We devour our migas with jalapeños on the side and a couple of glasses of mimosas. Wondering what to do next I remember that my favorite SNL comediennes are starring in the new, "Friends with Kids," so off to Alamo Draft House we head for a chick flick. Yes, a chick flick with my very own Mr. R.
Jennifer Westfeldt writes, directs and stars in a poignant film that any woman between the ages of 28 and 45 will relate to while seasoning the film with enough male perspective to keep the men engaged. It's realistic and funny without being too painful and at the end I'm caught off guard by a pinch of emotion. R smiles sympathetically, grabs my hand and off we go, returning to the house on a most delicious spring afternoon early March in Austin Texas. If you don't live here, I feel sorry for you.
He mixes a couple of Tito Vodkas with Sobe Water and off to the back yard we head.
"Cool, a hammock," I say with delight. I turn to ease into it and as gracefully as I reached for the towel in the shower earlier I fall flat on my ass. Christ, there is no end to my looking like a total dork. I have bruised yet another part of my body but hey, I haven't spilled a drop of my drink. Sometimes, all the energy that goes into looking good translates into total boredom and no one can say that about me.
For the second time today R asks, "are you okay?" without laughing out loud. He walks over to hold the hammock still while I get in then he joins me. It's two o'clock in the afternoon or so and the day lingers lazily. Exhausted or drunk, we nap lightly swaying side to side, legs crisscrossed.
"Let's go upstairs," he suggests at some point and I follow him anticipating what he has in store.
He directs me to sit on the side of his bed without saying a word as he removes his company t-shirt and unfastens his pants. R stands there in navy blue briefs. "Pull them down for me," he directs. I slip my fingers beneath the band in back and pull them down past his ass to the floor. His erection meets me as I sit up on the bed and I am turned on to have him in front of me like this. I take him in my mouth and he gasps ever so slightly. "Not yet," he says.
He pulls my shirt up over my head and unhooks my bra. Pushing me back he brings my legs and feet up off the floor to more readily remove my jeans and slide them over my butt. Tossing everything to the floor, he pushes me back on the bed and climbs on top.
We watch each other as we begin this journey again. The room is silent except for the steady turn of the ceiling fan. We move together, eyes fixated on one another. Never in 13 plus years of being with my ex did this intimacy exist, not even in the beginning. It wasn't just a financial disagreement or a "lack of sex" that lead to my marriage's dissolution. It was a complete and utter lack of intimacy, of not being seen only ever criticized so that I felt I wasn't enough.
I have no crystal ball to see the future with R. The present moment - now - is all that exists. Looking at him, watching him I begin to feel a tug of something primal. This is not an orgasm, at least not the kind from this morning. Rather, I feel a deep well of emotion opening up and it feels as if my heart might explode.
It builds as R and I continue, a tear rolling down the side of my face to the bed. Then there is another tear and then there is just the release... this uncontrollable sobbing. R stops.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I just haven't felt this in a very long time."
Laying down on top of me he kisses my cheeks. "Felt what?" he asks quizzically.
"Seen... touched," I hesitatingly share. I feel mildly embarrassed but simultaneously lighter. He wipes a tear away and I offer up a smile. "I'm good... I'm going to be okay."
"You sure?"
I nod. "Sorry to be a buzz kill. Just what a guy loves to see while having sex, a woman having an emotional breakdown, right?"
"It didn't look like a breakdown."
I smile at him in response and we lay there for several minutes caressing one another. "Do you want to... you know. Pick up where we left off?" I ask.
Smiling, he rises from the bed and walks to the bathroom vanity to retrieve the magic wand, clean and ready to go once again. "I want you to put this on your clit," he says, handing the wand over to me. "I'm going to fuck you while you're holding it there, but I'm not going to come until you do twenty times."
"That's not going to happen," I insist flat out.
"Yes it is, or we'll be here all night," he states like it's his way or no way. Seriously? No one tells ME what to do. Hmm, next thought: maybe that's my problem.
Pushing it aside, "No, you don't understand. What happened this morning was an anomaly. I never have had an orgasm with sex until this morning so I guarantee you that won't happen. Certainly not 20 times. Are you crazy? I can't live up to that expectation! It's too much pressure," I argue.
"Yes, you can. And you better not fake it. I'll be able to tell."
He wouldn't know that. Give me a break. "Look! On my best day I couldn't rub it out on my own more than a dozen times." He raises his eyebrows. "Wait! Don't give me that look. That was a weird thing back then. I was much younger and it was a carefree day where I had nothing else going on..." Oh my god. I'm turning red explaining my masturbation history.
"You can do this. It will free you."
"Free me, huh? By the way, is this a trick you pull out of the hat with all of your ladies?"
"As a matter of fact, no. I've never done this before actually," he says with pride. "I kind of like it though. It's pretty cool, don't you think?"
"Oh my god you're nuts," I tell him. I stare at him and he is like this kid, all wild-eyed and lit up. Something tells me to yield to him, to trust him, to let go even further. I turn the vibrator on and begin to mentally prepare myself for this marathon of pleasure. "Okay, let's give it a go," I tell him.
With R inside and the vibrator in position I take a giant step into the unknown, letting go of doubt. Only two minutes in the first one approaches. I am shocked to feel one coming on so soon, but there it is.
"One," R says with a smile on his face. "Only 19 more to go." I hunker down for the road ahead of me, ahead of us perhaps I should say. Another one approaches from off in the distance and one by one they roll in. "Watching your face is so beautiful," he whispers. "Keep going baby."
And I go -- we go -- counting them off until number 20. On the tail of 20 R releases everything he was holding back on to give me this most perfectly insane gift. In 24 hours we've had more sex than I had in the last two years of my marriage. I am spent and now I know for sure that I am one hundred percent re-calibrated, but not to some former version of myself. I feel re-calibrated if not just plain connected to an aspect of myself that I have never known.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Drama at a Glance #14 - R's Magic Wand
I wake needing to pee a few hours later. PLEASE DEAR GOD do not let me have a urinary tract infection. Because, that seems to be the cost sometimes for having really great sex. WTH is up with that anyway? Not sure, but I get up from the cozy Tempurpedic bed with its very stiff and uncomfortable pillows to find the toilet. I hear a jingle of... what is that? Keys? Oh yeah, he has a dog who sleeps in the closet. It's Woofy's dog tags rattling in the dark.
In the bathroom I have no problem peeing thank goodness. What in the world is that pressure though? Seriously, it's like air up in my vagina. Is that the side effect of getting re-calibrated? Of clearing out the cobwebs? It's a little uncomfortable but I return to bed knowing I'll be better come morning. I just need to relax.
Unfortunately, sleep is elusive and I toss and turn all night. It's been more than a decade since I slept in another man's room other than my ex-husband's. Maybe it's the looking-good-naked thing, or maybe it's the not-knowing-but-wondering-what-R-will-think-in-the-morning thing. Either way I feel pressure on my chest and catching a deep breath is difficult. I seem to spend most of the night sighing, but is it that so much as it is just trying to get a good, full, cleansing breath?
The ceiling fan turns, lending it's hypnotic sound to that of my mind's endless chatter which eventually quiets. In the absence of a clock, I fall asleep sometime before dawn and wake to the smell of coffee as R walks a mug of espresso roast to me. Light pouring in the bathroom suggests to me that it's 7 or an hour after sunrise.
"Good morning," R says, voice deep and a bit gravelly.
"Hi," I reply.
"You sleep okay?"
"Hmm, no not really. Sorry."
"Why not?"
"I'm guessing it was just being in a new place," I leave out the whole insecurity part. He crawls into bed and we lay there drinking coffee as if it's the most normal thing in the world, like we've done it a hundred times before or more. True to his word, nothing indicates a need for me to hastily depart.
"I'm going to go take a shower and rinse off," he says. Wait, he's leaving me? I mildly panic for reasons only a shrink can unlock.
"How about if I join you?" I reply.
"Okay, let's go." I follow him into the bathroom. My goodness his ass is fine. It's like the ass of a twenty-five year old, concave on the sides. Wow, it's hot... almost as hot as his cock. We wait for hot water to reach the second floor and after what seems like forever we get in the shower. I keep waiting for it to feel uncomfortable, to feel awkward with him. It doesn't happen. "Turn around," he says. He grabs the shower gel, pouring it in his hands and lathering it up and down my back. It feels good to receive. It feels great giving myself permission to receive.
We rinse and he grabs towels for us. As I reach for mine I lose my footing and the moment of affection and intimacy vanquishes as I fall to the floor. With all the grace I can muster bare-ass naked in the daylight I stand quickly, eyes wide open in shock - HIS and MINE!
"Are you okay?"
Shaking it off as if it were nothing, "Gosh, wow... uhm. I'll be fine. Might be a little bruised here on my arms come morning. Not a big deal though." He comes over to look at my arms. Having hit the metal threshold of the shower door, there are two thin red lines on both forearms. Great. I'm really hoping these marks don't escalate into a situation I have to explain, but I'll manage it if I do I guess. "That was just a little embarrassing."
He laughs somewhat teasingly, "yeah, well it happens I guess." He's probably thinking, please don't sue me. Like there'd be something to sue over other than my clumsiness. Or he's thinking, what the hell just happened. Or he's not thinking any of that. He helps me dry off and we return to bed. What time is it? 8am, maybe 9?
Back in bed he leans against the bed and I find myself nestled between his legs on my stomach, looking up at him. He really just looks soooo magnificent. He admits to having "man-scaped" and suddenly I wish I would have instructed Rebeca to remove everything including the landing strip. Oh, well. Here we are now, his neatly trimmed garden to my mildly unruly bush.
He grabs my coffee to place it on the night stand. From a drawer he grabs something white and long. "Turn over," he instructs. Is that a vibrator? It doesn't look like either of the two back at my house. It seems to be missing that classic, phallic shape. Instead, at its tip it possesses at least a 3" diameter ball. This toy requires more power than a couple of double AAs or a C battery. Holy cow. It requires a power cord. Oh boy. What does he have in mind?
He pushes my legs apart and the hum of the Hitachi Magic Wand makes my eyes widen with apprehension. Connecting it to my clitoris I attempt to push back quickly only to bump into the headboard. Twelve years with the Tarzan have not prepared me for the intensity of this moment with the Magic Wand.
"It's okay," he reassures.
"No it's not. That's like a 1000 times more powerful than what I'm used to."
He smiles devilishly, pinning my legs down with his own. I'm unable to escape, not that I really want to. "We'll work our way up to it," he tells me while down-shifting from high to low. Low is still a 100 times more intense than Tarzan, but I take a deep breath and relax. He puts it there, down there... oh Christ just say it: on my pussy. Phew, was that so hard?
I clench my butt cheeks in the absence of an escape route. "Relax just a little." The dutiful student, I obey. "Here, you guide it," he says handing it over to me. With a 180-degree turn I take control to position it such that he now has complete access.
Just as he did the night before he plunges his middle fingers to that sweetest of spots, my G-spot. I toss my head back in ecstasy as my breathing hastens and my mouth starts to dry as I pant. In my history I've experienced most of what I imagine women my age (and many who are younger) have experienced. I've done the fingering thing, the dildo thing, the porn-watching thing, the straight-laced screwing thing and the wild, multiple-positions sex thing.
The one thing I've never experienced is the orgasm-during-intercourse thing. Recent erotic literature has me thinking I'm inadequate without an orgasm during sex. Certainly that douche bag from Starbucks thought I was inadequate, not that there weren't a dozen other circumstances surrounding that night. That is in the past now, though. I'm with R this morning and this sensation building down there is something I've only ever been able to manifest when alone by myself.
R removes his hand and brings his cock to me in all of its glorious beauty. The intensity of his stare deepens and I am turned on like never before. "Keep the vibrator on your clit," he coaches. Like a wave distant in the ocean it approaches and will not stop. Kegel muscles pull up in sweet contractions and for the first time in my 42 years I shutter with an orgasmic release, tingling all the way down to my toes. I look up at him to see a smile of satisfaction on his face. "Again," he tells me. No it's not possible, I think.
He sees the doubt in my eyes and reassuringly says, "again." I surrender to the notion and the wave gains momentum as it returns. Crashing moments later I count my second orgasm. How do you not fall in love with the person who holds the space for something so beautiful to occur? For someone who unlocks a hidden truth for you? We stare at each other, making love as another orgasm works its way up from the depths below. As I come for the third and final time a flood of warmth escapes from between us. What in the world is that?
"I think we're going to have to change the sheets," he suggests. "That's not your normal wet spot." I'm about to offer up that I peed the bed when he says, "honey, I think you might have just done something I've only ever heard about... I think you just had the woman's version of an ejaculation."
Shut the front door. Me? I am shocked, stunned even. Oddly, I am not embarrassed. R has done this for me. He has opened a door through which I never want to return. He leaves and returns after a moment with fresh sheets. I just keep chuckling in a mild state of disbelief and residual aftershocks of pleasure. I may even be in a mild trance.
"Hungry?" he asks. Most definitely. And we leave to find migas at the Galaxy Cafe, buzzing in the afterglow of the most amazing to date!
In the bathroom I have no problem peeing thank goodness. What in the world is that pressure though? Seriously, it's like air up in my vagina. Is that the side effect of getting re-calibrated? Of clearing out the cobwebs? It's a little uncomfortable but I return to bed knowing I'll be better come morning. I just need to relax.
Unfortunately, sleep is elusive and I toss and turn all night. It's been more than a decade since I slept in another man's room other than my ex-husband's. Maybe it's the looking-good-naked thing, or maybe it's the not-knowing-but-wondering-what-R-will-think-in-the-morning thing. Either way I feel pressure on my chest and catching a deep breath is difficult. I seem to spend most of the night sighing, but is it that so much as it is just trying to get a good, full, cleansing breath?
The ceiling fan turns, lending it's hypnotic sound to that of my mind's endless chatter which eventually quiets. In the absence of a clock, I fall asleep sometime before dawn and wake to the smell of coffee as R walks a mug of espresso roast to me. Light pouring in the bathroom suggests to me that it's 7 or an hour after sunrise.
"Good morning," R says, voice deep and a bit gravelly.
"Hi," I reply.
"You sleep okay?"
"Hmm, no not really. Sorry."
"Why not?"
"I'm guessing it was just being in a new place," I leave out the whole insecurity part. He crawls into bed and we lay there drinking coffee as if it's the most normal thing in the world, like we've done it a hundred times before or more. True to his word, nothing indicates a need for me to hastily depart.
"I'm going to go take a shower and rinse off," he says. Wait, he's leaving me? I mildly panic for reasons only a shrink can unlock.
"How about if I join you?" I reply.
"Okay, let's go." I follow him into the bathroom. My goodness his ass is fine. It's like the ass of a twenty-five year old, concave on the sides. Wow, it's hot... almost as hot as his cock. We wait for hot water to reach the second floor and after what seems like forever we get in the shower. I keep waiting for it to feel uncomfortable, to feel awkward with him. It doesn't happen. "Turn around," he says. He grabs the shower gel, pouring it in his hands and lathering it up and down my back. It feels good to receive. It feels great giving myself permission to receive.
We rinse and he grabs towels for us. As I reach for mine I lose my footing and the moment of affection and intimacy vanquishes as I fall to the floor. With all the grace I can muster bare-ass naked in the daylight I stand quickly, eyes wide open in shock - HIS and MINE!
"Are you okay?"
Shaking it off as if it were nothing, "Gosh, wow... uhm. I'll be fine. Might be a little bruised here on my arms come morning. Not a big deal though." He comes over to look at my arms. Having hit the metal threshold of the shower door, there are two thin red lines on both forearms. Great. I'm really hoping these marks don't escalate into a situation I have to explain, but I'll manage it if I do I guess. "That was just a little embarrassing."
He laughs somewhat teasingly, "yeah, well it happens I guess." He's probably thinking, please don't sue me. Like there'd be something to sue over other than my clumsiness. Or he's thinking, what the hell just happened. Or he's not thinking any of that. He helps me dry off and we return to bed. What time is it? 8am, maybe 9?
Back in bed he leans against the bed and I find myself nestled between his legs on my stomach, looking up at him. He really just looks soooo magnificent. He admits to having "man-scaped" and suddenly I wish I would have instructed Rebeca to remove everything including the landing strip. Oh, well. Here we are now, his neatly trimmed garden to my mildly unruly bush.
He grabs my coffee to place it on the night stand. From a drawer he grabs something white and long. "Turn over," he instructs. Is that a vibrator? It doesn't look like either of the two back at my house. It seems to be missing that classic, phallic shape. Instead, at its tip it possesses at least a 3" diameter ball. This toy requires more power than a couple of double AAs or a C battery. Holy cow. It requires a power cord. Oh boy. What does he have in mind?
He pushes my legs apart and the hum of the Hitachi Magic Wand makes my eyes widen with apprehension. Connecting it to my clitoris I attempt to push back quickly only to bump into the headboard. Twelve years with the Tarzan have not prepared me for the intensity of this moment with the Magic Wand.
"It's okay," he reassures.
"No it's not. That's like a 1000 times more powerful than what I'm used to."
He smiles devilishly, pinning my legs down with his own. I'm unable to escape, not that I really want to. "We'll work our way up to it," he tells me while down-shifting from high to low. Low is still a 100 times more intense than Tarzan, but I take a deep breath and relax. He puts it there, down there... oh Christ just say it: on my pussy. Phew, was that so hard?
I clench my butt cheeks in the absence of an escape route. "Relax just a little." The dutiful student, I obey. "Here, you guide it," he says handing it over to me. With a 180-degree turn I take control to position it such that he now has complete access.
Just as he did the night before he plunges his middle fingers to that sweetest of spots, my G-spot. I toss my head back in ecstasy as my breathing hastens and my mouth starts to dry as I pant. In my history I've experienced most of what I imagine women my age (and many who are younger) have experienced. I've done the fingering thing, the dildo thing, the porn-watching thing, the straight-laced screwing thing and the wild, multiple-positions sex thing.
The one thing I've never experienced is the orgasm-during-intercourse thing. Recent erotic literature has me thinking I'm inadequate without an orgasm during sex. Certainly that douche bag from Starbucks thought I was inadequate, not that there weren't a dozen other circumstances surrounding that night. That is in the past now, though. I'm with R this morning and this sensation building down there is something I've only ever been able to manifest when alone by myself.
R removes his hand and brings his cock to me in all of its glorious beauty. The intensity of his stare deepens and I am turned on like never before. "Keep the vibrator on your clit," he coaches. Like a wave distant in the ocean it approaches and will not stop. Kegel muscles pull up in sweet contractions and for the first time in my 42 years I shutter with an orgasmic release, tingling all the way down to my toes. I look up at him to see a smile of satisfaction on his face. "Again," he tells me. No it's not possible, I think.
He sees the doubt in my eyes and reassuringly says, "again." I surrender to the notion and the wave gains momentum as it returns. Crashing moments later I count my second orgasm. How do you not fall in love with the person who holds the space for something so beautiful to occur? For someone who unlocks a hidden truth for you? We stare at each other, making love as another orgasm works its way up from the depths below. As I come for the third and final time a flood of warmth escapes from between us. What in the world is that?
"I think we're going to have to change the sheets," he suggests. "That's not your normal wet spot." I'm about to offer up that I peed the bed when he says, "honey, I think you might have just done something I've only ever heard about... I think you just had the woman's version of an ejaculation."
Shut the front door. Me? I am shocked, stunned even. Oddly, I am not embarrassed. R has done this for me. He has opened a door through which I never want to return. He leaves and returns after a moment with fresh sheets. I just keep chuckling in a mild state of disbelief and residual aftershocks of pleasure. I may even be in a mild trance.
"Hungry?" he asks. Most definitely. And we leave to find migas at the Galaxy Cafe, buzzing in the afterglow of the most amazing to date!
Monday, June 25, 2012
Drama at a Glance #14 - R in anticipation
"Hi," I say.
"Hellooooo..." he replies enthusiastically. He is a few drinks into the evening and buoyant it seems, not that he's ever flat or overly tethered to Earth. "You didn't leave a message last night," he says matter of factly. Oh, he caught me I think.
"Uhm, yeah," and I just decide to say what I'm thinking because no matter how I might want to look and be cool I'm a say-it-as-I-see-it type of person which is usually uncool. "See I just assumed... well. I mean, I figured if you saw that I called that you'd know I called and that didn't seem to warrant a voicemail well because... you didn't answer I just assumed you didn't' want to talk." I assumed you weren't interested is what I was thinking. Fuck I hate this fucking insecurity that runs my life.
"I know what you mean. I've been going through the same thing," he offers. What? Was not expecting that but proceed as if it's the most normal thing in the world that he would have insecurities. "Yeah, it's like part of me wants to see this further but then I'm like what if she doesn't like me and it's just like ARGH. Anyway, no I heard my phone ring last night but I was already in bed and I just figured I'd call whoever back today but you didn't leave a message, so I don't know."
"Funny, and I just assumed you knew it was me and were doing that guy-thing. Then, because I was so nervous and twitchy that you were doing that guy-thing I just deleted you from my contacts because it was easier to manage what I figured was rejection."
"Defense mechanism," he says. And after a considerable pause, "We're sleeve people you and I."
"Sleeve people? What does that mean?"
"It means we wear our hearts on our sleeves," he says.
"Pretty much," I reply as my limo winds its way up through airport traffic to deliver me to Terminal C for my direct flight back to Austin on the formerly-known Continental now WE-SUCK United Airlines. "Listen, I have to go through security but I'd love to talk more if that works."
"Okay, call me back," he cheerfully says.
And I endure the second of a twice-a-week-exposure-to-God-only-knows-what-kind-of-radiation-for-the-sake-of-national-security screening before making my way to gate 82. Thirty-foot stretches of moving walk-ways transport me to the farthest tip of the airport and I find my phone to call back my Mr R. "Okay, I'm at my gate with minutes to spare."
"Good, I'm just getting ready for poker. I'm feeling lucky," he tells me. Hmm, lucky. Interesting choice of words considering the tingling sensation building down, down... down there.
"Well, I hope you win big," I offer back. Funny, doubt from last night evaporates as we talk and I wonder, is it that simple? Does it really only take hearing the voice of another that chips away at the story I concocted in my head that someone just 'didn't like me'? Doubt wanes and his voice - warm and deliciously masculine - waxes my desire. I realize how much I just really want to spend the night with him and without hesitation I say as much, "so I really want you to come with me to the yoga party Saturday."
"Okay."
"And, I want to spend the night with you."
"Okay."
"I mean like all night. I want to have sex with you and I'm going to spend the night with you and I'm not going to scurry off like some little piece of ass in the middle of the night... I'm just saying."
"Well, it's not like you're a prostitute." I must gasp slightly or something. "No, I mean... I wouldn't expect you to leave. No, I want you to say."
"Okay, good well that's what I'm going to do," I reply. Then nervously I keep talking, "and I'm going to bring an overnight bag and everything so don't freak out and think I'm moving in because I'm not I'm just going to need to bring stuff because I'm taking my mom to the airport before I come over and you're on that side of town and it just doesn't make sense to come ALL THE WAY back north when you're down there and then we'll go to the party which is sort of a dressy event..."
"I got it. It's all good. I'll see you... what time?"
"Five-ish?"
"Five-ish," he repeats.
"Five-ish it is," I conclude. "See you Saturday."
"Can't wait."
"Hellooooo..." he replies enthusiastically. He is a few drinks into the evening and buoyant it seems, not that he's ever flat or overly tethered to Earth. "You didn't leave a message last night," he says matter of factly. Oh, he caught me I think.
"Uhm, yeah," and I just decide to say what I'm thinking because no matter how I might want to look and be cool I'm a say-it-as-I-see-it type of person which is usually uncool. "See I just assumed... well. I mean, I figured if you saw that I called that you'd know I called and that didn't seem to warrant a voicemail well because... you didn't answer I just assumed you didn't' want to talk." I assumed you weren't interested is what I was thinking. Fuck I hate this fucking insecurity that runs my life.
"I know what you mean. I've been going through the same thing," he offers. What? Was not expecting that but proceed as if it's the most normal thing in the world that he would have insecurities. "Yeah, it's like part of me wants to see this further but then I'm like what if she doesn't like me and it's just like ARGH. Anyway, no I heard my phone ring last night but I was already in bed and I just figured I'd call whoever back today but you didn't leave a message, so I don't know."
"Funny, and I just assumed you knew it was me and were doing that guy-thing. Then, because I was so nervous and twitchy that you were doing that guy-thing I just deleted you from my contacts because it was easier to manage what I figured was rejection."
"Defense mechanism," he says. And after a considerable pause, "We're sleeve people you and I."
"Sleeve people? What does that mean?"
"It means we wear our hearts on our sleeves," he says.
"Pretty much," I reply as my limo winds its way up through airport traffic to deliver me to Terminal C for my direct flight back to Austin on the formerly-known Continental now WE-SUCK United Airlines. "Listen, I have to go through security but I'd love to talk more if that works."
