Blind Date/One Night Stand
Submitted by: Texas Tanya
Blind Dates: The Worst and The Best
The Worst Blind Date Ever
Let’s see, I was living in Seattle. Obviously, single and since I didn’t know many folks, I did what many others did, and turned to the Internet for a date. I don’t remember what site I met this guy at, I must have blocked it from my memory. And I must have done the same with his name, as I can’t for the life of me remember what his name was. For the sake of this story, we’ll call him Leroy.
Leroy and I apparently liked what we read on each other’s profile since we did ultimately meet. If memory serves correctly, we communicated via email prior to the date. The plan was that he would pick me up and we’d go to a Seattle Mariner’s game.
Now, I don’t know about you, but when I was dating, I would “put my best foot forward,” especially on a first date. Meaning I would be on my best behavior, dress nicely, and of course, use manners. Typically, I would expect the gentleman to do the same (i.e. best behavior, dress nicely, and use manners.) Apparently, Leroy was not of the same thought. Leroy was punctual, and dressed, well… at least had on a clean t-shirt.
As a Southern girl, I was raised with manners and I fully expected any gentleman I went out with to be mannerly. Opening the car door for a lady was one thing that was absolutely expected - no ifs, ands, or buts. Apparently, Leroy didn’t get the memo… He got in the car and reached across to unlock my door.
We had an awkward and forced conversation on the way to Safeco Field, where the Mariner’s play. I don’t remember much about the conversation, other than he said he lived with his parents… I didn’t mean to be judgemental, and I’m sorry, but when you’re over 30 - living with your folks just ain’t cool.
Once we made it to the SoDo area, I vividly remember the walk from the car to the stadium. We walked down a sidewalk that had giant holes in it every 15 yards or so. You could tell the city was in the process of planting trees - which was nice, but…it made for a narrow sidewalk. Leroy walked 10 feet in front of me - so much for gentlemanly behavior. When we arrived at the stadium, we were at the corner where our seats were located, and we could have walked in and taken the stairs to our seats. But, Leroy didn’t want to climb stairs, so we walked to the opposite corner of the stadium so we could go up the escalator. I just didn’t get the logic…
The final blow of the night came after we found our seats. Somewhere around the middle of the second or third inning, Leroy excused himself, said he had to use the men’s room. When he returned, he had an arm full of food, didn’t say a word and very quickly and very loudly ate his hot dogs, popcorn, pretzel, candy bar and lemon slushee. You know, it’s not like I wanted him to share, but he could have at least said, “Hey, I’m going to get a bite. Do you want anything?” or “Do you want to go?” or “Do you want me to get you something?” but instead I got to listen to him eat. And since eating noises is one of my pet peeves - it was soooo not a good evening.
This date was so bad, that on the way back to the car, I was starting to look for the Candid Camera crew, because I just didn’t think one guy could really be so… what’s the word? inconsiderate! Yes, that’s it! I just couldn’t for the life of me, imagine that anyone could be so inconsiderate of his date!
The next day, I was STUNNED when I saw Leroy’s number on the caller ID. He left a message to say what a great time he had, and how he hoped we could go out again soon. Then the next few days, he called and left 20 more messages saying the same thing. I’ll admit that I was very immature - I never returned his call. If I had to do it over again, I would call him back and tell him why I wouldn’t go out with him again - maybe it would save another girl from the trouble I went through.
The Best Blind Date Ever
The best blind date I ever had was my first date with Hubby. We met online, and had conversed via email for a couple of months, then graduated to telephone calls, and finally set our first face-to-face date. Oddly enough, it was on Friday the 13th. The plan was to meet in downtown Dallas, at the Hyatt Regency water fountain, then walk to the West End and have dinner. The water fountain was next to a small coffee shop in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency.
When I arrived at the fountain, Hubby was already there, sitting at one of the cafe tables, reading a newspaper. When he lowered the paper, saw me and smiled - I melted. When he stood up - my heart nearly stopped beating. I had a date with Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome, and briefly lost the ability to speak.
A few moments later, I recovered and we were off to find a place to eat in the West End. We talked as we wandered through the streets of Dallas, until we arrived at Joe’s Crab Shack. We ordered and picked at our food. We picked at it, not because it was bad but, because we were much too busy talking and laughing with each other. After dinner, it felt like we were long lost friends, we talked and walked our way back to the Hyatt.
