Rogue

Putin

I have had very poor luck with RSVP. And by poor I mean no interest from anyone ever. Well, a couple of 20-something immigrants in western Sydney but they don’t count because 20, geographically unrealistic and grammar.

Even when I overhauled the profile I wasn’t getting approached.

And then there was Putin. I’d seen his profile before but something had stopped me “sending a kiss” (gag). This time I did and he was back to me like lightening.

I liked him, he was a bit older (early 50s), a surfer and lived relatively nearby.

Suave is the best way to describe his initial contact, let’s cook and sip vino next week, let’s be sexy and stylish and get a sexy black dress ready – you get the drift.

And then I started to realise Putin was all about the detail. What will you be wearing under the lbd, where does your lbd finish, make sure you’re nice and smooth all over, and then this: I want my handsome manhood to feel all three of your sweet spots.

HANDSOME MANHOOD.

I should have pulled out (geddit) then and there.

THEN – because of course it gets better – the fantasty setting begins: “Let’s not say a word, just lock eyes, sip a glass of champagne, then I ease into your arse as I play with your clit, when I am all the way in just before I blow I say, hello :)”

Here I’m going to say it, what the FUCK is with guys and arse sex? We’ve established I like it but certainly not first cab off the rank. It makes me feel incredibly vulnerable and close to the person doing it so I’d much prefer there to be some connection and trust established first. Yes, I have come to this realisation during recent proclivities.

The sexting continues in the lead-up to our ‘date’. He wants pictures of my toes, he talks about “the narrative”, writing our own lines, entering each other’s chapters (!) and over and over about setting up the scene when we meet. “Tell me the plan in your words as you know it.” So much talk of lubing up my arse and me doing a douche. And then it starts getting weird. (As if any of this was not already on the weird radar.) He wants me to.walk.him.through. how I do the douche. What.the.actual.fuck?

At one stage he tells me he loves detail. I let him know I would never have guessed…

And then there was this: “When you need to go to the ladies, before we speak when you are here, u will grab my hand, I will show u the ladies, pull your panties down, u will pee then I will wipe u, then pull your panties up… you will kiss me softly and give me a gentle hug, then we will go back to sipping vino with candles.”

ALARM BELLS ALARM BELLS ALARM BELLS

I go ahead with it (of course I do) but I do not go to the bathroom. In fact I am determined not to need to go to the bathroom all night.

The scenario plays out exactly as we had rehashed (over and over again) and look, it is actually really hot.

We talk politics and sip wine, he is incredibly articulate but I struggle to get a word in edgeways.

More (anal) sex.

Dinner – he made me dinner. It was delicious. We sit outside, drink more wine and he keeps talking.

By this time I am so busting I think I might have a bladder explosion. I confess I need to pee and he tells me he’s going to let me get away with it this time but next time he will wipe me. Jesus.

More (anal) sex.

I go home.

He texted me the next morning to see how I was and that’s been it.

Putin is no more.

And I can pee in peace.

mtc

The American

“Oh my God you’re bleeding, like, a LOT.”
Poor Mr USA’s cock looked like it had butchered me.
Ten days early. TEN DAYS EARLY.

