Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 14

This Independence Day I learned I have not been single long enough to know how to tell someone to stop touching me. I mean, it seems easy enough. You just say the words "Stop touching me." But I didn't.

I was a first time guest of a lady I just met and already loved. I was being touched repeatedly in front of half a dozen people I had mostly just met and really liked and didn't want to make a fuss and kill the vibe. I also didn't want to hurt The Toucher's feelings. He seemed like a nice person. Surely not the first person to be too handsy, then get blotto and really be too handsy, on the 4th of July. 

So I tried subtle methods of discouragement. Spontaneous dancing away from The Toucher. He followed. Song's over! No more dancing! Gonna sit down now! (I had to stop to preempt the looming unwelcomed butt grind). Then I tried mild grimacing at his touch. Added body stiffening. Threw in zero eye contact. All lost on The Toucher. Just prior to the ride home, I asked for shotgun. In the back seat, The Toucher groped my married friend's leg because he thought she was me. 

I have a sinus infection so I was and am on a couple of prescriptions and The Toucher was perhaps pouring heavy because I was slurring from 2 drinks (with dinner! and water!) over 7-ish hours of 4th of July mayhem. I got invited to The Sandbar. The friends who brought me to the poolside BBQ have never been invited to The Sandbar. Still. They aren't mad at me cuz they're cool. 

I have been taken to The Sandbar at over 90 MPH in the muddy Mississippi by a guy a friend claims has a dick so big she stopped returning his calls. After laying eyes (hands? lips?) on it, the relationship could not continue. She wanted to live.

I have been taken to The Sandbar in the jade Columbia by a man who doesn't drink but cheated on his wife and she stayed. And she drove the boat like a fucking boss. I wonder if she made love to her husband the way she made love to Lake Roosevelt with her daddy's boat? She could be a Certified Instructor for Driving to The Sandbar.

And now this Sandbar. Apparrently I'm Sandbar material. For those unacquainted, The Sandbar is River Vegas. Perhaps The Toucher hoped to fuck me on the giant flat-backed pink flamingo, the floating centerpiece of the beer barge regatta.

I soon had visual confirmation that The Toucher "casts a wide net" (as a friend so delicately put it) when The Toucher bailed to assist a razor thin redhead (ensconced in a messy love triangle, I learned from her while waiting for our Sandbar taxi) trying to dock a jet ski. Also, The Toucher had not asked me a single question about myself. He asked what I wanted to drink. He asked if I wanted him to rub sunblock on my back (when I politely declined and did it myself, he grabbed and lifted my long hair. A silent assist. I said it was a little early in the day for hair pulling and everyone laughed. Then he told the group how soft my hair was). Then he asked me if I wanted to go to The Sandbar. It was a terrible idea. Of course I did. You only turn down The Sandbar if you are unaware of its awesomeness. Or you are sensible.

That was the long and short of The Toucher's questions. Before he got me to The Sandbar, I could already write a novella about The Toucher's life. My friend shot what became a tale by tale photo essay of me in a swimming pool corner practicing what she identified as "active listening" with The Toucher. 

I give and I give and I give. Then they chase redheads and return to molest me. Should I give less? Resuming my day to day life as a shut-in seems easier than self-modulation.

On the bright side, a potentially hot Taurus  (he was wearing a ball cap, which may have been blocking some sexy) whom I met at the festivities asked me to be Facebook friends post-hoopla. Taurus and Pisces are a recommended match. (I am the only person who reads my blog who thinks I should continue to subject myself to Scorpios.) Taurus and Pisces are known to linger in bed and stay home and cuddle. Love has been built on less.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness