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,

RD

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

RD

 

 

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

RD

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)

RD