We arrived at Antares, the lounge in Reunion Tower around 8 o’clock. We had a couple of drinks, but mostly we talked, and laughed, and talked, and laughed, and talked, and laughed some more. They kicked us out when they closed at 2AM, so we went and talked in the parking lot. I think we finally said good night around 3AM. I practically floated all the way home.
After we repeated something similar to this several nights a week for a month, I finally got a good night kiss… Sixteen months later, we were engaged, and five months after that we were married.
Submitted by: Betty’s This and That
I chose Blind Date part of number three. I had a blind date with my husband on December 31, 1975. We were married on January 25, 1976 after dating for only three weeks. We have now been married for 32 years. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!
Submitted by: Cricket’s Hearth
Passion: A One Night Stand
Three months prior to my 39th birthday, I was sharing the woes of my love life with a very wise and close friend. I had been married for over 22 years and my divorce had only been final a few months. “What you need is a one-night stand!” she very expertly advised. I didn’t know if I could do this . . . I mean, actually getting naked with someone I did not know???
I should tell you that I was not a total prude. I was a flower child from the 60’s after all – the sex, drugs and rock & roll generation. An early marriage at 16 is testimony to my being “open” to the physical side of life. Plus, the fact I married the most degenerate of all sexual degenerates had afforded me enough sexual knowledge for a definite best-seller. And, I still think my ex sold copy writes to the producers of Bob & Carol and Ted & Alice. But, even with all this experience, under my belt so to speak, I was not too sure about doing “it” with a total stranger. But then . . .
I had an early morning conference in Columbus, which I was not overly excited about attending, and which also required spending the night before to avoid the rush hour mayhem. I asked my friend Evelyn, the wise one, to go along so at least a night in the city wouldn’t be a total waste. We arrived early and of course hit the malls. After several hours of shopping, we went to our hotel and got settled in. We decided a visit to the hotel lounge would be a nice start to the evening’s entertainment.
Why is that two women sitting at a table in a lounge, obviously having a lively conversation while sharing a few drinks, is a sign that male attention is needed? It must be an unwritten law of the testosterone universe. Anyways, there we were, enjoying our drinks when two average looking guys decided they would come to our rescue. They brought copies of our drinks as a peace offering, along with the line, “Have we seen you ladies in here before?” After a few more drinks and dinner, at our gentlemen caller’s request and expense, the wise one and I had to make a visit to the Ladies Room. “This is your chance for true passion!” she advised me, “Sex with no strings, no commitments, no I’ll call you’s. Just pure passion!”
I will have to admit my conversation with Jim-Bob (I still can’t remember his name) had begun to get heated. It seems he was a big-wig in some regional union organization in town for a convention, a Democrat, and a draft-dodger; needless to say, not exactly the endearing qualities I was looking for in a man. But then, I reminded myself, you are not looking for a man, just a one-night stand. And, through my alcohol-enhanced vision, he was beginning to look pretty good. So, wise one and I stumbled our way back to the table and, after another drink or two, I gave Jim-Bob the signal this was going to be his lucky night.
Once in his hotel room, what I had envisioned as an evening of unbridled passion turned out to be ten minutes of wham-bam-thank-you-mam followed by an awkward silence that I had never known before, or since. After more minutes than it took to do “it”, Jim-Bob finally broke the ice by asking me what I did for a living (obviously he forgot the details of our previous three-hour conversation). This actually led to further conversation so interesting that I had forgotten we were both still naked under the sheets.
At some point, Jim-Bob asked me what kind of books I liked to read. Now, having gained a sense of comfortableness, I leaned over the side of the bed to get a cigarette out of my purse and propped myself up on my elbows so I could smoke. “I like to read most anything.” I began, and we discussed several books we had both read. “But I must say, my very favorite are books on serial killers.” I did not notice Jim-Bob had made a slight move away from me as I continued talking about Ted Bundy and then the Michigan murders, adding that though it was rare, there were female serial killers. “I keep thinking if I read enough books about serial killers, I will be able to figure out what would motivate someone to kill a complete stranger. Do you ever think about that?” I asked as I looked in his direction while moving my arm below the edge of the bed to put my cigarette out in the ashtray sitting on the floor.
