are you into kink…
what exactly do you mean?
I’m back online fishing and I’ve got me a live one, a big possibility flopping on the line while I decide if he’s legal so I can scale, gut and fry him.
So, I’m chatting with Joe Bass and he wants to meet me. Tonight.
Now.
God, you’re impatient.
At least he’s not commencing the classic perpetual-text-no-date parade so common to the modern single lady. I don’t know of any of us who haven’t encountered it. And by the way, gentlemen, we hate when you do this. Knock it the hell off. Ask us out, or don’t, but if you’re never going to, quit stuffing our inbox with unfulfilled hopes and dreams.
I fluff my hair a titch and toss on some heels. I’ve come a long ways since the very first Dude I met on that ill-fated trip to the Italian restaurant, when I spent hours figuring out what to wear, consulting with friends over exactly which dress and what earrings would be the irresistible glittery bait to hook me the elusive catch, the Big One, my Soulmate Other Half Prince Charming Perfect Match Knight In Shining Armor Waiting To Sweep Me Off My Feet. I’m starting not to care so much anymore, and have mere Louis Et Cie pumps, carefully angled to snag my latest potential musky.
I scut-scut through the doorway of yet another one of those hipster We Brew Our Own Beer And We’re Really Fucking Proud Of It! pubs that has silver pipes running everywhere and a glass-enclosed room with massive shining vats large enough to dispose of mob informants. I click past the inevitably handlebar-mustached bartender in skinny pants and am rewarded with the sight of a smiling, mild-mannered gentleman who stands politely the minute he makes a positive identification. Cute. Turns out, he’s also intriguingly intellectual and hysterically funny, and I am all in. Eventually, they are wiping the tables with stinky rags and vacuuming the rugs, any bar’s cue that underneath their fake smiles is a solid get the hell out so we can go home reality. We leave Bar #1 and go to Barely a Bar #2, a dive bar, entering through a ratchet dilapidated screen door that appears to have been fixed by the raspberry nosed guy at the end of the bar who hasn’t left his spot for a generation and a half, tipping slightly farther each year, a human Leaning Tower of Pisa threatening to collapse onto the nearest bystander. We really should place bets as to when, it would make a great fundraiser.
We have an amazing time. He kisses me goodnight for…a while, and wants to see me again. Soon. And I’m off, and gone, carried away on doomed Icarus wings of infatuation once more, soaring ever closer to the sun buoyed by dreams of this guy being The One. I can literally smell the wax melting and just close my eyes, soaring higher, higherrrrr… obsession with finding a significant other a cast iron anchor in a brain that once held ideas, strategies, and other such treasure. My brain is bogged down with leaden weight, you’d better find that guy, Monica. Your chronological clock is ticking. Death looms over me with his ridiculous scythe, ever cackling you’re going to die alone. Alooone!! You don’t even have a person to write down as your emergency contact. BWAAA-HAA-HAAA!!
Fate finds us in yet another bar on another night, and I sit beside my shiny new suitor, waiting for that single long-stemmed rose that will indicate my search is over and I have indeed scored that gold ring. Hope my diamond is big.
We chat over Zombies at the only place in a tri-county area that actually serves them. My head spins, the absolutely intended function of such a drink having hit its mark, and I’m toast, ready and willing to consummate way too early a relationship that has barely begun. I’m making mistakes like an orangutan in an operating room, and things are getting messy.
We cross the threshold of his house, and various items of apparel commence an exit stage left like the conclusion of a community theater performance of Cabaret.
Jacket. Shoes. Shirt. Blouse. Skirt. Pants. Panties. Panties…huh??
SKREEEETCH Barry Manilow ceases crooning the soundtrack in my head accompanying this steamy scene.
CUT.
Pink panties. They’re beautiful, a European pink fine satin with ornate ribbon trim. Victoria’s Secret. Far nicer than mine.