"Okay, call me back," he cheerfully says.
And I endure the second of a twice-a-week-exposure-to-God-only-knows-what-kind-of-radiation-for-the-sake-of-national-security screening before making my way to gate 82. Thirty-foot stretches of moving walk-ways transport me to the farthest tip of the airport and I find my phone to call back my Mr R. "Okay, I'm at my gate with minutes to spare."
"Good, I'm just getting ready for poker. I'm feeling lucky," he tells me. Hmm, lucky. Interesting choice of words considering the tingling sensation building down, down... down there.
"Well, I hope you win big," I offer back. Funny, doubt from last night evaporates as we talk and I wonder, is it that simple? Does it really only take hearing the voice of another that chips away at the story I concocted in my head that someone just 'didn't like me'? Doubt wanes and his voice - warm and deliciously masculine - waxes my desire. I realize how much I just really want to spend the night with him and without hesitation I say as much, "so I really want you to come with me to the yoga party Saturday."
"Okay."
"And, I want to spend the night with you."
"Okay."
"I mean like all night. I want to have sex with you and I'm going to spend the night with you and I'm not going to scurry off like some little piece of ass in the middle of the night... I'm just saying."
"Well, it's not like you're a prostitute." I must gasp slightly or something. "No, I mean... I wouldn't expect you to leave. No, I want you to say."
"Okay, good well that's what I'm going to do," I reply. Then nervously I keep talking, "and I'm going to bring an overnight bag and everything so don't freak out and think I'm moving in because I'm not I'm just going to need to bring stuff because I'm taking my mom to the airport before I come over and you're on that side of town and it just doesn't make sense to come ALL THE WAY back north when you're down there and then we'll go to the party which is sort of a dressy event..."
"I got it. It's all good. I'll see you... what time?"
"Five-ish?"
"Five-ish," he repeats.
"Five-ish it is," I conclude. "See you Saturday."
"Can't wait."
~~~~~~~~~~~
No one answers the door. The knob turns and his front door opens. I look up and he steps out from what I assume is his room upstairs. Brushing his teeth he mumbles between fluoride bubbles, "Come on in. Make yourself at home." I rest my bag on a barstool mildly reminiscent of something from the Jetsons. I lay my clothing bag over the banister and a few minutes later he comes downstairs in charcoal dress pants and a beige sweater looking absolutely yummy.
He walks right up to me and greets me with a kiss. "Do you want to take your stuff upstairs?"
"Sure," I answer and make my way to the second floor behind him. His house is very nice, with concrete floors stained in cinnamon brown and trimmed in espresso. The carpet is a comfy, modern shag going up the stairs, in the media room and along the hallway. The floor in his room is a beautifully stained dark wood. Why in the world I am so observant of the floor I have no idea, but I am, so here we are.
Back downstairs I excuse myself to the bathroom and notice the shower curtain with its eclectic shower-curtain hooks. There's probably a fancier name for them but I go completely blank and can only observe that they're pretty fancy for a guy, but thankfully not in a metro-gay way.
"What do you think of my house?" he asks as I return to the living room. Oh, was I supposed to say something?
"It's really nice," I tell him. "I like your shower curtain." He seems to be like me, wanting acknowledgment. We sit on the couch near the fireplace and its burning fire.
"Good seeing you," he says looking intently into my eyes. His green eyes sparkle in the glow of the fire.
"You too." Moments pass and before long it's time to dress for the party. I slip into my sexy, tuxedo black dress with its satin, criss-cross ribbing down the sides. I step into my double-platform shoes knowing they'll make me stand 6'1". I feel extremely sexy in them, especially knowing that he was more than open to me dressing up in them.
We leave for the party, Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know" playing on the stereo. As excited as I am to celebrate the end of Pure Bikram's 60-Day Yoga Challenge, I really just want to rush home to be alone with R. We mingle with fellow yoga students and then R wanders over to visit with the vendors at their booths. I make small talk with some of the women I've only just recently met, not quite befriended. An hour passes and after collecting my free t-shirt I express my desire in leaving.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"Yes, very," I say most assuredly. Never in my life have I felt so in command, so sure in expressing my desire. I have zero idea what to expect on the other side of tonight. I want only to let go, to release, to connect. I want to make love I want to have sex... I want to fuck as hard as possible. And never in my life have I wanted THAT without judging myself for wanting it.
"Okay, let's go." We walk to my sweet German ride, taking our seats, backing up and cranking the stereo to "Ass Back Home" by Gym Class Heroes while we make our way back south.
Once home he mixes two tall Tito Vodkas with Sobe Water which we consume patiently as he stokes the fire back up to a roar in the fireplace. We make small talk and he lifts my feet and places them in his lap as he sits across from me. He massages my toes back to position from their precarious 4-inch suspension in the double-platforms. "Want to go upstairs?" he asks. I nod in agreement and together we make our way hand in hand. He returns back downstairs for something and I stand nervously, unsure what to do next. Minutes pass and he returns to the room with candles, placing them strategically around the room.
Stepping behind me he brings his right hand up to the top of my dress where it comes to rest on the chrome zipper, my dress' only accoutrement. "Are you ready?" he asks. Wide-eyed with anticipation I nod positively once more. Slowly, he unzips me out of the dress and I stand there before him naked, hungry, exposed. So many different thoughts swirling through my head. He turns me to face him and he removes his sweater revealing finely etched deltoids, biceps and pectoral muscles. His eyes, green with desire, stare at me intently.
He unbuttons his slacks and they fall casually to the floor. Pushing me back on his bed I look down to see his substantially hard cock. It is so deliciously pointed in my direction, perfect in length and more importantly in width. I slowly exhale in anticipation of him being inside of me. Spreading my legs apart he starts a trail of kisses along my left inner thigh, eventually resting his mouth on my clitoris. Circling it with his tongue, he sucks delicately as I watch from the center of the bed.
R pulls me closer to the side of the bed and he licks harder. I arch to bring myself closer to the edge and he moves his middle fingers inside of me, locating the sweetest of spots which he pushes at firmly, aggressively for more minutes than I can stand.
"Now," I beg and he rises, his mouth wet, his eyes hungry. I hold his gaze as he positions his hips above mine. He grabs his cock and brings it to meet me where I want it most. I look at him earnestly and purposely hesitating he holds back.
Moments seem to pass and then finally, forcefully he shoves his cock inside of me. Gasping, I reach to touch his arms, to grab his waist, his finely carved ass. Back and forth, in and out he moves rhythmically. Feeling lighter than I can remember, I receive him and we move together for half an hour before coming. He falls on top of me and I plant kisses on his head. Moments pass and we move fully on the bed to lay beside one another, falling asleep side by side.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Drama at a Glance #14 - R the next level
It's the first week of March as I journey to Mahwah NJ for a quarterly meeting with my team, the Area Program Directors. Six of us cover the US and everyone's a director except me which has been and continues to be a bone of contention. Fortunately, Pure's 60-day Bikram Yoga Challenge is complete and my attachments to this issue are half of what they used to be.
Mom flew in Sunday following the kite festival where R and I ran into each other with our kids. Later that day we Facebook each other and while digitally curious to know more about him I suddenly feel anxious if not exposed. If you don't know me you might read my posts and conclude I'm cynical and jaded -- which I am -- but not as badly as it might seem without knowing my funny and sensitive sides too.
He offers to back away from Facebook, but indicates he's not judging me for my posts. Phew! Very happy to hear that actually. We remain friends and I casually drop news about a party next Saturday at the yoga studio. He seems interested and we agree to talk later in the week.
In Mahwah I hook up with Susan and Peggy Sue before dinner who want to know the latest in my dating world. As much as I feel frequently frustrated by work there is some comfort to be found in catching up with people I've known and worked with more than five years... even if it is to mostly gossip. The last time we were all together Starbucks dude from Dell was center stage. Latest report in February was that the not-yet-ex had hacked into his LinkedIn account and gone snooping through all of his contacts. She even looked at my profile which was more than a little unsettling. Oh, well. "Next," as we say, which brings me to R. I give them the 411 on my new friend and they in turn share the latest from their corners of the country.
We race through a ton of meetings with senior leadership on Wednesday and hear the latest updates on our mega huge advertising campaign kicking off in May from one of the product teams. Then it's off to the learning center to present to peers before heading off to happy hour at a new Irish pub off the turnpike and eventually back to our hotel for a late dinner.
