Tales of rejection

I don’t think I ever told you about Juana, the raven-haired beauty who disappeared after a scorchingly hot lunch date, melting into the landscape, never to be heard from again.

A commenter pointed out that usually I write about the sex I have, not the sex I don’t have. But honestly, there’s so much more sex that I don’t have, and sometimes I wonder if it’s not the rejections I crave, even more than the sex.

For that reason, I’m going to make an effort to start documenting some odd the sex I don’t have. Like with Anya, a young woman with some distance between the present and her most recent sex, whom I meet for a drink, planned a date with, and then, at the eleventh hour, started a relationship incompatible with sucking my cock. For a while, it was not, apparently, incompatible with her sending me sexy snapchat photos and videos of her pretty body and her pretty fingers, sticky with the juice from her cunt produced by our exchanges. But then, it seems, it was, and she disappeared, telling me the self-evident lie that her phone was in her father’s hands and so would I please not message her. (She never messaged again.)

Or Stella, the curly-haired tease who stood me up not once but twice, and declined to apologize. But whom I still sat down for a drink with after matching her on Tinder and Happ’n. And who then disappeared.

Or Charlie, the actress/model who announced to me that she wasn’t “feeling it” midway through our second drink. “I didn’t ask,” I said, mustering my best domly dom self. “I want you to suck my cock,” I said. Oddly, this worked. We retreated to a hotel room where I smacked her round ass too hard for her (“The thing is,” she said through tears, “it has to happen in a context.”) She kneeled and gagged on my cock as I fucked her face – everything that had transpired between us theretofore indicated I was interacting with her as she might wish – and, mascara bleeding down her cheeks, she used the safe word we’d established. She walked out, neither of us having come.

Or Maeve, who promised the sun, moon, and stars in the torrid interaction we had on Tinder over 24 hours, made a date with me, and then disappeared, claiming “family issues,” never to be heard from again.

(Maeve, incidentally, is a dime a dozen. That particular scenario – torrid exchange, date made, excuse proffered, disappearance effected – happens ALL THE FUCKING TIME.)

I’m old enough, and confident enough, that I know none of this has much to do with me. Sure, Charlie’s reaction was to me, as was Juana’s, on some level. But I know that there are lots of women who love sucking my cock, and lots more who would love to. That’s a lesson readers of this blog from the start have watched me learn.

But on some level, while I know that, I still don’t know it. You know? And each rejection stings anew. I don’t often have available to me the reaction I know is the right one – bemused indifference, or maybe slight disappointment. Because the truth is, every time, I believe it’s gonna be the best ever.

In my experience of sex, it IS. Every time is the best ever. So every time I’m rejected, I’ve lost the possibility of the best sex ever. Is it any surprise that rejection stings?

One comment

  1. Yes, that loss of potential, that’s the thing. The rejection stings sweeter with the what “might have beens” and the “what ifs”.

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