Dater X: More Like Dater S-E-X, Right!? High Five!
Some bloggers take great delight in burying the most important or exciting bit of information at the bottom of their post, click-baiting you into scrolling paragraph after paragraph of self-indulgent prose to get there. And while I’ll not deny a fondness for words on words on words, today, I simply can’t contain myself: Readers, I got laid.
Who: El Guapo
What: End-of-the-night giggity after a delicious dinner and some extra-innings baseball at my local.
Where: Casa di Dater X
When: Friday, once I finally fired off the last of my deadlines and got a couple of margaritas in me.
Why: Because he’s attractive and into me, even at my baseball-watching, taco-chomping, end-of-month deadline-stressing worst, and because the last time I had sex, I walked over a mile, during a blizzard, to get it. No, I am not kidding. Another story for another time (I have to maintain my air of mystery, which I fear is dissipating like a spritz of perfume as I write about my sex life – or lack thereof – here every week.)
There’s more to the “why,” of course, but since I promised not to bury the lede, let’s start with the “what.” El Guapo and I had a very tasty dinner (and several very sizable cocktails) at a great little spot in my neighborhood, then headed to a nearly deserted sports bar where both our teams were playing late games. We watched; we cheered; we flirted. He walked me home. I invited him up. He asked to plug in his phone so he could get an Uber home later. I obliged. He plopped down on the couch, and I sat down on his lap facing him, and not five minutes later, he’d hoisted me into the air, my legs around his waist, and carried me into the bedroom like I was a toy. (Side note: Men, so you know: it is awesome when you do this. What I lack in height I more than make up for in generous curves, and nothing makes me want to put them on ya like you lifting me up. I feel little and light and desired. And your shoulders look fucking great.)
The rest of the “what” was … good. Fine. Not the kind of sex you can get lost in, because I think we both knew we were just scratching an itch, but I’ll be goddamned if it didn’t feel good to dig my nails into this one a bit. After, we lay on my bed and chatted some more, laughed about something or another, chugged a couple of pints of cold water, and then he headed out and I went to bed.
I felt a couple of things about this.
For one thing, usually I’m all about the sleepover. Sure, yes, I know – play into the stereotype, Dater X – but I will: cuddling rules. Still, in this case, knowing we were just fucking to fuck and not possibly inching towards some kind of romantic involvement, I was perfectly content to send El Guapo on his Uber-chauffeured way and sprawl out diagonally across my bed with no one snoring in my ear.
For another thing, I realized that I want the sleepover. Just not, obviously, with El Guapo. This is a bit more complicated. We’ve been friends (and friends with benefits, at that) for too long to think it would be weird to frankly tell him I’m interested in finding something more with someone else. We will continue to meet for dinner and watch baseball games and enjoy each other’s company like we always have. What’s complicated is the realization that maybe I’m looking for that elusive, terrifying thing that I’m not sure all of us get to have. The thing that I’m reluctant, even now, to name. The four letter word. The queen mother. The L dash dash dash word. (Sorry, Ralphie, but this one makes “fuck” look like “fiddlesticks.”)
I realized it, dimly, earlier this week at the laundromat when a guy who legitimately deserved the label “Hunk” nonchalantly peeped over at my unmentionables as I unloaded them from the washer (and I blushed and turned away and scampered off to the dryer like the sixth-grade chicken shit I actually am inside instead of saying something coy or, y’know, smiling at him.)
And then again, a few days ago, at the liquor store, when an extra right out of central casting for Stud Next Door chatted me up about my Pinot Grigio (and I demurred and paid the nice man at the counter and scurried out of the store practically tripping over the tail I’d tucked between my legs.)
I don’t even want to type it, because admitting that I want it means acknowledging that I might not find it, but here it is: I’m ready – really ready – to fall in love. [retches nervously into nearest wastebasket]
Huh. Maybe I buried the lede after all.