I'd sent R a text earlier in the day but didn't receive one back. I call him after dinner as it's an hour earlier in Texas. His phone rolls to voicemail. Why didn't he answer, I wonder, and my mind starts doing that thing... that "over-thinking" thing. My skin begins to crawl and I feel anxious, wanting to call or text again but painfully aware that an action like that can look very uncool.
What's uncool in my dating life is more than cool in Corporate American. Where I work each employee goes through an assessment to discern their strengths called the Strengths Finder. It focuses on what a person’s core strengths—rather than his or her challenges—say about the way that individual works with people, influences others, and works harder and smarter. One of my top strengths is Activator which means I dot my i's and cross my t's. I get stuff done and if someone suggests a project or get together, I'm the person that says, "When and what are the next steps?" so it gets on the calendar.
I think this also explains my compulsive need to respond to phone calls and emails promptly. Rolling into my personal life this strength may at times be a debilitating nuisance, particularly in the romance arena. "Why didn't he call," I've uttered more times than I can count in my lifetime.
So I sit in my hotel room internalizing my non-returned phone call and text message. His lack of communication is killing me and my ego is still bruised from Mr. Starbucks. I am sensitive, anxious and probably in severe need of a prescription in this three-months-post-divorce-getting-back-in-the-dating-world scene. In the absence of a shrink and pharmacy I exercise the only control in my possession and reach for the delete key. In a nano second R is erased from my contacts and the delete folder in Outlook. There, body systems stabilizing, breathing rate returning to normal... I can go to bed and sleep soundly having released the uncertainty of whether or not he'll call. What matters most is that I cannot call or text him!
My team and I reconvene for a second day of meetings. Listening to yet another marketing professional pitch their wares to us, I glance at my phone set to silence mode. No calls and no text messages. Oh well, it's meant to be I tell myself.
At the end of the day we make our way to the bar where I order my usual Tanqueray and Tonic and wait for the limo to return me to Newark International. Susan regales us with her travel stories when I look to see a text from a phone number no longer in my contacts. To my thrilling surprise it's from R and I nearly jump with enthusiasm. "I've spent the day on the golf course and am gearing up for a night of poker with the guys. I really wish you were going to be here when I was done... although I'll be totally worthless after drinking all night." I laugh out loud. Just then another text that my car is waiting out front.
"Well, gang, I have to head to the airport. Great seeing all of you again," I say hurriedly as I scoot out from the booth to grab my suitcase. We exchange kisses and goodbyes and I'm gone. Rain falls lightly in northern New Jersey and the car pushes its way into rush hour traffic. With at least an hour drive ahead of me I open the text and call R.
Mom flew in Sunday following the kite festival where R and I ran into each other with our kids. Later that day we Facebook each other and while digitally curious to know more about him I suddenly feel anxious if not exposed. If you don't know me you might read my posts and conclude I'm cynical and jaded -- which I am -- but not as badly as it might seem without knowing my funny and sensitive sides too.
He offers to back away from Facebook, but indicates he's not judging me for my posts. Phew! Very happy to hear that actually. We remain friends and I casually drop news about a party next Saturday at the yoga studio. He seems interested and we agree to talk later in the week.
In Mahwah I hook up with Susan and Peggy Sue before dinner who want to know the latest in my dating world. As much as I feel frequently frustrated by work there is some comfort to be found in catching up with people I've known and worked with more than five years... even if it is to mostly gossip. The last time we were all together Starbucks dude from Dell was center stage. Latest report in February was that the not-yet-ex had hacked into his LinkedIn account and gone snooping through all of his contacts. She even looked at my profile which was more than a little unsettling. Oh, well. "Next," as we say, which brings me to R. I give them the 411 on my new friend and they in turn share the latest from their corners of the country.
We race through a ton of meetings with senior leadership on Wednesday and hear the latest updates on our mega huge advertising campaign kicking off in May from one of the product teams. Then it's off to the learning center to present to peers before heading off to happy hour at a new Irish pub off the turnpike and eventually back to our hotel for a late dinner.
I'd sent R a text earlier in the day but didn't receive one back. I call him after dinner as it's an hour earlier in Texas. His phone rolls to voicemail. Why didn't he answer, I wonder, and my mind starts doing that thing... that "over-thinking" thing. My skin begins to crawl and I feel anxious, wanting to call or text again but painfully aware that an action like that can look very uncool.
What's uncool in my dating life is more than cool in Corporate American. Where I work each employee goes through an assessment to discern their strengths called the Strengths Finder. It focuses on what a person’s core strengths—rather than his or her challenges—say about the way that individual works with people, influences others, and works harder and smarter. One of my top strengths is Activator which means I dot my i's and cross my t's. I get stuff done and if someone suggests a project or get together, I'm the person that says, "When and what are the next steps?" so it gets on the calendar.
I think this also explains my compulsive need to respond to phone calls and emails promptly. Rolling into my personal life this strength may at times be a debilitating nuisance, particularly in the romance arena. "Why didn't he call," I've uttered more times than I can count in my lifetime.
So I sit in my hotel room internalizing my non-returned phone call and text message. His lack of communication is killing me and my ego is still bruised from Mr. Starbucks. I am sensitive, anxious and probably in severe need of a prescription in this three-months-post-divorce-getting-back-in-the-dating-world scene. In the absence of a shrink and pharmacy I exercise the only control in my possession and reach for the delete key. In a nano second R is erased from my contacts and the delete folder in Outlook. There, body systems stabilizing, breathing rate returning to normal... I can go to bed and sleep soundly having released the uncertainty of whether or not he'll call. What matters most is that I cannot call or text him!
My team and I reconvene for a second day of meetings. Listening to yet another marketing professional pitch their wares to us, I glance at my phone set to silence mode. No calls and no text messages. Oh well, it's meant to be I tell myself.
At the end of the day we make our way to the bar where I order my usual Tanqueray and Tonic and wait for the limo to return me to Newark International. Susan regales us with her travel stories when I look to see a text from a phone number no longer in my contacts. To my thrilling surprise it's from R and I nearly jump with enthusiasm. "I've spent the day on the golf course and am gearing up for a night of poker with the guys. I really wish you were going to be here when I was done... although I'll be totally worthless after drinking all night." I laugh out loud. Just then another text that my car is waiting out front.
"Well, gang, I have to head to the airport. Great seeing all of you again," I say hurriedly as I scoot out from the booth to grab my suitcase. We exchange kisses and goodbyes and I'm gone. Rain falls lightly in northern New Jersey and the car pushes its way into rush hour traffic. With at least an hour drive ahead of me I open the text and call R.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Drama at a Glance #14 - RR Continued
Was it Wednesday following our second date at Tacos and Tequila? Maybe it was Thursday as I sat in my Dallas hotel room waiting for that night's surgeon dinner when he called back for a second date. Between custody arrangements and work we agreed on Friday at the Clay Pit.
Downtown Austin parking is a bear and moments before my cellphone dies. Where am I going exactly? Drats this city with its epicurious eateries and copious parking meters. People are crawling everywhere and there is no where to park on top of running late. Oh wait, there's a spot and the meter takes credit cards - woo hoo because I NEVER have cash. I scurry across Guadalupe St., trying not to trip in my 3-inch Ann Taylor heels.
Pushing through the heavy wood door I scan the lobby and find Mr. R sitting on the couch, patiently waiting. He is as cute as I remember and he stands to greet me. There it is again... connection as we say hello with our eyes. I can't help but hug him and he says hi with a kiss as if we'd met like this a hundred times before. The young women at the hostess stand watch us and I wonder what they're thinking. Are they jealous? There's an air of curiosity to say the least.
At our table we discuss the menu. With more familiarity and finesse than me he orders the Tikka Masala Chicken, Jeera Saag and Tandoori Vegetables. The waiter leaves and he turns to ask, "so how does it feel to be dating one of Austin's most eligible bachelors?" What? I laugh out loud, not to be rude but because he says it with such expectancy.
"It's an honor actually," I reply and we laugh. Apparently the Austin Dinner Club has nominated him. It occurs to me to be jealous, but this soon in? It's premature to say the least and the conversation turns to what his ex-wife said about the nomination?
"'What were their criteria?'" he mocks with sarcasm. Ouch!
"Never marry someone named after a season or a month," he continues. "You'll be constantly reminded of them... no way around it. 'It's almost summer time'. 'Summer will be here soon...'"
