My sexual dating diatribe

Him:
So, what are you all about? What are you looking for on here?

Me:
Hmmm… that’s a loaded question. I’m not sure what I’m looking for on [insert ridiculous internet dating site name here] specifically … I have yet to find it.

From a life perspective, I’m looking for someone challenging enough to keep me interested; love life, sex and good times as much as I do — if it leads to more, then I’m interested. I’d love to be lost in a moment with someone and really have them care for me as much as I do for them … and be really sexually compatible.  I haven’t figured out if that’s too much to expect or realistic of another human being. Did I mention I like sex?

I’ve been deeply in love and I’ve had my share of flings that were as forgettable as a rainstorm. I’m okay with a great friend (with benefits) to spend time with too. After all, “dinner for one” night after night gets a little boring!

I keep giving it another shot until I find it. It’s the hard-headed redhead in me that refuses to give up. Bottoms up!

~ Globe Trotter in Lingerie

Evolution of online dating

It’s funny how my online dating experiences have evolved and I also see it in other profiles.

There’s that guy that is so possessive of himself that he gives off this giant “chip on the shoulder” attitude in his profile. He’s so adamant about a woman not “changing” him that he just puts it all out there. He’s the “I burp, I fart, I don’t have a job, I live with my mother and I don’t care what the fuck you think” kind of guy. I’m glad he’s confident in himself but I can’t imagine him ever giving a shit about me enough to even go on a date with that kind of attitude. What’s the point of even having a profile if you just want to be with yourself?

I consistently see folks that write “no drama and no games” in their profiles. How realistic and likely is this? Just because they met someone and fell for them hard and then got their heart broken they have now labeled it as a “game”? Perhaps the other person just didn’t see the world like they do and was unable to return the same feelings, emotions or physical connection. What is wrong with that?

Why would you WANT to be with someone that did not feel the same about you? Breaking up is hard but a necessity at that point – hearts mend over time. Don’t get mad because someone isn’t “right” for you.

The most boring clichés of online profiles:
– I’m laid back
– I’m easy-going
– I work hard and play hard too
– I don’t want drama or games
– I have a great sense of humor
– I’ve never done this before and I’m “just looking”

And then there’s the quintessential bathroom self-portrait … those just kill me. At least meeting people in bars was social interaction, with this online stuff I feel like I’m only getting lucky with my computer screen.

~ Globe Trotter in Lingerie

Profile: The First Lover

I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 22. Not because I was waiting until marriage or anything (I’m an Atheist anyway), but it just didn’t feel right with my main high school boyfriend or my college boyfriend. When I met Antonio, though, I knew I wanted him to be my first lover.

This was totally inappropriate for several reasons. Firstly, he spoke no English. Secondly, he was a smoker, which I detest. And thirdly and most critically… he worked under me at the horse farm that I managed for the absentee owners. “Worked under me” was not (in the beginning at least) a sexual innuendo. I was the manager and he was one of four illegal immigrants that we illegally employed to take care of the horses and the facility.

This was no innocent puppy love accident. I made up my mind that I wanted him and very deliberately went about seducing him. Which was ridiculously easy to do, as you might imagine. I still remember the first words that I said to him (in Spanish) as a calculated flirtation: “I like your smile.” To which he responded instantly “Why?” And so it began.

Within a week of acknowledging the possibility we had slept together. To my very great surprise, he was a virgin, too. He had never even kissed a girl, but let me tell you… the boy was a quick study. We were pretty sure that we were the first people ever to discover sex and it was the best thing ever.What both of us lacked in experience we more than made up for in enthusiasm and creativity. More than one morning we were late to work because one of us had kissed the other goodbye and we wound up on the floor. We broke a bed. We came down from the hay loft with rumpled clothing and hay in our hair. We had to pull off the road driving together many times because we were making each other so hot. Once, his brother nearly walked in on us on his living room floor and later discovered one of my socks on a stack of dinner plates on a kitchen shelf. “How did you start?!” he asked in disbelief. I blushed.

Our relationship remained a secret from the clients and our boss for the two years we were together. My Spanish got really good. Funnest way ever to learn a new language is to fuck a beautiful foreigner.We had very little in common besides intense physical attraction, and that plus probably the excitement of a forbidden romance and the fact that we worked together and saw each other every day took us surprisingly far. Our fights were spectacular. I’m not easily provoked to anger, but Antonio could push my buttons like no one before or since. He had technique of deflecting any sort of attempt to talk about something that was bothering me by saying “So, you want to break up. You’ve decided you don’t want to be with a Mexican.” That was guaranteed to drive me crazy! I’m most ashamed of the time I responded by shrieking “Don’t be such a child!” while simultaneously flinging a handful of baby carrots at him. I was so furious at the time that the irony completely escaped me. In bed afterwards, we laughed our asses off. Naturally, the make-up sex was mind blowing. Looking back, I suspect he sometimes goaded me into fits of temper because it brought out my “inner Latina” that he claimed to adore.

And then I got pregnant. I was not prepared for how this would effect either of us. I knew I didn’t want to have a baby, I grew up liberal and fiercely pro-choice, and to me an abortion was the rational, logical, obvious solution. But I had a fucking emotional meltdown. I told no one except Antonio, who really wanted the baby and also went to pieces. I’ll never forget a horrible night of him pleading with me and then literally sobbing in my arms once he realized I couldn’t be talked out of having the abortion. That terrified me. I realized that I was totally out of my depth… Antonio wanted someone to be with forever and raise a family. He had decided that “someone” was me. And I didn’t want that at all.