Mr USA and I connected on OCK. For him it was my boobs (of course) and my short hair (a rare man indeed). For me it was just *something* about his profile and the fact he was a yank. I have a thing for a US accent.
We texted over a couple of days and even spoke on the phone, a first for me with an OKC connection. He sounded lovely. We talked about what he was doing while he was here, I gave him some suggestions, we eased into gentle speak about how attractive he found me and how hot my hair was (it is) and how much we were looking forward to meeting each other.
If I ever lose the exhilaration of that initial contact then it’s time to pull out.
We meet at his hotel and the plan is to go out and listen to some live music. I feverishly research this as I haven’t gone out to listen to live music since about 1994.
But there’s some drama with his hotel reservations and he comes downstairs on the phone talking to some customer service person as well as front desk. I was kind of expecting a passionate first kiss but it’s a quick soft peck and then I’m just sort of left standing while he goes off and deals with whatever the problem is.
I’m onto The Posse saying alarm bells were ringing (I wasn’t convinced about his shoewear either) but I hold the course.
I’d bought a bottle of Veuve for us to share, for when we got back to his room or whenever. We go back to his room, he’s still on the phone. I can feel my vagina drying up. I pour champagne and take several deep gulps.
His room has a view so I pretend to care about that while wondering what the fuck I am doing. Eventually he motions for me to come and sit next to him on the bed. We “touch” if that makes sense, I’m rubbing his leg, he my arms.
His still talking to this ridiculous customer service person and he pulls me on top of him. It’s pretty hot groping someone’s cock and licking their ear while they try to keep it together on a phone call.
Finally he hangs up and we’re underway.
What followed was amazing. Fantastic. Exquisite. There was hot and heavy action and then cooling off to chat about stuff, rinse and repeat.
One thing I am taking from this whole experience is how great sex is in your 40s. It can be intense, sexy, funny, awkward, intimate, wonderful all in a number of minutes. It’s intoxicating.
He knew his way around the female form. Very well.
Things are at their peak, I’ve come twice and he’s about to when he looks down and sees dark patches. Fucking blood everywhere. Carnage.
There’s showering and apologies and mortification on my part. I check my calendar and report back that yes, it is 10 days early*.
It doesn’t end the evening. While internally I’m smarting a little that he didn’t actually ask if I was OK (granted he was resoundingly covered in blood not just on his condom-coated cock) it set off a couple of hours of really hot intimacy. His hair obsession had us spooning, him licking and kissing the back of my neck, my ears, my hair. Then more of my hair, OMG is he trying to eat my hair?
He kept asking if I’d let him shave my head. I laughed it off. He asked again. Um no.
We kiss, and talk, and spoon and sleep, I wake early – 4:30, kiss him (how divine is kissing) and leave back into a city damp from overnight rains.
He leaves in a few days later.
Mtc
RD

* Wasn’t my period. A sex injury? Break-through bleeding? Who knows, it was gone the next day.

Mr BMW

So the BDE was an absolute debacle but I was off the leash.

Around the same time on OKC I’d started chatting with Mr BMW, a 40-something management consultant who, I thought, was easy on the eye and falling into my burgeoning ‘type’ of tall, thin/muscular and able to hold a conversation in text form. Sure it fast descended from “so what do you do” to “so am I going to have to travel to __ to kiss you” but it was fun with a level of sparring. I liked it. A lot.

As it so happened just two days after BDE I was again able to escape to meet up with him. These windows of opportunity have previously been unheard of and I marvelled at how the kids are now old enough for it to happen and that I could, in essence, make it happen.

We decide to meet in a bar a few suburbs away from me and not that far for him to travel from the city.

I arrive first and the bar is no good, country and western is blaring and combined with my overwhelming urge to vomit while simultaneously sculling a glass of champagne I send him an “abort, abort” text.

We keep exchanging texts and then I see him. He’s tall, better looking than his photos and in a suit. Tick, tick, tick. We kiss lightly and he points to a top of the line BMW convertible and says, this is me.

I marvel at what a grown up car it is and he replies it is anything but, instead being the ultimate mid-life crisis car. True, but its cream leather interior and fancy-pants-code-red-rating has me ready to cream my pants.

We drive for a little bit, park, walk for a little bit, sit for a little bit, flirt a fair bit, then head back to the car. I can’t quite recall how it transpired but suddenly we are full-on kissing, like tongues down the throat, hand in my bra, other hand going up my dress. On like donkey kong.

I have to work very hard to switch my brain off but I am getting royally finger fucked in a fancy-as-fuck BMW.

We have to keep stopping as people walk by so we decide to find somewhere more private. I am potentially having a heart attack.

We find a somewhat deserted location and pick straight back up where we left off. His pants are undone and pushed to the floor. I’m kneeling on my seat, his hand half way up my cunt while his cock is in my mouth.