"Summer is hot," I add. He laughs and reveals a hint of sadness. I'm pretty sure he'd still be married if he'd had any choice in the matter.
He says he'll be 50 soon, not that you can readily tell. His curly dark hair carries the distinguished grays that give a middle-aged man character. He is fit, conservatively tan with barely a wrinkle. Ask him though and he'll bullet point a short list of flaws he'd correct with plastic surgery. "I'd pull this up here to remove the jowls and then these bags under my eyes." Yep, this is what I imagine someone from NY or LA talking like. It's all good though. Five years out postpartum from delivering twins and I'm still saving for a tummy tuck.
Our food arrives and we devour it with gusto. "Aren't you going to eat the rice?" he asks.
"No, carbs," I respond. A necessary tactic in my hectic life as a single mom with a demanding career and travel schedule. Exercise, outside of this yoga kick, is not a priority so weight control is managed through food portions. He takes it all in without judging when the bill arrives.
He searches for his wallet without success, "I can't find my wallet!" Thinking he's left it in his truck he darts out on the hunt for cash.
Returning to the table he offers up apologetically that he must have left it at home and asks if I can help him out. Of course I'll help. He comes across as honest and self-efacing even if he was (is) an actor.
A gentleman, he walks me to my car and there on the sidewalk we stand kissing goodbye. He tastes minty and clean and I want to eat him for dessert. "You have gum," I observe. "Do you have anymore?" Residual Tikka Masala cannot taste good.
"No, sorry," he says self-consciously. Oh, well. Kissing resumes and I hear them as they approach, strangers needing to pass us as we stand there arms and tongues. Indifferent, we continue a few minutes more when he acknowledges his neck hurts from leaning up to kiss me. It's the heels I think. In any case it's time to get on down the road. Another quick kiss and we say our goodbyes as I walk around to get in my car.
"Are you sure?" he asks looking back.
"About what?" I mildly shout up the street.
"About my height," So honest, vulnerable... endearing.
"Come here," I say. I return to the sidewalk and he walks back to meet me. I remove my shoes standing barefoot on the pavement, "See? Exactly the same." And his eyes lose some of their concern. We kiss again and this time without enduring another cramp in his neck.
There is no firm discussion, no absolute plan for another date, I only hope that there will be.
Downtown Austin parking is a bear and moments before my cellphone dies. Where am I going exactly? Drats this city with its epicurious eateries and copious parking meters. People are crawling everywhere and there is no where to park on top of running late. Oh wait, there's a spot and the meter takes credit cards - woo hoo because I NEVER have cash. I scurry across Guadalupe St., trying not to trip in my 3-inch Ann Taylor heels.
Pushing through the heavy wood door I scan the lobby and find Mr. R sitting on the couch, patiently waiting. He is as cute as I remember and he stands to greet me. There it is again... connection as we say hello with our eyes. I can't help but hug him and he says hi with a kiss as if we'd met like this a hundred times before. The young women at the hostess stand watch us and I wonder what they're thinking. Are they jealous? There's an air of curiosity to say the least.
At our table we discuss the menu. With more familiarity and finesse than me he orders the Tikka Masala Chicken, Jeera Saag and Tandoori Vegetables. The waiter leaves and he turns to ask, "so how does it feel to be dating one of Austin's most eligible bachelors?" What? I laugh out loud, not to be rude but because he says it with such expectancy.
"It's an honor actually," I reply and we laugh. Apparently the Austin Dinner Club has nominated him. It occurs to me to be jealous, but this soon in? It's premature to say the least and the conversation turns to what his ex-wife said about the nomination?
"'What were their criteria?'" he mocks with sarcasm. Ouch!
"Never marry someone named after a season or a month," he continues. "You'll be constantly reminded of them... no way around it. 'It's almost summer time'. 'Summer will be here soon...'"
"Summer is hot," I add. He laughs and reveals a hint of sadness. I'm pretty sure he'd still be married if he'd had any choice in the matter.
He says he'll be 50 soon, not that you can readily tell. His curly dark hair carries the distinguished grays that give a middle-aged man character. He is fit, conservatively tan with barely a wrinkle. Ask him though and he'll bullet point a short list of flaws he'd correct with plastic surgery. "I'd pull this up here to remove the jowls and then these bags under my eyes." Yep, this is what I imagine someone from NY or LA talking like. It's all good though. Five years out postpartum from delivering twins and I'm still saving for a tummy tuck.
Our food arrives and we devour it with gusto. "Aren't you going to eat the rice?" he asks.
"No, carbs," I respond. A necessary tactic in my hectic life as a single mom with a demanding career and travel schedule. Exercise, outside of this yoga kick, is not a priority so weight control is managed through food portions. He takes it all in without judging when the bill arrives.
He searches for his wallet without success, "I can't find my wallet!" Thinking he's left it in his truck he darts out on the hunt for cash.
Returning to the table he offers up apologetically that he must have left it at home and asks if I can help him out. Of course I'll help. He comes across as honest and self-efacing even if he was (is) an actor.
A gentleman, he walks me to my car and there on the sidewalk we stand kissing goodbye. He tastes minty and clean and I want to eat him for dessert. "You have gum," I observe. "Do you have anymore?" Residual Tikka Masala cannot taste good.
"No, sorry," he says self-consciously. Oh, well. Kissing resumes and I hear them as they approach, strangers needing to pass us as we stand there arms and tongues. Indifferent, we continue a few minutes more when he acknowledges his neck hurts from leaning up to kiss me. It's the heels I think. In any case it's time to get on down the road. Another quick kiss and we say our goodbyes as I walk around to get in my car.
"Are you sure?" he asks looking back.
"About what?" I mildly shout up the street.
"About my height," So honest, vulnerable... endearing.
"Come here," I say. I return to the sidewalk and he walks back to meet me. I remove my shoes standing barefoot on the pavement, "See? Exactly the same." And his eyes lose some of their concern. We kiss again and this time without enduring another cramp in his neck.
There is no firm discussion, no absolute plan for another date, I only hope that there will be.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Drama at a Glance #14 - RR
So let's discuss R... like it's really a discussion and not one long myopic monologue ALL ABOUT ME :)
I'm going to start by saying R has an amazing cock! He thinks he's 5'8 1/2 but standing naked next to him in the mirror I am totally a half inch taller than him and I am officially 5' 8 1/2" tall... but whatever. My point is that it doesn't matter how tall a man is. Cocks - G's cock - is beautiful, thick, full and in 25 years of fucking he is the most amazing lover I've ever had in bed (in the car, on the desk.. you get my point). He is MY 50 Shades and he surpasses that fictional 27 year old by a million miles and then some. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Okay, so enough with the euphemisms and comparative statements to men who DO NOT EXIST. Here's my recollection of R the person who DOES EXIST (even though he'll completely negate whatever I write here because he can't see it for himself).
It's Sunday, February 19, at the Austin Dinner Club. I am slightly anxious going to this "singles" soiree because I have zero idea what to expect and control is mildly important to say the least. Will these guys be douche bags like the dumb ass from Starbucks? Will they make a living? Will they like ME???????
He sits to my right and his friend, the owner and matchmaker sits on his right. They seem to have a connection of sorts but she's married and supposedly off the market. So for two hours everyone goes around the table answering questions for the sake of making conversation and it's really just a mechanism for filtering out whether or not some guy or girl is a psycho or sponge-worthy, right? Of course I'm right... as usual.
So, R talks about his life pre-Austin when he was an actor in NY. In his late 30's he realized that maybe that path wasn't going to pan out the way he hoped and what he wanted was to be in business for himself, to be married and have kids. So he moved [back] to Texas to manifest the vision he saw for himself. Except that the marriage thing didn't quite work out but hey, it either works or it doesn't for half of us, right? Right, so 2 1/2 years or so post divorce he's at the ADC.
On this side of our relationship - temporarily halted if not permanently over - he will tell us that he's deeply insecure. What I see that night four months ago is someone who is self-assured, confident, aware, funny, smart and relatable. Maybe I was projecting or maybe he was acting looking back, but regardless I recall looking around the table thinking, yeah I got these bitches beat and I am SO GOING TO BE ASKED OUT BY Mr. R.
I tell the "matchmaker" later the next day that I'm interested in R and she tells me he feels the same. We talk mid week and make a date for a Friday at Tacos and Tequila. Talking on the phone I feel an immediate connection, a warmth. Never in a hundred years does it cross my mind he's "just looking for a piece of ass" like it does with others in the past.
