We settled on Birds. Fucking Birds. I hate this place, but it’s near his apartment and it’s not somewhere I go, so it’ll do just fine. I don’t want to meet these guys at my favorite spots—in case it doesn’t go down well—I don’t want to taint my holes. I got here before him. The place is packed. We set the date for 10:30 p.m., it’s Wednesday, I was hoping it wouldn’t be this busy, but a big adult birthday party is happening. I couldn’t even reach the bar, so I parked myself (standing) at the end of the middle strip of a long high top bar near the kitchen. I waited. And waited. How can this kid be late? He lives blocks away he said. My nerves were wracked. I hate meeting strangers for the first time. I saw one guy earlier that I thought was him, but it wasn’t. Twenty-five minutes late, I see him walk in. He looks likes his pictures. I waved. I had text him what I was wearing (flowery top) and where I was standing. His style was a bit funkier than expected. He mentioned that he was wearing an old man’s sweater, but it’s really more like a 90’s women’s goth rave sweater. Whatever. I’m not looking for a fashionista. I’m looking for the perfect booty call. He’s cute though, and funny. His birthday is the following day, in ten minutes. He’ll be forty-three. He works in the porn industry, he has good stories. He says “like” a lot, which is kind of annoying, but whatever. Shit, he’s back from his cigarette.
2.6 hours later
Well, that was in.ter.esting. I really need to listen to myself. How old am I? How long have I been doing this? I knew within the first fifteen minutes that there wasn’t a spark. But I was having fun, so I had a second drink. And the problem is, he sent me a dick pic earlier that day, and it was huge. And he was funny. And after 1.6 cocktails, my brain says: maybe it’ll be good. He knows what he’s doing. He’s an OK kisser. Maybe his mouth will feel good on my pussy. So I walked with him to his place (three blocks in heels on my mending broken foot). His place was cool, but small. Just a studio, but the lighting was nice and his bed was cozy. He made us a yummy cocktail with some flavored gin he’d been brewing in his fridge. He put on some tunes. The sex commenced. It was okay. His dick was huge. It actually hurt my cervix, which meant two things: he had a horsecock and two; I wasn’t turned on. I did my breathing techniques to try to relax my cervix, get it to retreat a little. It worked for a second. He was going down on me at one point—not bad—I was determined to come. I was close and he fucking stops! I even said, “Don’t stop”, but he didn’t go back. What the what? He started fingering my clit a little, but it’s tiny and was on high nerve alert, way too sensitive for that kind of action, so I stopped him. He was starting to do some of that porn slapping shit, and I’m just not one of those women you can park a Mack truck up on there. I said something about his tongue, but by this time, my orgasm had moved to Antigua. So annoying.
We fucked it out for another hour with tiny pauses in-between to drink or pee. He had the same mouth lube I do, but who wants that shit drowning your mouth? I was fine when he used it for my poor vagina, but he just kept dumping it in my mouth as well. That’s a lot of stranger spit. I was nearing the end of my rope. After two hours of the sex, I had to stop. No amount of spit or lube could save my pussy. I was done. It was clear that he wasn’t going to come. And whether it was him, me, or tantric practice, I didn’t care. I had been done for about an hour, but usually the guy coming is the way to end the sex. There’s really no good way to end sex in the middle. So, I just did. I got up and started to get dressed. When he realized what was happening (he was laying naked on the bed with his babyleg in his hand) he said, “Wait, are you leaving?”
“I know, but there’s no good way of shutting this down, and I can tell that you could probably fuck for another eight hours without coming.”
He laughed. “True, I practice holding off.”
“You might need to add that to your Tinder bio”, I said as I kissed him. “Did you see where my shorts went?”
Before he could answer, I found them under a pillow.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving.”
“Believe it.” I gave him my cutest smile. The whole thing was weird, but I just couldn’t stay a second longer.
“I’m never going to see you again am I?”
“Probably not”, I said in my sweetest. “It was great meeting you! Happy birthday!” And then I practically ran out of there.
“Please text me when you get home.”
“Of course.” I called as I skipped down the stairs and out onto Franklin Ave. Happy to be free.