Now let me tell you, after his performance an hour earlier, I did not think it was possible for Jim-Bob to move any faster, but he proved me wrong. He was up and out of that bed so fast he stumbled and fell to the floor. “Is this where you pull a knife or gun out of that purse and kill me?” he cried as he pulled himself up and backed into the corner. I was so stunned by his reaction to a simple question, it took me a few seconds to put it all together, especially since he was standing there, with all his manhood standing at full attention, visibly shaking down to the last bone in his body. Once the implications of my reading preferences finally registered, given the circumstance of our meeting and our current locale, I burst into uncontrollable laughter. I laughed so hard I cried, rolling back and forth on the bed, and ended up running to the bathroom to keep from peeing the bed.
After I gained control of both my laughter and bodily functions, I had to walk out and face this nameless man, in my nakedness I might add, who thought it possible I was a serial killer stalking unsuspecting horny men in hotel bars. I have often wondered how he tells this story. I can tell you, it did indeed turn out to be his lucky night, and passion is definitely in his version!
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Submitted by: Mind of a Goddess
Please be advised the following story contains adult language and adult situations
I love going to any event that will allow me to be surrounded by beautiful gay boys. I also love me some gay bars, especially on Show Nights. I could watch those divas all night, prancing around in their skin-tight outfits, looking so much better than I ever could dream of, lip-syncing to everything from the classics: Patti LaBelle, Aretha, Tina Turner; to more modern stuff: Britney, Mariah, and the occasional Alanis Morisette. I love giving them tips, standing on the edge of the stage waiting patiently to hand them my dollar, walking away with “I’m A Hooker Red” lip prints on my cheek.
Occasionally the clubs make the mistake of including male strippers in the shows, if for no other reason than to fill time so the girls have extra time to fix their chicken cutlet breasts and reapply lip gloss. It is during this part of the show that I move either to the bar for a refill on cranberry juice or walk around seeing if any of my ex-boyfriends have “come out” (because, inevitably, if I dated and broke up with them, they are now gay). On one particular night, I decided to take a seat near the entrance, as far away from the stage as I could get so as not to take the chance of having oily, limp penis shoved in my face by the strange stripper in a farmer’s hat and overalls. As I glanced absentmindedly around me, a man walked by and grabbed my left hand for a second. I figured he was checking for an armband and stamp since there were people walking around with free test tubes of completely toxic liquor. At first look, I thought he was a “Friend of Dorothy”, as he was dressed in a fitted ribbed gray t-shirt, expensive looking tailored pants that broke at just the right place on his shined black loafers, and had just come out of a lengthy embrace with a very hot man next to the door.
He walked on and I continued to sit there, not really thinking any more about it until he walked back past me. He took my left hand again and I said, “Hi, I don’t have an armband, just a stamp, but I’m fine with just my juice, so thanks anyway.” He pulled up a chair and sat facing me, holding my hand the whole time. After he sat there for about a full minute without saying anything, I broke the silence. “Can I have my hand back? I know I have beautiful soft skin and I completely understand why you want to keep touching it, but maybe you should tell me your name before this goes any further and you get the idea in your head that you should, I don’t know, rub my arm to see if I moisturize it as diligently as I do my hands.” He looked up, his reverie broken, almost startled that I was speaking to him, that the hand was attached to a person. He apologized, sorry if he seemed rude, but it was just that he couldn’t believe there wasn’t a wedding band or a diamond or anything on my left ring finger, because he saw me when he walked in and was sure I was there with someone, or had someone waiting for me at home. I said, “How do you know I’m not a lesbian that’s just here trying to pick up girls?” Because lesbians were only as pretty as me in porn, not in real life, and definitely not in Panama City gay bars, he said.
He called me pretty. I think that was the first time any guy, not related to me or out of feelings of obligation, had used that word to describe me. Especially considering I was at the tail-end of my nerd stage, wearing glasses and a shirt that was more appropriate for dinner with my mom than clubbing. He called me pretty, and I didn’t care that he may have been completely drunk at this point (which I later found out that he actually never drank, due to his family history of alcoholism) or that the background noise included horny gay men screaming, “Bring that dick over here, honey, so I can stuff a dollar in your sock!” He called me pretty.
We moved out to the back deck where we could almost hear ourselves think, and made small talk until I heard the announcer booming “And let’s give a warm welcome to our Resident Princess, Rebecca Ritz DeCarlo!” I couldn’t miss her, she was the entire reason I was here for the 1 o’clock show. That was my baby, the first gay man I truly loved and would have had children for. I asked if he minded us going back inside. Of course he didn’t. He would follow my great ass anywhere.