It feels FUCKING FANTASTIC.

I don’t really come per se but have these rolling deeply intense episodes which are, quite frankly, on par.

He comes in my mouth. I swallow and realise, that for all those years I put up with funky tasting spunk.

We are both covered in sweat, the car fogged up like some drive-in movie cliche. We kiss and chat, recovering slowly.

He drops me back at my car, we say our farewells and go our separate ways.

We’re still texting each other. I kind of dream about having him in a bed but logistics are tricky and as he says, he gets laid a LOT. Somehow the promise of it is almost enough.

mtc,

The BDE

So one of the first connections after the revamped profile and pic was Mr Kink on Tinder. More on him later. We actually started chatting and laughing about my rather forward profile “I really just want a pash”. I gave him a brief rundown on my poor online dating form and he was all, get on OK Cupid (OKC).

And so I did.

For those in the game it is like a cross between RSVP (a hideous land of ebay for humans) and Tinder (great fun when drunk). The profile questions are good and its much easier to “chat”.

Enter Mr BDE, a 25 (TWENTY FIVE) year old uni student. Apparently studying law but by the end of the night I believed none of it. We started chatting with me basically saying I was technically old enough to be his mother but he was all, I like older women.

Rookie mistake.

So we got chatting through the normal stuff, what do you do, where do you live and into the more heated stuff. This was all SURREAL. I’d gone from basically no online dating success to a 25 year old telling me what he’d do to me.

But I will say, it felt a bit stilted, almost like we were doing an inventory. Alarm Bell #1.

Anyway, it all moved very quickly in that I had a window of opportunity the following night to basically sneak out to do the dirty with a complete stranger without anyone knowing.

I shaved the lady garden in preparation. I shall never look upon my son’s electric shaver the same way.

I turned up at his place, fairly convinced I was going to vomit I was so nervous.

He opened the door. He didn’t really look like his photo. His hair was completely different and he was, doughy. AB#2

The next thing I notice is that the movie Superbad is playing on.full.volume. on the tele. I can’t even think straight let alone really hear him (a mumbler and soft talker AB#3) and ask if we can turn it down. NO! The neighbours can hear everything! So apprently this is going to play out to McLovin, Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill freaking out at period blood on his pants. ALARM BELL #4.

Things get a bit heated, I straddle him, he realises I’m not wearing undies which is apparently ‘hot’. I’d basically taken them off in the car because I only own bonds hipsters. Not sexy.

The kissing is not great, he’s just really… soft. Like not man skin. Baby skin and lips. It was a bit unnerving.

I pull his cock out of his pants and people, it wasn’t just curved, it was bent. Like at a right angle. I seriously thought how the fuck is that going to go in. I was imagining I’d have to do a reverse park onto it.

Anyway, somehow we’re on a TOWEL on the floor (Seriously, I’m 43, give me a bed.) he flounders with a condom (ALARM BELL #542) and then we’re at it. Just like that.

Listen, it was two years since I’d had sex with an animate being so there was a part of me going “HOLY FUCK, there’s a dick in me” but that quickly gave way to “Wait, what, where are you going?” He’d cum. After about 10 thrusts.

He was all, I just need to go and clean this up. Mr Romantic.

Then we had to shower. ALARM BELLS ALARM BELLS ALARM BELLS

Then he asked if we could do anal. Now now, don’t freak out, we had talked about it and yes, I am one of *those* women who enjoy it. But you know, he asked. This was not panning out to be the spontaneous hot romp I had envisaged.

Anyway, he gets his dick in but has no idea what he’s doing and it hurts like hell. Then he goes soft.

I do the man push, trying to get him to go down on me but he urges another shower. What the what?

Don’t forget this is all to the soundtrack of Superbad.

I stand up and say, actually, I think I’ll just go.

I get dressed, say, well, that was weird and leave.

5o minutes.

I spend longer in the car in uproarious laughter on the phone with some of the posse than I did with him.

