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)