Once Rebecca was offstage and I had screamed for her until I was hoarse and desperately in need of water, we made our way to the front bar, him leading the way, holding my hand and caressing it in such a way that made me wonder what it would feel like to have his hands running over my body. Why was I thinking like this already? I barely knew the guy, I wasn’t even sure if I had caught his name, but I wanted him. Amazing what being surrounded by about 100 men, all searching for someone to take them home, can do for a girl’s hormones.
At the bar we found two empty stools and ordered club sodas with lime. I asked him a few questions, the most important being, “What’s an attractive straight man like you doing in a gay bar like this?” Turns out, he got a tip from a few of his gay friends that these bars were always crowded with straight women who couldn’t stand the pressure of the usual bar scene. I nodded in agreement because that was one of three reasons I was there, the first being my loyalty to Rebecca’s performances, and the second being that since I knew Rebecca she put me on the list and I never paid cover. I had tired easily of the PC bar scene, and I wasn’t ever into serious clubbing at the “super clubs” on the beach, so once I hooked up with my new favorite drag queen it just seemed natural to hang out there.
The subject of me not having an armband came up. He wanted to know how old I was and I wanted to lie, but instead sheepishly said, “Eighteen.” He looked absolutely shocked and I then said, “Why, how old are you?” Thirty, he said. Thirty? Thirty. That’s interesting. Is this something I wanted to try? Is this something that would make him feel like a dirty-old-man? What would my mother say? She would be pissed off and completely against it. Well, that settled it. Why the hell not?
I asked him if my age changed anything, because his age didn’t change anything for me. I still thought he was an interesting person, not to mention the fact that he was slightly hot in a “shaved head, almost midlife crisis” sort of way. I rambled on about the fact that I have always thought that age shouldn’t really mean anything. He just kept staring at me while I spoke, specifically at my mouth, and it was beginning to make me a little more than self-conscious. I could feel my cheeks heating up as I continued to blabber on until finally he said, “I’m not trying to interrupt, but I just have to kiss you. Would you mind?” I responded by leaning forward, awaiting his lips touching mine, but instead he kissed me right beneath my ear and worked his way along my jaw line until he finally reached my lips. His lips were soft, in that weird older man way. (This observation was not something I immediately made, since he was the oldest man I had kissed, but I did date others in the future that were older than him, and they all have the same lips. Soft, but firm and kind of wrinkly. Almost like kissing a gummy worm. I don’t know, I guess it’s harder to explain then it is to experience.) The kiss was nice and a little more intimate then one might expect considering our surroundings.
After a few more kisses, he was curious as to whether I would consider coming back to his place. I was a little skittish, mainly because I had never left a bar with someone I had just met and gone back to their place. Who am I kidding? I had never been back to a guy’s place, period. Do you think I was going to tell him that, though? No way, Pedro. This guy was nice, and he had called me pretty, and he was a good kisser and had incredible hands. Not to mention the fact that being 18 and a virgin was getting old fast. I protested at first, not wanting to seem like an eager slut who did this sort of thing all the time. Eventually, he convinced me that we could just go back and hang out, that nothing had to happen, that he just wanted to be able to talk to me without the thumping of bass drowning out our voices. For some reason I really believed him. He totally wouldn’t make a move on me; maybe we would just make out, or stay up for the rest of the night talking.
I didn’t dare to leave my car there and have to rely on him to take me back to it in the morning because it needed to be in the driveway before my parents woke up. I followed his maroon Civic back across the bridge and to his apartment, the whole way wondering if I really knew what I was getting myself into and whether I should just turn off at my neighborhood to go to bed. But something propelled me to follow this man I had met only a few hours ago.
We arrived at his apartment and got comfortable on the couch. Nothing happened at first; we just talked and touched each other’s hand from time to time. This lasted for about a half hour, when he asked if I wanted to grand tour of his place. In the back of my mind, I was trying to convince myself not to go into the bedroom, just look through the door and comment on the “lovely bedspread.” The rest of my body told the back of my mind to shut the fuck up and relax a little.
There wasn’t enough to the place to avoid the bedroom with a mere glance, so I followed him inside. He started kissing me, with more force (or was it passion?) than he had at the club, but I responded so he didn’t stop. Was I sure about this, he asked, as he pulled my shirt over my head. Of course I was sure. Why wouldn’t I be? What about his situation was there to be unsure about? Oh, I don’t know, the fact that I was about to lose my virginity, my “special gift” that I had vowed so long ago in church to never give away to anyone but my God-appointed husband; the fact that he didn’t have any condoms (not that I asked him to use one or anything, he volunteered the information); the fact that 5 hours ago I had never even seen this man, and now here I was lying on his bed that was covered with the most boring bedspread in existence with my tight gray pants around my ankles and a complete stranger on top of me. Nope, nothing to be unsure about at all.
