Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 4

First of all, it is hard to take a picture of your ass. Secondly, I had already shitcanned what I thought were relatively modest but attractive shots of me in my Halloween cheerleader costume and me on my back in a flattering top, the slightest bit sweaty. Because despite the fact that I had already almost immediately hooked up, that was not my online dating goal. I just wanted to go on some dates during my week's vacation from work. I mean, what else was I doing? So why on earth would I put my ass out there, when I already had to edit my photos to “entering a mosque” standards just to slow down the dizzying “let’s fuck” online traffic?

“I am so intrigued by you.” That’s my favorite.

What a bunch of douches. And now if a man types one of those sentiments to me sincerely, this parade of DBs has ruined it for me and my future main man.

Long story short, my Thursday morning date devolved into a Wednesday early evening date to presumably make the beast with 2 backs with someone who I'd chatted with for days but was a stranger to in the flesh. It seemed fun. The word play was provocative. In retrospect, I think Cy and I both got carried away and he thought he was in a porn live chat room and forgot he was making a number of stunning sexual promises to a real lady who was not a sex worker whom he had never met. I leapt into his arms upon arrival, per his request (I have a long held fantasy about a really huge dude carrying me around, which is not a sexual fantasy for me and I suspect more about my parents not holding me as a child, but men manage to make this a sex thing), then Cy choked on the whole liaison within minutes. His kissing was underwhelming and I wasn’t married to sleeping with him, but I am a woman of my word and was prepared to see it through. He was even cuter than his pictures, but not as large as I hoped. In person, Cy’s hulking and much touted online 6’ 4” lived out as 6’ 2" with apparent age-related muscle loss. Cy was 45. I was not worried, but prior to his arrival he said I had to trust that he would not drop me. He dropped me. (I weigh 136 on a fat day and am 5’ 6." I made my size explicit when we made plans for him to carry me around because I didn't want to be responsible for some middle-aged guy's lumbago. After a week of online dating, I now report my height, weight and measurements unprompted as if trying to pass a rigorous military physical without angering the verbally abusive sergeant with any hint of reticence on my part to meet his demands before he has actually made them audible). I am more than half Scandinavian. To me, a man who is 6' 2" is just tall, not "Me Tarzan, You Jane" material.

Turns out Cy was not my guy. Shortly after he admired my bits and started to go to town, he asked me to tell him a sex story. I wasn’t sure what to pick and he wasn't sure either, so I accidentally chose a semi-tragic one and his dick and heart visibly sank and he goes, “I can't do this.” He was embarrassed and overwhelmed. He, too, was a serial monogamist trying to hook up simply because he could, but it’s not for him. Cy is not over his last breakup 5 months ago. He is in recovery. He has ADHD, as do I, hence the mutually tragic lack of impulse control that led to our hasty meeting. Despite being sexy AF and a dirty talk natural, IRL (I learned that acronym this week) I am palpably kind and sweet. I have a baby voice. My childlike, naive, inherently loving energy makes it difficult for even creepy dudes to do super creepy things to me. Unless we’re married.

As Cy and I talked, it became clear we were in no way compatible. He told me a few more lies among mostly honest talk and then left. Unmatch. Number deleted. Hook up averted.

At this point I can’t remember if it was Wednesday or Thursday night. It’s all a blur. But Freddy came back. He didn’t have much time. He never does. I told him to come over anyway. Then in 15 minutes, we had mind-bending, vagina-shattering, soul-searing, out-of-body experience sex. Sex I would have never dreamt possible. Sex so intuitive and dripping with bliss that I have now already been to heaven if I don’t make it in the old-fashioned way, and consider myself lucky to have had 15 minutes with St. Peter (pun intended). Even playah Freddy seemed stunned. A few of his sex faces registered awe and disbelief. I may have failed to mention that Freddy has great sexual and comic timing and as he began to get dressed he said, “You CANNOT live in an apartment.” I laughed and laughed as he slid into his pants. Freddy lives in an apartment. This suggested to me that he had already imagined me living in his apartment, but now his dreams were dashed. “I am surprised your neighbors didn’t call the cops.” Freddy was legitimately concerned as a black man in a white woman’s house after dark in a dwelling recently shaken by slasher movie decibel screams. I could not and would not be silenced. God was in the driver’s seat, I was just the Little Red Corvette. Clearly, Jesus loved me.

In case it matters to you, we shut Daisy out of the bedroom this time. If she was crying to get in, I sure as hell didn't notice. I was fully otherwise engaged. Somebody call a priest to witness this sexorcism.

Freddy trailed behind me as I lead him with both hands to the front door, still naked, picture window curtains wide open due to our sexual haste. Freddy said in the voice he uses when he’s being funny “AND you’re NAKED. In front of the picture window.” And just like that, after 15 minutes of God speaking through me into Freddy, the playah was chastened.

Tune in next blog to learn why I unmatched and blocked Freddy twice in one week in the wake of him stealing my shoes.

Until next time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness