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I’m skipping Tinder six. It was a quick drink at Bigfoot West. He was recently divorced with fresh off the boat baggage. Zero spark with a side of female animosity. Next! Tinder seven: Rugged, with a classically handsome face. A man, not a boy. Great dimples and a soulful essence that shone through in his pictures. He was intense in his communication right off the bat. Bordering on too much (text wise), but also bordering on deeply sexy. We had been talking for a couple days (I was not available to meet until the following week, since every night was ridiculously booked). The dialog went deliciously sexual soon in, including pictures and recorded messages to each other. His voice is insanely seductive. And the thing’s he types/says. Jesus. I wanted a man who could get in my head, I think I found him. I get the feeling this guy could make me come sitting across the table from him just by his words. He’s given me major spine-tingles. Several times. A day. I hope it’s as good in person. I’m almost afraid to find out. But you put something out into the might get it. The date: We decided to meet at The Virgil at 7:15 p.m. The bar opens at 7 p.m., but it was a Saturday, and we wanted to beat the crowd. The date happened on the fly, we were set to meet the following Tuesday, but it just so happened that my evening freed up, and with all the luscious transmission, we were champing at the bit. Unfortunately, I was on the rag, so I told him that it would be a teaser date—a prelude to Tuesday. Which was sort of brilliant. Took the pressure off and forced the foreplay. Especially since our exchanges had been so intense for the past week. What if he was just great with words, but there was no spark in person?

I was the first one there. Literally. Even the door guy asked if I was meeting someone. I said yes, and that the bar being dead was part of our plan. I ordered a drink. They have happy hour on Saturday’s, which included a six-dollar specialty margarita. I ordered this for two reasons, I was tired and tequila wakes me up, and B) tequila sexually arouses me (not that I need help in that department, but you never know). He arrived moments later. Cute. Not tall (but I knew that). I suppose I was hoping that 5’10 translated a little loftier in person, but it didn’t. That’s OK. I’ll take less lofty for gets-in-my-head-and-makes-me-come any day of the fucking week. I noticed that he seemed a tad effeminate in person, which he did not seem in his pictures. Again, not something that generally turns me on, but not necessarily a deal-breaker. We had said that we were going to kiss right away, so when I saw him, I stood up and kissed him. Not quite the lightening bolt I was hoping for. I think we were both a bit nervous. He ordered the same drink as me, and we sat against the wall. I was smiling at him and he kept telling me to shut up, which was super hot. He also told me that I was sitting too far away. I couldn’t get any closer. I mean, I could have sat on his lap, but I wasn’t ready yet. We kissed again. We talked. Did we talk? Maybe. I was sort of just taking him in. Then he said, “Let’s move to the front little section, I think it will be darker.” “Yes, plus we won’t gross the bartender out.” I don’t usually care about such things, but we were the only patrons and we were sitting directly in his line of sight. The little room was perfect: dark and small with a cushy two-person loveseat. The only downside was that it was a little too warm. By our second drink my bare legs were draped over his.

We stayed in our little vortex bubble for three hours. It took me a while to make up my mind about him, but I liked the way he was pulling me and touching me. I was warming up. He wasn’t asking me any personal questions. Which was fantastic. He’s forty-seven. He’s done things. He knows I’ve done things. Our “things” lead us to this tiny warm room on the corner of Virgil and Santa Monica. It was perfect. I don’t need someone asking me questions. My ex got us into a lot of trouble that way. And I don’t need to hear about your favorite films or where you’ve traveled. I want an incredible sex connection, plain and simple. His dick was hard (for a good part of the last hour), and I was feeling it through his pants. It felt thick and yummy. We finally closed our tab. He had taken Uber, so I offered to drive him home. I parked in front of his building, and we kissed a little more. They were getting better—not the best I’ve ever had—but improving. I was turned on, so that’s a good start.

He had his hand down my shorts and on my ass cheek. His touch was incredible. I wanted his hands everywhere. We finally said our goodbyes, but just before he shut the door, he said, “Don’t drive away yet, I’m going to come around and kiss you again.” “Then I’m getting out.” Or was that in my head? I got out and shut my door. He came around from the sidewalk. The kissing commenced. He was doing that not-much-movement, sort of tantric kissing, and I’ll be honest, I wasn’t ready for it at the bar (I haven’t done that since “youwho”), but now I was. I could smell the mix of our saliva, and it smelled like sex. Really good sex. He put his hand down the front of my shorts. He was playing with my clit. Not rough. Slow. Just feeling his way around me. His body against mine. My back against the car. It felt incredible. It’s been years since a man has been able to make me come with his fingers, and I almost did, but as my orgasm was threatening to explode, a small child with a family not far from us made a noise, popping our bubble. I was suddenly very aware that we were basically standing in the street. We laughed. Normally I get pissed if my orgasms are fucked with, but I wasn’t annoyed, I felt good. I don’t know shit about this man, and I don’t need to. All I need are his lips, his beautiful hands, and soon, his cock, inside me. I asked the universe for something specific and it sent me Bull Durham (that’s what my friends are calling him). His texts are astounding. I’m really looking forward to Tuesday.

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