The sex part wasn’t at all like I had imagined. It wasn’t spectacular by any means, but it wasn’t painful like everyone had warned me my first time would be. It was just meh. He seemed to be enjoying himself, though, so I just kind of laid there, trying to analyze everything about the room I was in and the man that lived in it. As I’m thinking about whether I should consider dating someone who has a Florida Gators throw on his couch (because Lord knows that you aren’t allowed to be anything but an FSU fan in my family), he groaned louder. I got snapped back to the present situation as he came all over my stomach while saying “Oh, God, do you mind if I cum on your stomach?” What the hell just happened here? I didn’t really know how to respond, other than to say through a sarcastic smile “Well, you didn’t give me much of a choice, now did you?”
He looked at me, with a guilty grin on his face, and got up from the bed. My internal monologue kicked in with, “Hey, buddy, if you’re getting up, you wanna bring a towel over here? I’m not trying to be picky, but it isn’t exactly a comfortable feeling to have the cum of a 30 year old radio DJ drying in my belly button.”
After we cleaned up, he lay down next to me and pulled me into a spoon. If he hadn’t done that, I could have walked away and probably never thought about him again. But the spooning always gets me, especially when I don’t have to tell them it’s my favorite snuggling position. He whispered things to me, about how incredible that was, how it felt completely different with me, how glad he was I had decided to come home with him. I laid there and listened to him, and nodded in agreement to most of what he said, not wanting to tell him I needed to go soon so my parents didn’t take away my driving privileges since I was entirely past curfew. Instead, I felt his breathing become slower and more even and I allowed myself to nap for a little while.
I woke up before him, somewhere around 4 in the morning, and watched him sleeping. What would happen when he woke up? What do you say to a man you met at a gay bar that could possibly be a one night stand or could possibly be a potential long-term lover? Is this a good time to bring up the fact that the reason I mostly just laid there while he pumped into me was because I didn’t know what else to do? Or should I quietly get dressed, do the walk of shame to my car and go home?
As I was contemplating all this, his eyes slowly opened and he looked at me, searched my face as if he wasn’t quite sure who I was and why I was naked in his bed. Then it seemed to dawn on him. “Hey beautiful,” he said, “Are you staying the rest of the night with me?” I told him I should probably go, since I had so much to do the next day. He wanted to see me again, take me out somewhere, and spend more time together. He asked for my phone number and promised to call the next day once he recovered from “one of the most pleasing sexual experiences of his life.” Dude, how many people have you slept with? Because I haven’t slept with any one else, and this is definitely not at the top of my list. But I gave him my number, because he kept calling me beautiful and sexy and telling me things like “You know if you ever need a career to fall back on, you have a pussy made for porn.”
He actually made good on his promise and called the next day, to invite me over to watch some TV. This was the One Night Stand that Lasted for Two Weeks. I was ok with it for the first couple of says, but then I started to feel like if I was going to keep sleeping with this guy and put up with his strange fascination of cumming on my body instead of in it, then I at least deserved to be taken in public . I brought this up once, but he said he was tired and didn’t feel like talking. Eventually, he sent me an e-mail, explaining that he had just gotten a divorce a few months ago and wasn’t really ready to commit to someone new. He was just looking to have fun. But he did think I was an incredible girl and that one day, when he was in his 50s, sitting around with his buddies sipping brandy and smoking a cigar (what decade was this guy from?), he would tell them all about this sexy 18 year old he banged when he was 30.
Being young and stupid, I responded in the most ladylike way I could think of. I told him that I completely understood where he was coming from and that if later, he wanted to try again, I would be there. Looking back, I realize the better response would have been to suggest purchasing a box of condoms, since they are designed to catch cum before it goes all over the girl you’re trying to impress.
We arrived at his apartment and got comfortable on the couch. Nothing happened at first; we just talked and touched each other’s hand from time to time. This lasted for about a half hour, when he asked if I wanted to grand tour of his place. In the back of my mind, I was trying to convince myself not to go into the bedroom, just look through the door and comment on the “lovely bedspread.” The rest of my body told the back of my mind to shut the fuck up and relax a little.
