Dec 152017
 

“I’ve always wanted to be with an older man.” I had asked why she had swiped me on Tinder.

She models. She acts. She was in town for just a few days, in between her current home (far far away) and her childhood home (just one far away, but in the opposite direction). “Can we meet tonight?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not,” I replied.

“WHY NOT?” she demanded.

“Um, because I have a life?”

“You’re going to have to hurry,” she said. “I’m only here for two more days.”

“Sadly, I think we’ll have to connect the next time you’re in town,” I said.

Her Tinder profile connects to an Instagram account with more than 40,000 followers. That Instagram overflows with glamorous photos of her on the runway, modeling fancy clothes, generally being fabulous, and being fabulously beautiful.

She gave me just a little bit of attitude – attitude of the sort, honestly, befitting a 20-something model courting a 40-something blogger. I was unmoved. My schedule was what it was, and I wasn’t going to rearrange it to fuck her. Instead, I moved to collect from her what I could: photos, videos, of her pretty face and body, posed as directed by me, delivering itself pleasure at my direction.

She complied, abundantly. Sending me pictures of her dressing, undressing, touching herself, licking objects, you name it. She wasn’t modest: the photos and videos shamelessly featured her face, her eyes, her mouth. She made my cock ache for her.

This all was the night we began corresponding.

The correspondence continued over the following day, and into the night, and through it all, she continued to give me precisely what I asked, quickly, better than I had any reason to imagine, or expect.

The following morning, she texted me: “Can you meet me this morning?”

I had thought she was leaving town the previous night, and I told her so. “My flight’s not til 1,” she replied.

My schedule had some flexibility in it that morning. I told her where to be, when. And we met.

I should pause. Here’s what I had come to understand about Lakshmi, at this point: she was leaving town, and almost certainly my life, in just a few hours. I had no expectations that our flirtation would survive her being in a different locale. I understood about her that I was a local plaything. This appealed to me, I think, as much as it appealed to her. No demands. No expectations. Some fun, and then “poof” – good-bye. So imagine my (unfounded, predictable, but nonetheless confounding) surprise when I found myself bereft at her ghosting on me just a few hours later.

The in-between is the least interesting part of the story. We met. She was beautiful, pretty. I’m not sure I found her hot, though, or sexy. Her body is perfect, her face hauntingly beautiful. But there’s something… well, lacking in perfection, and that lack was exacerbated by her energy, by her reaction to me. She didn’t want me to kiss her. She didn’t enjoy sucking my cock. This wasn’t, she said, personal; she doesn’t really enjoy sucking cock. She wanted one thing and one thing only: to be fucked doggy style.

Well, I wanted one thing and one thing only: for her to do as I asked.

She mostly did do as I asked, but at the same time, she was clear about what she wanted, and as with Svetlana (as I wrote just a few days ago), the fact that she wanted something other than for me to get what I wanted was a problem. Never mind my general relationship to fucking, I didn’t particularly want to fuck her doggystyle. It’s pretty much my least favorite position, and if I look back on my past, the women I’ve most enjoyed fucking in that position have been tiny.

Lakshmi is several inches taller than I am. She’s slender. But she’s not tiny.

Not Lakshmi

Fast forward: our time together was good enough. She managed to suck my cock well, in spite of her evident lack of enthusiasm. (I would’ve thought this impossible prior to meeting her.) We did fuck, though not in the position she craved. I drove her back and forth on my cock with my hands on her throat, on her breasts, on her hip. She didn’t come. But then, she hasn’t yet had her first orgasm in life. I licked her clit until she said her safe word(s), “Santa Monica.” She wanted me to come in her cunt (well, in a condom in her cunt). My cock didn’t oblige. In fact, after a bit of fucking, it subsided. And there was no way she was going to allow me to come in her mouth (“Baby steps,” she said.).

In the end, I jerked myself off into a towel as she showered, readying herself for her flight. She was, truthfully, indifferent to my pleasure. I barely existed for her. I was a story. No more. (And I note that this is a story right here that she has become to me.)

I misread our good-bye, though. I hadn’t really assimilated all this information. I thought she still was turned on. I thought still was turned on. I asked her to send me a photo of a hand-written account of our time together from her flight, and she (enthusiastically, I thought) agreed. We said good-bye as I put her in an airport-bound cab.

I sent a polite, not overly enthusiastic (I thought), text: “Good girl. Thank you. Next time: 1. We’ll figure out your pussy better. Maybe you’ll come, maybe not. But you’ll enjoy more. 2. You’ll suck my cock more. And you’ll want to. 3. If you’re good… I’ll fuck you doggy. 4. You tell me what I left out.” A few hours later, but before she landed, I added, “I look forward to your words, and hope your flight was wet, and thighs trembly.”

And then, some time after she landed, I added, “Silence? Really?”

The next day, I sent two more messages. One, by WhatsApp, which was never delivered (because, evidently, she had blocked me by this point): “It looks as if you’re ghosting. That makes me sad, regardless of whether we ever see one another again, just because I’d like to at least interact a little more with you, and not to pretend that never happened. It’s not really my style.” And the other, by Tinder, on which she had (has) not yet unmatched me: “Ghosting may be your style. It isn’t mine. Regardless of whether we speak again or not, I had fun, and wish you well. Take care.”

The thing in all of this that’s most interesting to me is (as usual) me.

I planned never to speak to this woman again. I knew I wouldn’t. And still, the fact that she ghosted on me was somehow devastating. Mediocre sex. No real connection. No expectation of continuation. And still, I found my body reacting as I would if someone I deeply cared about was leaving me.

I’m a strange bird.

In any event: Lakshmi is hot and fun, and in a universe in which she were interested in working toward a better fit (and in which she was likely to be within a few hundred miles of me again any time soon), we would have more fun. But we don’t live in that universe.

So this is where/how I end: Because I’m grateful for all women who suck my cock, who allow me access to their bodies, I’m grateful to Lakshmi, even if the sex might have been much better, her departure more mature. And I wish her well, and thank her, in addition, for the opportunity to continue to learn about myself.

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