November 9, 2017 7:32 p.m. drink: Ancho Mule
I fucked a Trump lover last night. He was sitting at the bar when I arrived. I sat a couple seats away. He was cute. It’s extremely rare to find myself attracted to a stranger. I also liked his style. He greeted me hello but mostly left me alone. Another point. Then, right on cue, a fucking hot flash! I’ve been taking my stupid herbs, but I guess they’re not a guarantee. Here’s the other thing; it’s so nice and cool up here—something I’ve been looking forward to since I made the cabin reservation—but here’s what happens when it gets cold, bars/restaurants fucking blast the heat. So, it feels like heaven outside and Arizona summer heat, inside. Not a great combo when you’re already running warm.
I was sitting there thinking, how the fuck am I supposed to feel sexy during a red face attack? I wasn’t. Also, adding to my discomfort; musicians were setting up: a two-man R&B/smooth jazz and standards combo. The older gent sitting at the microphone and keyboards was chatting on the mic more than he was ripping his fingers. I like editing to music/background noise, but not to amplified fuckery. He was talking to the “audience” which consisted of my bar companion and one other person. Huggie Bear (yes, that was his name) was basically just talking to himself. It was annoying as fuck. Just when I made the decision to take my cherry-face down the street, Huggie’s other half—wearing a full-on zoot suit—walked over to bar with his cordless sax to play within inches of my life and have a staring contest. Un-comf. It was time to go.
I polished my hot toddy—a poor choice, it turns out. Fine for my chilly cabin, bad for a hot, stuffy bar. I needed some air. I decided I would leave my car in front, in case I wanted to come back, and walk down to the Italian restaurant. I had eaten there the night previous and I wanted to try the food at the place I was in, but between all the factors, I just couldn’t stay. I was praying the cold mountain air would neutralize my face. As I paid and packed up, my handsome neighbor said, “You’re leaving already?”
“Yeah, but I might be back” I said with slight swagger.
Although I wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup—I was in the mountains by myself to write, I don’t get dolled-up to eat/drink/write—and wasn’t feeling particular goddess-like (I felt like a billboard for a dying uterus!), I’m still me and flirting is like breathing. In the fifteen years I’ve been coming here, I’ve never seen anyone even remotely as attractive as this dude.
Sadly, after my lovely stroll under the stars, the second location was even hotter than the first. This town has limited options so I toughed it out, red face and all. I ordered a Caesar salad. I pounded cold ice water and just half of my martini. After I devoured the salad, I paid and sought refuge once again in the outdoors.
I had sent a text to Farah from the other bar earlier, she was telling me to get my butt back there pronto. I still had so much writing/editing to do, so I went back in for another round. He was still there. Knowing there was a good chance I’d pop back in, I added wine-stained lipstick to my face to hopefully offset the other situation. I ordered a Glenlivet neat and an ice water back. Although I really did need to get work done, I decided to see what his story was. The bar had a few other drinkers, so this time I sat next to him. He welcomed me back. It was clear his cocktails were having the desired effect.
He had Michael Madsen eyes. I’m a sucker for those eyes. He was sexy. And now, I could see, he was also cocky. I can handle cocky. Cocky is usually good in bed. Turns out, he’s a screenwriter and director (of course) who moved to the small town nine months ago. A local. That bit surprised me. Fucking a local was probably a bad idea. This town is small as fuck. There’s a nine-and-a-half out of ten chance I’d run into him every time I came up. I decided to throw caution down my throat. My face was still red, but the plus was my eyes were really white, so that was nice.
The local to his right was also a writer. We were having fun. The conversation was intriguing. Then he dropped the bomb. He loves Trump. Loves him. What?! Who was this guy? It’s an odd place for a Trump-et to live. We went toe to toe on The Donald. At one point, during a break in the politico fervor, he laid his hand on his knee next to mine. A subtle amount of contact. A good flirty move. No major sparks, but definite interest. When I text Farah about the Trump business, she replied: “RUN. Or tie him up and read Bernie Sanders to him. Then make love to him in a bathtub after conditioning him to realize his flaws.” Lordy, I love that girl.
We drank. We played pool with some crazy bottom-of-the-mountain-meth-land folks. We closed the bar down and I followed him to his house. I was pirate-ing a little. I have no recollection of what car he drives (which is dumb because it would be good way to avoid him), and no way I could tell you where he lives; even though I know it wasn’t far. Anyway. I liked the way he kissed. Not as good as my ex, but he kept doing a good push/pull thing. Just the right amount of control assertion. The weird thing was: he had Hindu art all over the house and a kid’s room. He said it was a furnished rental. I said, “Sure, it is.” I was giving him shit. We wrestled a bit. I wanted to make-out on his comfy couch. I never get to dry hump anymore. Why do people skip the dry hump? That shit is hot as fuck. It’s called foreplay, people!
One minute we were on the couch, then, as if he were wearing Velcro pants, the Trump lover was standing in front of me with his dick out. It came out of nowhere. BAM! Dick in my face. It was pretty funny. I think I laughed. Decent cock. Could have used some girth, but all in all, a good dick. I was in a ridiculous mood. I wanted more foreplay. More laughing. I also wish I had showered that day. I was worried about my vagina scent. It’s been changing lately and I can’t figure out if it’s an age thing or The Texan. It sort of goes back to its original glory when I have a break from him. It’s not a bad smell, just different than the one I’ve been used to. Me and smells, I swear to god. I’m sure it’s only perceptible to me. Plus, it’s not like this dude would know that my pussy smells/tastes any different this night than it did a year ago. It’s the slightest change, but I’m obsessed. Thankfully, my inebriated state overrode my concern—although I didn’t let him go down on me. I think I may have attempted a sink wash, but I can’t be sure.
We took it to the bedroom. He was holding me down and stuff, I liked it. We fucked. I was wet enough on the inside, but after about ten/fifteen minutes, that started fading. I was dehydrated and although I was having fun, I wasn’t really turned on. He felt good, but no way I was going to come. I’ve only had sex for myself (non-work) twice in the past two years. I was sort of determined to get fucked by someone who didn’t repulse me. He was smooth in the sack. One year my senior, the man knew what he was doing, he’d change positions without effort while keeping himself inside. But drunk sex is drunk sex. Honestly, I don’t think he came either. We wrapped it up. I peed and got dressed. He wanted me to stay (or was it just an offer?). I didn’t want to wake up there. I wanted to get to my cozy bed in my own cabin.
We exchanged emails. My friend thinks this is hilarious; that I don’t give my phone number out. Not even to a man I had just fucked. He gave me a beautiful crystal. It had good energy. This guy was a weird combo. I couldn’t figure him out. I haven’t had a crystal in forever. I held it the whole drive home (a whopping mile and a half) as I chalked the evening up as one more man in my leftover pile. I can’t wait for the day when I can have consistent, deeply connected sex again. That still exists, right?