There wasn’t enough to the place to avoid the bedroom with a mere glance, so I followed him inside. He started kissing me, with more force (or was it passion?) than he had at the club, but I responded so he didn’t stop. Was I sure about this, he asked, as he pulled my shirt over my head. Of course I was sure. Why wouldn’t I be? What about his situation was there to be unsure about? Oh, I don’t know, the fact that I was about to lose my virginity, my “special gift” that I had vowed so long ago in church to never give away to anyone but my God-appointed husband; the fact that he didn’t have any condoms (not that I asked him to use one or anything, he volunteered the information); the fact that 5 hours ago I had never even seen this man, and now here I was lying on his bed that was covered with the most boring bedspread in existence with my tight gray pants around my ankles and a complete stranger on top of me. Nope, nothing to be unsure about at all.
The sex part wasn’t at all like I had imagined. It wasn’t spectacular by any means, but it wasn’t painful like everyone had warned me my first time would be. It was just meh. He seemed to be enjoying himself, though, so I just kind of laid there, trying to analyze everything about the room I was in and the man that lived in it. As I’m thinking about whether I should consider dating someone who has a Florida Gators throw on his couch (because Lord knows that you aren’t allowed to be anything but an FSU fan in my family), he groaned louder. I got snapped back to the present situation as he came all over my stomach while saying “Oh, God, do you mind if I cum on your stomach?” What the hell just happened here? I didn’t really know how to respond, other than to say through a sarcastic smile “Well, you didn’t give me much of a choice, now did you?”
He looked at me, with a guilty grin on his face, and got up from the bed. My internal monologue kicked in with, “Hey, buddy, if you’re getting up, you wanna bring a towel over here? I’m not trying to be picky, but it isn’t exactly a comfortable feeling to have the cum of a 30 year old radio DJ drying in my belly button.”
After we cleaned up, he lay down next to me and pulled me into a spoon. If he hadn’t done that, I could have walked away and probably never thought about him again. But the spooning always gets me, especially when I don’t have to tell them it’s my favorite snuggling position. He whispered things to me, about how incredible that was, how it felt completely different with me, how glad he was I had decided to come home with him. I laid there and listened to him, and nodded in agreement to most of what he said, not wanting to tell him I needed to go soon so my parents didn’t take away my driving privileges since I was entirely past curfew. Instead, I felt his breathing become slower and more even and I allowed myself to nap for a little while.
I woke up before him, somewhere around 4 in the morning, and watched him sleeping. What would happen when he woke up? What do you say to a man you met at a gay bar that could possibly be a one night stand or could possibly be a potential long-term lover? Is this a good time to bring up the fact that the reason I mostly just laid there while he pumped into me was because I didn’t know what else to do? Or should I quietly get dressed, do the walk of shame to my car and go home?
As I was contemplating all this, his eyes slowly opened and he looked at me, searched my face as if he wasn’t quite sure who I was and why I was naked in his bed. Then it seemed to dawn on him. “Hey beautiful,” he said, “Are you staying the rest of the night with me?” I told him I should probably go, since I had so much to do the next day. He wanted to see me again, take me out somewhere, and spend more time together. He asked for my phone number and promised to call the next day once he recovered from “one of the most pleasing sexual experiences of his life.” Dude, how many people have you slept with? Because I haven’t slept with any one else, and this is definitely not at the top of my list. But I gave him my number, because he kept calling me beautiful and sexy and telling me things like “You know if you ever need a career to fall back on, you have a pussy made for porn.”
He actually made good on his promise and called the next day, to invite me over to watch some TV. This was the One Night Stand that Lasted for Two Weeks. I was ok with it for the first couple of says, but then I started to feel like if I was going to keep sleeping with this guy and put up with his strange fascination of cumming on my body instead of in it, then I at least deserved to be taken in public . I brought this up once, but he said he was tired and didn’t feel like talking. Eventually, he sent me an e-mail, explaining that he had just gotten a divorce a few months ago and wasn’t really ready to commit to someone new. He was just looking to have fun. But he did think I was an incredible girl and that one day, when he was in his 50s, sitting around with his buddies sipping brandy and smoking a cigar (what decade was this guy from?), he would tell them all about this sexy 18 year old he banged when he was 30.
Being young and stupid, I responded in the most ladylike way I could think of. I told him that I completely understood where he was coming from and that if later, he wanted to try again, I would be there. Looking back, I realize the better response would have been to suggest purchasing a box of condoms, since they are designed to catch cum before it goes all over the girl you’re trying to impress.
