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Well! Would you believe it. Seems the power of prayer works. Or, more importantly, someone “up there” decided enough was enough for me and my not-seen-any-male-action love-hole. I got sent a man, oh yes I did, but it isn’t as straight forward as you might think. No, it never is with me, and I shall tell you all about my “encounter” now. I say encounter, because there’s no other word for it. Ok, maybe we could call it a freakshow. Or whatever word would best be used to describe meeting someone who wants something from you that you’ve dreamed about…only he isn’t especially pleasing to the eye and you’re not sure you want that something after all.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not the kinda girl who has to have a man be handsome like those in the erotic books I read (although that would be a welcome bonus, I must say). I’m realistic. Me, blessed with love handles and a generous helping of fat beneath my skin, can’t expect an Adonis to fancy me stupid, can I? Yeah, stranger things have happened, but they just don’t happen to me.
Let me start at the beginning. And be prepared to laugh at my dilemma, because I sure as shit am now. If I don’t, I’ll go mad.
So, there I was, on my bed with Quivering Quentin (for those who don’t know, he is my vibrator and the only length-like thing that has been in my love-hole in a long, long time), pondering whether or not to have a good time with him or just go to sleep early. My friend had other plans. Not Quentin, no. He didn’t jump alive and insert himself or anything equally amazing like that. My other friend. She rang to ask if I fancied going out for the night. Bear in mind it was already 9 p.m. and I was in my rather ratty pyjamas that have seen far better days and really ought to be in the bin right now. Bear in mind the time should have told me to stay in bed…
I said I’d meet her at the local pub in half an hour. Silly me.
I hadn’t dressed up. Far from it. I just had on some well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved black top. A pair of heeled boots, nothing to write home about, do you dig what I mean? And we stood at the bar, minding our own business, when this guy came over and offered to buy me a drink. He wasn’t ugly, just wasn’t my type, but I tell you, those erotic books had me all in a lather, so I wasn’t about to turn him down later in the night when he suggested we go off alone. He didn’t give me that creepy vibe, and although he didn’t look like Jack or John or Harry from my special little reading matters, and he didn’t have a ripped body and just enough stubble to tickle my inner thighs, I agreed.
Did I already say silly me?
Off we went in his car. I remember wondering where he was taking me as we headed towards our big supermarket on the outskirts of town. Wondered what the hell he thought he was playing at when he killed the damn engine in the car park of said supermarket. Beneath an overhang of trees. I looked about, feeling safe as there were other cars parked there too, all around the edges. I found that a bit odd. I mean, the supermarket was closed, so what was the deal here?
“You into doggin’?” he asked.
Doggin’? Wtf is that, I thought.
So I asked him. And wished I damn well hadn’t. He said it was watching other people have sex in their cars then doing it yourself in your car so they could watch you back. Um, dig me a hole called Get Me The Fuck Outta Here, would you? I mean, yeah, it’s all very well reading about this kind of thing, but when a less-than-glam man asks you for a bit of the old rudey-doody shit in the azz-end of a car park, you kinda don’t feel sexy anymore. You worry about your extra layer of fat, how it would be viewed in such a confined space, where the tummy has a tendency to fold in on itself and produce rolls a damn baker would be proud of.
I declined, wondering if I could make a break for it and scoot down the alleyway that, thank God, leads to my housing estate. He was surprisingly all right about it, said it wasn’t something everyone enjoyed (you’re damn right they don’t!), and that maybe we ought to go back to his place instead.
By this point I was feeling a bit uneasy and telling myself off for ever complaining that Quentin was a plastic bastard that didn’t satisfy my needs. He did, and I loved him then, loved him with all my heart. All I wanted was to feel his silky smoothness and tell him I was sorry. I’m not joking. That’s exactly how I felt. So I said no thanks to the man, who I think I’ll call Wally Weirdo from now onwards, and asked that he drop me off at my house.
I think I need to say “silly me” again.
What kind of woman allows a man who thinks she’s into doggin’, to drop her off at her HOUSE? Me, that’s who. The kind who’s been out of the game for so long I’m surprised my love-hole hasn’t got cobwebs. So, he took me home, asked for my mobile number. And God help me, but I gave it to him.
Then the texts began. Like, three or so minutes after he dropped me off. I wondered if he’d gone back to the supermarket car park and was texting me from there while perving at other couples. The thought gave me the damn creeps, so I was vague in my responses, hoping he’d get the hint I didn’t like his azz.
He didn’t.
The texts continued throughout the next few days, some sexually suggestive, others telling me about his airplane model collection (I AM NOT JOKING HERE!!!!), and I wondered how the hell to brush him off without making him upset. He knew where I lived, know what I mean?
So then he asked me what I thought of a threesome, and let me tell you, my jaw nearly hit the floor. I’ve said this before, but I don’t do this kind of thing. I just have regular sex (when I can damn well get it!) and only found out about the other, more adventurous bedroom antics through reading erotica. Never in my ever-lovin’ little life did I imagine I’d be asked about ménage for real. Never!
At this present time, he’s still texting, even though I’ve ignored his azz for a whole day now. He’s still asking about the ménage. And I don’t want to be mean, but who the hell has he got in mind to join us? A man? A woman? Will they look just as unappealing as him? Am I that unattractive that he’s the only kind of man I can snare? And I haven’t even done it with HIM yet.
Shit, did I say YET? Am I seriously that desperate I’m thinking of doing it with HIM?
Dear God. The perils of reading erotic romance…
