Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 2

Because Frederic was a golf enthusiast and I am amazing, I suggested we meet for a drink at a club I know that not only had a great bar and restaurant open to the public, but a golf course Frederic could admire while he seduced me, still in his golf shirt and pants. I checked--I couldn’t call him Freddy or Fred. It was always Frederic. He was the formal type. Which I thought was silly but also admired. After much debate I have decided to share this detail as well. It should not matter. But it does to the world, I guess. I don’t like bald dudes who golf. I don’t like white bald dudes who golf. But I do like black bald dudes who golf, excepting Tiger Woods. I just do. Frederic is mostly black; and English, Irish, Scottish, and a bit Native. So there it is. Other than Frederic, I had only ever dated a black guy once. I was 15. Back then I didn’t understand that I was on a date until he started touching me. He was such a dreamy kisser and sensual toucher that I thought long and hard (back to grass, eyes to sky) about how much I valued my virginity. We never went out again because my mother was not as progressive in 1989 as I had previously thought, I was a coward, and again, I did not even know I was on a date. It was not his fault. This was clearly a date. But I had never been on one before, so I didn’t get it.

The single sentence in Frederic’s dating bio was something like: “Just a chill dude looking for a chill woman.” Yeah, he’s sexy like that. He is probably the best verbal communicator I have ever met, but he barely needs words. He has sorcerer eyes. Knowing grins. Telling movements. And overwhelming sexual energy that hijacked mine the moment we met. His joined and amplified my own sexy AF mojo and became its own entity, like a third person on our date, a charming control freak who really wanted to bone us ASAP.

Frederic and I, we both have big bedroom eyes and the kind of dimple-ish, face-splitting smiles which may cause others to lose their emotional equilibrium and occasionally their balance. We bedroom-eyed and sexy-smirked each other for over 2 hours, basking in the recognition of our flirty, sexy sameness. Narcissists mirror you. Twin Flames mirror you. Dudes who aren’t narcissists or your Twin Flame or a soulmate might mirror you because they read an article online or they learned it from their shrink or they experience a “girl you just so fine I cannot help it” phenomenon and start acting like you on accident, out of admiration, as when you adopt the charming regional accent of a new acquaintance from another land. Frederic might be a narcissist, a soulmate, probably not my Twin Flame (though the sex had me thinking otherwise for a minute), a casanova, a low key gigilo or possibly even just everything he said he was, which means he is almost perfect and I am a fucking dick because I won’t just trust him. Anyway, it took all of our social skill not to bump uglies right there in the country club, but we kept reasonably cool. I was more cool. I mean, this was my first real date as an adult--let’s not get crazy. Maybe Frederic was pretending to be beside himself with attraction to hook me. Or maybe he was sincere.

Frederic asked if he could walk me to my vehicle. He asked if he could kiss me. He asked if he could touch my butt. He asked if he could kiss my neck. Frederic was more concerned with consent than an attorney who only takes date rape cases. I found it shocking and refreshing. Before #MeToo happened, I was like, “What’s consent?” Frankly I found the idea a bit baffling. You mean not every woman wants to be “taken?” Hmm. But I digress. Then I felt sad that Frederic probably had to date like an attorney because he prefers to fuck white chicks and he is a black man in America and absolutely was not trying, literally or metaphorically, to meet an early death strung up in a tree by a loud, angry, hairy, pot-bellied, foul-breathed white man mob. Frederic impressed me so. He texted soon after we parted to report the electric impact of my kiss. I did not feel the same way. It was good. I’m a good kisser. He’s a good kisser. But I was not weak in the knees. I did turn the wrong direction when trying to drive home, but that means nothing. I turn the wrong way weekly in my own neighborhood.

The texting continued. Freddy (It’s my blog so I’m gonna call him what I want) “needed” to see me again as soon as possible. It was Sunday. We agreed on Tuesday. The texting continued to continue. He accused me of inviting him over. I don’t think I did. I think he made a suggestion apropo of nothing but his hardening dick. Then I sent him a neck down, waist up pic of the girls in a black lace bodysuit that I almost sent to a different guy in December, but he was being difficult so I just saved it. Let me remind you here that I was until recently in a very isolating relationship for over 2 decades. My engagement with social media was minimal and with all forms of cyber technology was largely through my ex. I am by default a Luddite. My mother’s people are Irish and Pennsylvania Dutch, so it is in our DNA to view technological “advances” as a tool of oppression developed by the English, if not the devil's direct handiwork. Until my marriage ended, no one had ever sent me an eggplant emoji. Or a dick pic. Or asked me to send them a shot of my tits or sext with them (I still don’t really know what that is). So when I sent Freddy a shot of the girls in black lace, it was big (they were just medium). And once I texted my explicit consent, Date 2 with Freddy began, 4 hours after Date 1 ended, at my place. Hetero ladies, I must express here that even the most chaste and happily relationshipped among you, had you spent over 2 hours that close to Freddy, marinating in his quietly potent and achingly attentive sex bomb aura--penetrated by his stares, melting in his smile craters, hypnotized by his slippery stride--you would have fucked him in the country club parking lot on the hood of your car before night had even fallen to sheild you from onlookers. I am basically a saint.

Check back for Part 3 to get a front row seat at an unlikely threesome.

Until next time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness