) it hurt. He was pushing me, and it felt good, but then he got his fist in and I instantly pulled my body away from him, saying “no, get out, that hurts”.
While he did what I asked, he kept trying. I finally had to put both feet on his chest to push him away, look him in the eye, and say “no, don’t try again. maybe next time”.
(For the record guys, no means no, the first time).
It was the first time in a long time I was actually a little afraid of the situation I was in. He was very strong, and, as it turns out, intoxicated. I had told him I was submissive the night before, but had to explain to him, while he was making me squirt over and over (my body, the traitor), he hadn’t earned my submission yet and I didn’t trust him.
When he realized I was serious, he backed off the aggression. His cock wasn’t working as he’d liked (too much alcohol) but it didn’t stop him for pleasuring me over and over. When we stopped, he and I lay in my soaking bed and talked. It’s too bad he’s not interested in actual dating; he’s actually a good conversationalist and we have common interests.
He had parked illegally so had to move his car, which prompted us to decide he might as well just leave since he had to be up three hours later.
In similar situations, when a man has come over, f*cked me, and left, I’ve felt like a used dishrag. I didn’t feel this way with him. Probably because I used him equally. It didn’t fill any void other than time. I didn’t expect, nor did I receive, any healing balm for the wounds caused by the absence of Tony.
I simply lost some fluids in a physically pleasurable way.