After the debacles with the college ex and the baby-faced 25-year-old guy (who had a solid career but no college degree), I was ripe for a real date. I needed someone more my own age. More my same educational level. More from my same socioeconomic group (sorry if that sounds snobby, but it’s true), who shared similar life experiences.
Enter Date 2: supposedly divorced, he was a high-powered, bicoastal executive for a major national company you’ve heard of. Bald but amazingly cute (and no, I did not just toss an oxymoron at you), he had sparkle and charisma. I was a little taken aback that, in heels, I was as tall as he was, but I’m 5’5″, and his online profile listed him as 5’8″ (which he told the truth about–a novelty, I’d come to find out from other Internet dates), so what had I been expecting? Suppose I should have thought ahead and worn flats, but dating is nothing if not a learning experience.
Anyway, Date 2 and I met for drinks at a restaurant local to my apartment. From the get-go, the conversation popped and the chemistry between us sizzled. Extremely confident in himself and his prowess, this guy knew exactly where he was going with the smooth talk and animated stories with which he regaled me (although I have to say–letting me in on his travel buddies’ cheeky bromance nicknames rang a little fake, tempting me to mentally relabel them as Michaelangelo, Donatello, etc.).
That said, It only took Date 2 about twenty minutes to begin touching me–casually at first, then with more intention. As the evening progressed, he laced our conversation with plenty of suggestive remarks about my needs, and how badly he sensed I’d been sexually neglected.
Side-note words of wisdom to my soul sisters out there: If you’re going to meet a new guy for drinks, be sure to eat something first. Yes, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but it’s no match for skipping lunch and dinner and then downing an oversized glass of red wine.
Anyhoo, being the Red-Ribbon-Week-aware hot mama I am, we left my car at the restaurant and I had him drive us to my place.
“You haven’t had sex with anyone since your ex-husband?” Date 2 kept asking. “No one?” he clarified.
“No one,” I told him, and it was on!
Now, I said I wasn’t going to get too graphic here–and I won’t–but the extensive nature of post-lackluster-marriage-sex must be divulged. Because Date 2 and I did it every way I could think of, and then a few ways I’d never even considered. Him on top, me on top, me in front, scissor-style, backward, frontward, diagonal–you name it. All I can say is, two hours and two condoms weren’t enough. This guy was so fun, I could have gone all night if he’d had the resources and more time cleared in advance with his kids’ nanny.
Afterward, on the way back to my car, however, I might have laid my cards on the table as being the snark-nosed bitch I’m apt to being. When he sang along to an old Van Halen song on the radio and asked me if I liked that one back in high school (since we graduated the same year), I snickered and made a crack about not growing up in the Midwest. Sure, he laughed (I suspect because he’s used to girls dropping their pants when he flashes his wallet, rather than purely based on mutual attraction and a healthy respect for his flagrant brand of executive bravado), but when he cut someone off in an intersection and I called him on it, we exchanged seething looks that said, Don’t act like my ex!
As he dropped me off at my car with no promises of calling, citing a preference for dating-website email communication, I can’t lie: a few warning bells went off in my mind. Because, was the “nanny” he spoke about actually his wife? And how many girls like me was he casually dating? Not that I wanted a commitment out of anyone (I still don’t!), but after having such amazing sex, the hope that he’d bring more condoms with him in the future had occurred to me.
A month later, I finally heard from Date 2 again. He said he was in town, had a work dinner near where I live, and could we go out for drinks afterward? Nope, I told him. Already had a date planned for that night. “No problem,” he assured me, promising next time.
Now, I’m not sure if there truly will be a next time, but honestly, I don’t care (told you I think like a dude). If there is, however, I plan on enjoying it.
sluttychristiandivorcee 