I had a date recently with a lovely brunette with a very fetching downwardly pointing face, Svetlana. I wrote an account of our date which I’ve discarded. This is my second attempt, and I’m coming at it from a different angle, with the benefit of some reflection, and back-and-forth with her. First, foremost: the evening ended with her mouth filled with my cum, and my face irredeemably soaked in her cunt’s juices. So, a good evening, to be sure. Regular (or at least, diligent) readers of this blog know two things about me: first, fucking isn’t so much my thing. And second, as much as I love to write about sex, I don’t really like writing sex. So I’m gonna skip that. Except inasmuch as sex is part of what I’m writing about. The Roy Moore stuff lately has made me realize that my “half-his-age-plus-seven” number is one I routinely violate. It’s older than I would have guessed, if I didn’t know math. When I saw that graph floating around, showing Roy Moore’s victims (and wife) plotted against that line, I was a little mortified to see the frequency with which I violate it. It’s not the case, btw, that this is necessarily by choice. If I were to describe my optimal sexual connection, she’d be in her forties or early fifties. MAYBE her thirties, if she were extraordinary. But in reality, most of the women I date are younger. I think this reflects the intersection of two facts: first, most of the women I meet, I meet through Tinder, and my blog. And second, what I have to offer appeals more to women exploring their sexuality than to those settled in it. Anyway, Svetlana lies below that line for me. Not far below it. Two years below it. And she’s definitely exploring her sexuality. Our flirtation was hot, but not easy, for either of us. What I wanted from her stretched her comfort zone. Exceeded it, in many instances. She wasn’t resistant, at all: she wanted to give me what I wanted (which is hot) but she found herself unable to, in multiple instances. More challengingly for me, she found it hard to say “no” as I wanted to hear it. Again – not because she didn’t want to, but because it felt somehow unnatural to her. Coursing beneath all of this, she wanted to please me. Very much. She was very eager to please me. She seemed to have decided that I had a lot to offer her, based on my blog, and our interactions, before we met. When we did meet, she was raring to go. I was too. I approach most dates from one of three perspectives:

  1. I. Can’t. Fucking. Wait.
  2. I have a tingly feeling that it will be fun, but there are a number of concerns I have.
  3. I’m dreading it, but for whatever reason(s), I’m going through with it.

That third case has two permutations: she’s going to reject me, or we’re going to hook up, and I’m going to feel icky afterward. Svetlana was the second case. I was excited, eager, but also on an unconscious (or maybe conscious, but not condensed into verbal form yet) level, I had concerns. As we drank and talked, the talk wasn’t, for the most part, hot. It wasn’t un-hot – we had interesting conversation, about topics other than sex, for the most part. Or at least, other than how I was going to use her pretty body, for the most part. There were exceptions. I smelled her cunt on her finger (delicious). I admired her ass (round, full, delightful, eminently spankable) as she walked to the bathroom, at my request. And after we left, it got hotter. We kissed on the street. I drank in the taste of cigarette smoke from her lips. (I had quit (stopped?) (again) ten days earlier.) I bent her over a parked car and felt her body while we waited for a car to take us to a hotel. My cock was stiff, ready. In the cab, I had her play with her pussy for me. She found this challenging. Her legs wanted to be closed. Her hand wanted to be still. I wanted her legs wide apart. I wanted her hand to be moving. Still, she wanted to please me, so she did as I asked. Sort of. She kept closing her legs. She kept resting her hand. Two, three hours later, when I came in her mouth, I used my hand to bring myself to orgasm. Somehow, her mouth on me – which felt, I must say, phenomenal – didn’t make me come. Not just didn’t make me come. Didn’t let me come. I left the evening under the impression that my mouth had made her come twice. After the fact (when she read my first pass at writing up our date), she corrected me: she had come once. The second time, she had faked it. “Ick,” I wrote. “Why’d you do that?” “I wanted to please you,” she wrote. I believe her. I think she did.

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