And this is just a chip off the iceberg of the things it turns out this guy is into. He has a massive wardrobe of exquisite women’s clothing. He is Lady Diana Fucking Spencer. I mean, if you’re into that, more power to you, but I was a bit surprised. I even think, okay, well, it’s not the worst thing, maybe it’s just fine that his lingerie is prettier than mine, I mean shit, maybe he’ll let me borrow it, but this leads to a conversation about… how do I put this delicately? Objects being placed in areas? Square peg, round hole? Insert Tab A into slot Z? Parking in rear, only it’s a charter bus due in Brownsville at ten? I’m going to be a statistic if I stay with this guy, just the next bout in the ER removing something that absolutely does not belong where it has been discovered. Well, you see, Doctor, it was really hot, so I was working on a ladder naked, and when I fell off the flashlight just happened to be standing there on the floor, and …
That’s not even close to the only thing, either. He commences endless stories of multiple partners at the same time, painful…umm…toys designed to take you to the brink of torture and pleasure, yep, I’m absolutely going to wind up with a broken something. I try to understand where he’s coming from with this for a while, but I just can’t keep up.
Hauling out outfits, the leather crops, the toys, the straps, gags, scheduling others to also be involved, tying, buckling, storage, purchasing all of this shit in the first place, explaining my Amazon shopping cart to my kids…
Suddenly I feel very tired. I don’t want to work this hard at anything. This all just sounds like a royal pain in the ass.
Literally.
I don’t want to have to put together the entire set of a kinky Gone with the fucking Wind in order to have sex. I think I might be just fine with one really good shade of grey, and then roll over and spoon to sleep. I don’t need the fork, the knife, or the egg beater.
And, I’m sorry, but I’m nearing fifty. I don’t want to do this for hours, either. This is sounding like a full time job. Setup, commencement, teardown. Wash the ball gags. Isn’t it enough I already have dishes and laundry to do, now there’s a stack of kinky shit to clean?
Nah.
Too much damn work.
I’m just too lazy for Kinkdude. Whatever happened to lying on the beach? But wait, there’s more.
Enter the charming and proper looking gentleman who delicately takes my hand and kisses the back before requesting my number. He probably dialed me from a rotary phone. The night I met him, we had a surprisingly intellectual discussion about philosophy and religion, and I think him refreshing and rather old fashioned, but in a nice way, not a musty attic way, more like the faded scent of a Southern gardenia. Within a week he is opening a heavy oak door for me, and I enter an opulent restaurant. Two drinks into dinner, he’s leaning in excitedly , bright blue eyes gleaming with excitement, as he tells me of his first threesome with two blondes when he was seventeen. He regales me with a warm repartee of polyamorous events. This dude could write his own book, and it would probably sell better than mine.
I should give his phone number to Fundude. I have a feeling this guy wouldn’t turn down an MDMA fueled orgy.
Do these people all know each other? If they don’t, I should start charging a finders fee for connecting all of these freaks. Okay, I’m sorry for calling them freaks.
Meh, no, I’m not.
I am starting to think that everyone in my beautiful new town is sleeping with everyone else. Or on drugs. Or sleeping with everyone and on drugs.
I meet a doctor, a matchmaker’s creation by a friend of mine who knows both of us and considers us just peachy perfect for each other. Word on the street is the guy is ridiculously smart, very sweet, extremely fun, and has very high energy. This guy’s pedigree is a mile long, and I produce the usual mountain of rejected clothing on my bed getting ready to meet him. I meet my friends at a sprawling bar hopping with nightlife. They aren’t sure where he is, lessee he’s somewhere around…we wind down the stairs to the ghost town of a basement area usually reserved for private parties, and down the hall I see an open doorway. “You in there?” My friend and I lean in… A spectacularly attractive gentleman turns from the toilet tank and introduces himself. “Oh hi, I’m Docdude.”
He still has powder residue on his face. You’re supposed to tell a friend if they have spinach in their teeth, but what do you say when they have coke on their nose?
We get along swimmingly, and he is very fun and high-energy as promised, though now I know he’s getting at least some of these great personality traits from his white powder pal. I lie to myself that this might just be recreational, that he may just do this once a year, but a few more dates in, I know he’s more than just a weekend warrior and have seen the darker side of his drug-addled brain sneak out, an angry outburst far angrier than necessary evidencing the need for me to once again exit before things get ugly.
I’m starting to see patterns emerge. In my mind, the melee of men are launched, ricochet about, then fall into slots like a Pachinko game, rattle rattle rattle CLICK and they line up in categories. Different brands of Ken doll, if you will. Men seem to come in types. Or in a sock. Sorry, that was gross, but the only reason you know what I’m talking about is because they actually do shit like that.
You may want to skip this next chapter if you don’t want to see me utterly roast the other sex.
I have a list.
Worship Leader Gone Wild 