It's Friday in Austin late February. While chilly, it's the brisk low humidity type of chilly that attracts people to central Texas. The sun sets brightly over MoPac and I search for a parking spot near downtown. I find a space and make my way to the packed T and T. R is on his way so I find a spot at the bar and engage in conversation with a non-married pregnant couple at the bar. Ten minutes in I spot him. On the other side of the bar he makes his way around to me. I see him looking over at us, at me... confident, happy. I like him and seeing him like this makes me smile. He is really just incredibly cute. So, so cute.
You know, you can meet someone and agree to a date then second guess later whether it was appropriate to agree to another meeting. When R came around the bar and eventually up to me I only ever thought that this felt right, normal and all the while exciting. Time passes and at some point we are seated for dinner.
It is a delicious night of one thousand conversations and oh how we laugh. We laugh and every so often pause to breathe, looking into each other's eyes. There it is... connection. Connection with another. We start breathing again.
I want to talk all night but a commitment to the Bikram Challenge calls me and around midnight he walks me to my car. In turn I drive him to his truck a few blocks away. Parked on the side street he shifts in his seat, unbuckling his seatbelt. We kiss and I arch to meet him, to melt into him. My hands reach out tentatively to touch his chest, stomach. I can't stop myself from kissing him. He utters some goofy, juvenile comment, "I can't wait to get you in the sack" but I am SO NOT TAKEN ABACK. I want this too and I wonder what protocol dictates before we can be together somewhere other than my car.
I'm going to start by saying R has an amazing cock! He thinks he's 5'8 1/2 but standing naked next to him in the mirror I am totally a half inch taller than him and I am officially 5' 8 1/2" tall... but whatever. My point is that it doesn't matter how tall a man is. Cocks - G's cock - is beautiful, thick, full and in 25 years of fucking he is the most amazing lover I've ever had in bed (in the car, on the desk.. you get my point). He is MY 50 Shades and he surpasses that fictional 27 year old by a million miles and then some. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Okay, so enough with the euphemisms and comparative statements to men who DO NOT EXIST. Here's my recollection of R the person who DOES EXIST (even though he'll completely negate whatever I write here because he can't see it for himself).
It's Sunday, February 19, at the Austin Dinner Club. I am slightly anxious going to this "singles" soiree because I have zero idea what to expect and control is mildly important to say the least. Will these guys be douche bags like the dumb ass from Starbucks? Will they make a living? Will they like ME???????
He sits to my right and his friend, the owner and matchmaker sits on his right. They seem to have a connection of sorts but she's married and supposedly off the market. So for two hours everyone goes around the table answering questions for the sake of making conversation and it's really just a mechanism for filtering out whether or not some guy or girl is a psycho or sponge-worthy, right? Of course I'm right... as usual.
So, R talks about his life pre-Austin when he was an actor in NY. In his late 30's he realized that maybe that path wasn't going to pan out the way he hoped and what he wanted was to be in business for himself, to be married and have kids. So he moved [back] to Texas to manifest the vision he saw for himself. Except that the marriage thing didn't quite work out but hey, it either works or it doesn't for half of us, right? Right, so 2 1/2 years or so post divorce he's at the ADC.
On this side of our relationship - temporarily halted if not permanently over - he will tell us that he's deeply insecure. What I see that night four months ago is someone who is self-assured, confident, aware, funny, smart and relatable. Maybe I was projecting or maybe he was acting looking back, but regardless I recall looking around the table thinking, yeah I got these bitches beat and I am SO GOING TO BE ASKED OUT BY Mr. R.
I tell the "matchmaker" later the next day that I'm interested in R and she tells me he feels the same. We talk mid week and make a date for a Friday at Tacos and Tequila. Talking on the phone I feel an immediate connection, a warmth. Never in a hundred years does it cross my mind he's "just looking for a piece of ass" like it does with others in the past.
It's Friday in Austin late February. While chilly, it's the brisk low humidity type of chilly that attracts people to central Texas. The sun sets brightly over MoPac and I search for a parking spot near downtown. I find a space and make my way to the packed T and T. R is on his way so I find a spot at the bar and engage in conversation with a non-married pregnant couple at the bar. Ten minutes in I spot him. On the other side of the bar he makes his way around to me. I see him looking over at us, at me... confident, happy. I like him and seeing him like this makes me smile. He is really just incredibly cute. So, so cute.
You know, you can meet someone and agree to a date then second guess later whether it was appropriate to agree to another meeting. When R came around the bar and eventually up to me I only ever thought that this felt right, normal and all the while exciting. Time passes and at some point we are seated for dinner.
It is a delicious night of one thousand conversations and oh how we laugh. We laugh and every so often pause to breathe, looking into each other's eyes. There it is... connection. Connection with another. We start breathing again.
I want to talk all night but a commitment to the Bikram Challenge calls me and around midnight he walks me to my car. In turn I drive him to his truck a few blocks away. Parked on the side street he shifts in his seat, unbuckling his seatbelt. We kiss and I arch to meet him, to melt into him. My hands reach out tentatively to touch his chest, stomach. I can't stop myself from kissing him. He utters some goofy, juvenile comment, "I can't wait to get you in the sack" but I am SO NOT TAKEN ABACK. I want this too and I wonder what protocol dictates before we can be together somewhere other than my car.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Drama at a Glance #12 - Played, Part Five... In Conclusion
Moving forward, communication is spotty at best. There is a text the day after date two asking how my day is going. I've made sure not to be the first to reach out and am mildly pleased to hear from him first. "Great I say."
"I had a good time last night," he offers up from his man cave of Sunday Football. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe I'm not just a piece of ass I rationalize. Later that night I've made dozens of Christmas cookies while Dad visits from Kansas. I offer to bring a batch over to Paul which he willingly accepts and then the trail more or less goes cold because Dell's fiscal year ends January 31st and he has to "bust his butt to meet quota".
Fine, I got it. I work for a sales organization and I more than understand what quota means to leadership and shareholders. Two plus weeks and a work drama later it's the Wednesday before Christmas. I'm at Target checking off Santa's Christmas list for my kiddos when Paul texts: "My wife knows about our dates."
Okay, and the problem with that is what exactly? He's near the end of a divorce, right? It's not that simple it appears and my enthusiasm for having gone out with Paul - which I shared with my barista friend, Michael - is now widely known throughout the coffee world at 1431 and Parmer. So how did that news make its way to the not-yet-ex-wife?
I go back to dinner that night on date #2. Between bites of capers, lemon-butter sauce and sea bass did I hear him correctly when he suggested I should not share with the Starbucks crew about meeting and dating him? "Too late," I told him as Michael knew full well about our dates along with scores of customers who could have witnessed our near canoodling in between dates. Oops, an apparent over-share when I thought there was nothing to hide.
So from Michael to Jeffy to the not-yet-ex-wife whose young boys are in the same cub scout troop. Long story short, "I'm going to have keep low until the divorce is final."
"And when will that be?"
"Late January."
Awesome. I suppose that means no Happy New Year's kiss... after all it is about me! Actually, a week later he calls and for a brief moment I dare hope that we'll go out to ring in 2012. On the contrary, he's calling to reiterate the unfolding drama with his not-yet-ex-wife who's told their daughter he's cheating on them. OMG. What am I supposed to do about this? I haven't a clue.
I work diligently through January to micro-manage my over-communication tendencies. Once a week or less I send a text checking in to which he consistently responds right away. "Fine, still plugging along, almost there with the divorce, work is going well... nearly burned out from the stress." But I notice I'm the only one initiating the texts now.
I vacillate between playing it cool and telling myself we're adults not childish twenty-something year-olds navigating through a he-said she-said dating world. We don't NEED to play by rules I tell myself all the while beginning to realize he's not that into me. Yep... nope, push it down just push it down. I was not just this guy's piece of ass.
Hmmm. January bleeds into February and inspired by a chance meeting with a relationship coach I place a phone call to share what's on my heart while leaving the door open. He answers immediately and I tell myself, wouldn't someone who's "not into me" let the call roll to voicemail? I nod to myself with certainty and continue with absolute and complete honesty.
"Look, I know you're going through a lot right now. I just want you to know that when you get to the other side of it - work, divorce - I'm interested in seeing you again... if you feel the same, I mean it seemed as if we had a connection." I stop, waiting for a reply.