But I’ve done it. The cherry has been popped. Sure it wasn’t glamorous or even enjoyable but I feel a huge surge of adrenalin that I can do this.

So thanks Banana Dick Ejaculator, I hope you enjoyed the end of Superbad.

mtc

The turning point

So let’s back up for a minute. My husband left about 18 months ago.

We hadn’t had sex in a couple of months – at least – before he left so I’m staring down the barrel of two whole years without some action.

Now up until oh, a month ago, this was no big deal. I didn’t miss it to be honest and when the urge did surface I had equipment and this thing called the internet to help me out.

But then something came unstuck. All those years of not wanting sex, not particularly enjoying it (including having an internal competition with myself as to how quickly it could be over and done with) and everything that goes with that (a shed load of guilt) seemed to wash out of me and sweet baby cheese and crackers I needed a man.

I wanted the smell of him, the weight of him on me, to be enveloped in his arms and I wanted it bad. Oh to be passionately kissed.

About a year ago I signed up to some online dating sites and had absolutely no success. None. Not a nada. It was so demoralising.
So couple this need for a man and my lacklustre online performance things were not looking good.

Enter some of my female posse. A lot of champagne last Friday night and an absolute epiphany. I didn’t want a partner or new husband, I just wanted a good pash and to possibly get laid.

I didn’t even know that was allowed. The curtains drew back and I realised I didn’t want a partner, I wanted some fun.

I haven’t wanted sex this much since I was about 14 and deeply mired in Christian guilt, a particularly ugly puberty stranglehold and an all girls school where without the Cosmo ‘guide to your clitoris’ I would have been one very pent up teen.

It was like a switch had been flicked.

I can flirt, hold hands, kiss, fuck, or even make sweet love to any willing and able man I can get my hands on. Do you know how liberating that is to someone who for much of the past two decades barely felt an itch let alone needed to scratch?

So what followed was the girls staging an impromptu photo shoot with my top down, the girls up and out and me apparently looking alluring. In the middle of the pub. I of course think it made me look like a 1980s Russian hooker but beggars can’t be choosers.

We then went through all my various profiles, changes the photos, ditched the “my ideal man” guff with “I really want a decent pash and let’s just see what happens from there”.

Well didn’t that bring all the boys to the yard.

So Dear Future Partner? Fuck off, I’m about to get laid.

Things are happening people and as one of girls said, I’ve gone rogue.

mtc

The beginning

A couple of weeks ago I wrote this.

Dear future partner
So many online dating sites ask you, what is your ideal partner and I think, how utterly ridiculous. The one that asked about my pubic hair and if I was interested in a threesome (FFM or MMF) was at least more tangible.
But I sit, staring at the curser trying to capture what it is I want, what I imagine you will be.
From what I can tell so far, going off my reactions to the images of “matches” sent to me, I have a very big thing for men with twinkly eyes. Strong jawlines feature and I seem quite partial to salt-and-pepper hair. Not fat is compulsory. Tall is nice but not essential.
But who are you exactly? I want someone with interests and passion. I want someone who has fire in his belly about something.
You have to be able to make me laugh.
I need you to have friends of your own, who will welcome me in but are first and foremost your friends who you have lent on when times were rough.
And here I hesitate because I’m not sure if I’m allowed to even think this let alone give it oxygen.
I want you to fall head over heels in love with me. I want you to feel maddening love for me, where I pervade your thoughts and stop you from being able to concentrate. I want you to think, ‘She would love that’, and then act on it. I want you to do nice things for me without me asking and that can be as mundane or as special as you like. I want to be in your every waking moment.
I want you to love every inch of me. I want you to make love to me like you never have with anyone else. I want the connection to be as visceral as it is emotional or intellectual.
I think I am that loveable.
And it goes without saying that everything I hope for in you is what I can give in return.
So can you show yourself?
Thanks.

Then I got really maudlin. The online dating experience was not working, friends’ husbands were fair game for me to crash tackle just for some mansmell and I was as toey as a goat herder.

Something was going to have to give.

More to come (mtc)