I miscarried the day before I was scheduled to go in to pick up the pills that would cause the abortion. I had decided for some reason that the pill option would be better and more private somehow than the surgical option, even though the pills were less effective, would cause me to be sick, and would required extra visits to the clinic. Not having anyone to talk to, because I hadn’t confided in anyone other than Antonio who was more clueless that I was and was an emotional wreck himself, I panicked over the bleeding and called a crisis hotline when I couldn’t reach my doctor at night. The crisis hotline I had picked from the phone book ended up being a Pro-Life counseling center in disguise. The woman on the phone talked down to me implying that I was getting what I deserved when she found out that I had scheduled an abortion and wasn’t Christian. She was still trying to talk me into considering adoption when I hung up on her. I was bleeding and crying all over my bathroom floor. All I wanted to know was whether or not I was miscarrying and if I needed to go to the hospital and she wouldn’t even tell me that. I’m still not sure how she could justify her behavior as the “compassionate” stance….

That was the beginning of the end of Antonio and I. We continued dating for a few months after that, but it wasn’t the same. The fact that I was going to break his heart loomed over us both and it wasn’t fun anymore. We couldn’t enjoy the present when we knew that I didn’t want the same future together that he did. The fighting got worse. We broke up. He quit working at the farm. We got back together briefly, but it didn’t last.

I look back fondly at much of that time, even if the end was bittersweet. I wonder how he sees it. We are totally out of touch now; it’s been more than seven years since I last saw him. I imagine he’s married with children by now. I hope he’s happy.

You never forget your first love.

~ Sex Kitten (with claws)

Profile: The Bruiser

Jose was the first of my online dating exploits this year. Having never done this before I didn’t know enough to know that I should have been surprised by how easy it was. He “winked” at me, I sent him a short friendly email, he sent me his number and suggested we go out for coffee, I sent mine back, he texted me, we had a date. Done and done.

And then I panicked. Two hours before I was supposed to meet him at a fine Howard Schultz establishment, I decided that absolutely every pair of shoes that I owned was horribly unfit to wear with the new shirt and jeans I had bought for this first date. I flew to the nearest shoe store and threw myself at the dubious mercy of the fashionable girl that worked there who whipped out the five inch $200 “Fuck Me” stilettos and salivated over the potential commission without batting a fake-eyelashed eye. When I stammered that I had neither the balance nor the budget for those sort of shoes, she lost interest and left me on my own to hyperventilate over a pair of modestly heeled (and priced) short black boots.

I was surreptitiously kneading my soon-to-be blistered feet through my hot new boots when Jose appeared. If Antonio Banderas had a military haircut and a past career as a pro wrestler, this guy could have been his twin. He checked me out, too, from somewhere north of my boots up to my face and I guess I passed because he bought me an iced latte and sat down. He was friendly, interesting, and calm and I probably stopped trembling at some point. We went from the coffee shop to dinner and at my car afterward he said, “I just have one more question…. When can I see you again?” Good thing I hadn’t bought the Fuck Me stilettos, because I would not have survived the swoon.

The highlight of our second date was our first kiss, followed by witnessing a spectacular car crash. Jose’s military training showed as he took charge of the situation, barking out a 911 call and helping the drunk driver who had stumbled out of the car to sit down and take stock of his injuries (he was OK, and had only hit parked cars). I watched this cool display of leadership and authority while trying desperately not to reveal how turned on I was. Gentlemen readers, you may wish to take notes: showing a cool head in a crisis is going to get you laid even faster than driving a Porsche. My god, that is so sexy.

For our third date, Jose had me over to his apartment and cooked a fabulous Panamanian dinner for us, seduced me with a Bacchata  dance lesson, and then fucked me with a carnal energy so violent that I laid in bed shell shocked and more than a little bit sore while he hummed to himself in the shower afterward. I remember thinking then that I was in for a wild ride with this guy, and I had no idea how true that was going to be.

OK, here’s the soundtrack you need for Jose: Pain by Three Days Grace.

Over the next three weeks, I got a crash course in Advanced Sexual Practices, which was not all unpleasant. But as the dynamic went from strictly kinky and adventurous to increasingly painful and dominating, I became worried. Jose did not seem concerned with what I enjoyed, instead he seemed to have an agenda of convincing me that what he liked was what I liked. And anything I said I didn’t like was guaranteed to go to the top of his Most Wanted list.

On Valentines Day he bought me a huge bouquet of red roses, a box of chocolates, and left me a sexy voice message on my phone in Spanish. And then he pinned me down during sex and told me to try to fight my way out. Later he said if the way that he preferred for me to give him head was causing me to gag that we could move to the shower in case I threw up. What a sweetheart.

The day I suggested that he was being a little too rough, he sulked and refused to have sex with me at all. I tentatively asked him if pain was, um, “necessary for performance.” He denied it, saying all women like it rough, and that I should just admit that I do, too. I asked if the scarring on his back was from being wounded while serving in Iraq. He replied that it was from the beatings his mother gave him as a child. And my concern deepened.

Having basically made myself a  set of living room drapes out of all the red flags I was ignoring, it took him actually slapping me across the face during sex for me to finally dump him. I asked my friend Goldilocks, who has been around the block more than a few times for a reality check.

“Honey,” she said, “We’ve ALL done things in the bedroom that we might not want to think about the next day. And I’m all for a little spanky spank. But I have NEVAH been slapped across the face. If I were you, I would have slapped him right back.”

To which I replied, “That’s what I think he wanted….”

When she stopped laughing, Goldilocks guffawed, “God, you sure know how to pick ’em.”

I can not argue with that.

~ Sex Kitten (with claws)