"Wow, thank you for saying that," and then it's a blur because I pretty much stop listening, figuratively hung up on the acknowledgment. Did he say he felt the same way? I think so, but right at the moment my customers walk into the hotel lobby for our meeting in San Francisco and everything else blurs. I think he said he felt the same... I think.
A few days later there's a chance encounter on Valentine's Day that ends with a kiss but I've already decided to move on. A few days later is my first night at the Austin Dinner Club, a strategic move my friend Laura recommends to get past "this Paul guy." It's a well developed plan that introduces me to someone infinitely more real, more tangible and infinitely fantastic in bed. Thoughts of Paul fade throughout the spring and I assume he's moved away considering his total absence from the neighborhood.
Then one day - yesterday to be precise - Michael approaches me as I drink in my Sunday morning with an Ameriano and the New York Times.
"So, guess who's engaged?"
I sit up straight and momentarily grab the counter with my finger tips, wanting and yet not wanting to hear what will come out of his mouth next.
"Do I have to guess?"
Sharon leans over from the espresso machine and both of them are wild-eyed in their eagerness to share the hottest gossip this side of HEB.
"Paul. He's engaged to his girlfriend of two years." And a rush of conflicting emotions run their course while I try to remain calm and cool.
"So just to be clear, he was cheating on his wife with his girlfriend and cheating on his girlfriend with me?" He is a classy guy and I guess that explains the beige SUV parked in his drive-way.
Actually, more like a total fucking douche bag. I feel stupid for the time spent dwelling on something that now seems to have only existed in my imagination, ridiculous for making that last phone call, regretful that my interpretation of this "romance" has thwarted what was great about the person I met from Austin Dinner Club.
I feel simultaneously relieved to not be involved with someone who so calculatingly described his wife as unstable, while describing that what he detested most in women was their "emotional neediness." Who's unstable? Who's emotionally needy?
I feel validated to have sensed there was always something intense and off center about him that I could not put my finger on. Thank God in a hundred thousand unanswered prayers that he never called again. How fucked up would my life be and my girls to settle with a chronic cheater?
And with all of that rationalizing what do I also feel? I still feel a little played. My intuition told me he was looking for one thing and I ended up being right.
There's this saying friends have, "do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?" If I'd never met Paul or agreed to go out with him I wouldn't have been played so in a sense I'd be happy.
Having been proven "right" about getting played may not be so bad though. Without the Paul drama there'd be no dinner club, and without that there'd be no Rich who may or may not be the ONE but will certainly remain a friend who gets full credit for recalibrating me in a way neither douche bag Paul nor any other guy could.
And on this side of "being right" I know to better listen to my intuition the next time some tall or not-so-tall, dark and handsome dude tries pulling a number over me. Not that I will stop being gracious in the face of a compliment, but I won't need it to validate me and fill me like a vessel in need of fuel. I don't need fuel from a man. That tank is all stocked up.
"I had a good time last night," he offers up from his man cave of Sunday Football. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe I'm not just a piece of ass I rationalize. Later that night I've made dozens of Christmas cookies while Dad visits from Kansas. I offer to bring a batch over to Paul which he willingly accepts and then the trail more or less goes cold because Dell's fiscal year ends January 31st and he has to "bust his butt to meet quota".
Fine, I got it. I work for a sales organization and I more than understand what quota means to leadership and shareholders. Two plus weeks and a work drama later it's the Wednesday before Christmas. I'm at Target checking off Santa's Christmas list for my kiddos when Paul texts: "My wife knows about our dates."
Okay, and the problem with that is what exactly? He's near the end of a divorce, right? It's not that simple it appears and my enthusiasm for having gone out with Paul - which I shared with my barista friend, Michael - is now widely known throughout the coffee world at 1431 and Parmer. So how did that news make its way to the not-yet-ex-wife?
I go back to dinner that night on date #2. Between bites of capers, lemon-butter sauce and sea bass did I hear him correctly when he suggested I should not share with the Starbucks crew about meeting and dating him? "Too late," I told him as Michael knew full well about our dates along with scores of customers who could have witnessed our near canoodling in between dates. Oops, an apparent over-share when I thought there was nothing to hide.
So from Michael to Jeffy to the not-yet-ex-wife whose young boys are in the same cub scout troop. Long story short, "I'm going to have keep low until the divorce is final."
"And when will that be?"
"Late January."
Awesome. I suppose that means no Happy New Year's kiss... after all it is about me! Actually, a week later he calls and for a brief moment I dare hope that we'll go out to ring in 2012. On the contrary, he's calling to reiterate the unfolding drama with his not-yet-ex-wife who's told their daughter he's cheating on them. OMG. What am I supposed to do about this? I haven't a clue.
I work diligently through January to micro-manage my over-communication tendencies. Once a week or less I send a text checking in to which he consistently responds right away. "Fine, still plugging along, almost there with the divorce, work is going well... nearly burned out from the stress." But I notice I'm the only one initiating the texts now.
I vacillate between playing it cool and telling myself we're adults not childish twenty-something year-olds navigating through a he-said she-said dating world. We don't NEED to play by rules I tell myself all the while beginning to realize he's not that into me. Yep... nope, push it down just push it down. I was not just this guy's piece of ass.
Hmmm. January bleeds into February and inspired by a chance meeting with a relationship coach I place a phone call to share what's on my heart while leaving the door open. He answers immediately and I tell myself, wouldn't someone who's "not into me" let the call roll to voicemail? I nod to myself with certainty and continue with absolute and complete honesty.
"Look, I know you're going through a lot right now. I just want you to know that when you get to the other side of it - work, divorce - I'm interested in seeing you again... if you feel the same, I mean it seemed as if we had a connection." I stop, waiting for a reply.
"Wow, thank you for saying that," and then it's a blur because I pretty much stop listening, figuratively hung up on the acknowledgment. Did he say he felt the same way? I think so, but right at the moment my customers walk into the hotel lobby for our meeting in San Francisco and everything else blurs. I think he said he felt the same... I think.
A few days later there's a chance encounter on Valentine's Day that ends with a kiss but I've already decided to move on. A few days later is my first night at the Austin Dinner Club, a strategic move my friend Laura recommends to get past "this Paul guy." It's a well developed plan that introduces me to someone infinitely more real, more tangible and infinitely fantastic in bed. Thoughts of Paul fade throughout the spring and I assume he's moved away considering his total absence from the neighborhood.
Then one day - yesterday to be precise - Michael approaches me as I drink in my Sunday morning with an Ameriano and the New York Times.
"So, guess who's engaged?"
I sit up straight and momentarily grab the counter with my finger tips, wanting and yet not wanting to hear what will come out of his mouth next.
"Do I have to guess?"
Sharon leans over from the espresso machine and both of them are wild-eyed in their eagerness to share the hottest gossip this side of HEB.
"Paul. He's engaged to his girlfriend of two years." And a rush of conflicting emotions run their course while I try to remain calm and cool.
"So just to be clear, he was cheating on his wife with his girlfriend and cheating on his girlfriend with me?" He is a classy guy and I guess that explains the beige SUV parked in his drive-way.
Actually, more like a total fucking douche bag. I feel stupid for the time spent dwelling on something that now seems to have only existed in my imagination, ridiculous for making that last phone call, regretful that my interpretation of this "romance" has thwarted what was great about the person I met from Austin Dinner Club.
I feel simultaneously relieved to not be involved with someone who so calculatingly described his wife as unstable, while describing that what he detested most in women was their "emotional neediness." Who's unstable? Who's emotionally needy?
I feel validated to have sensed there was always something intense and off center about him that I could not put my finger on. Thank God in a hundred thousand unanswered prayers that he never called again. How fucked up would my life be and my girls to settle with a chronic cheater?
And with all of that rationalizing what do I also feel? I still feel a little played. My intuition told me he was looking for one thing and I ended up being right.
There's this saying friends have, "do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?" If I'd never met Paul or agreed to go out with him I wouldn't have been played so in a sense I'd be happy.
Having been proven "right" about getting played may not be so bad though. Without the Paul drama there'd be no dinner club, and without that there'd be no Rich who may or may not be the ONE but will certainly remain a friend who gets full credit for recalibrating me in a way neither douche bag Paul nor any other guy could.
And on this side of "being right" I know to better listen to my intuition the next time some tall or not-so-tall, dark and handsome dude tries pulling a number over me. Not that I will stop being gracious in the face of a compliment, but I won't need it to validate me and fill me like a vessel in need of fuel. I don't need fuel from a man. That tank is all stocked up.
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