Sex and the Single Soccer Mom

After weeks of being “off the grid” in the online dating world, I decided to dip my toes back in. Of course, dipping your toes back into online dating is nearly impossible. Immediately, I remembered why I hid my profile in the first place. A deluge of messages, primarily from men that I would never be interested in, filled my inbox immediately.

However, I was messaged by a very attractive man with whom I exchanged several interesting emails. After a few emails, he asked if he could call me. I agreed. After playing phone tag for a couple of days, we finally made a connection. J seemed intelligent and insightful on the phone. A little country in his voice, but I could deal with that. We talk on the phone again a couple of nights later and I am still impressed and feel a tiny smidgeon of hope: An attractive man who can hold a decent conversation, who says he is tired of playing games and wants a relationship. Sign me up! We set up a coffee date at the local Starbucks.

When I arrive, the shallow part of me is pleased to notice that he is just as attractive in person as he is in his photos. We mutually admire each other for a couple of seconds, then go up to the counter to order. At the counter, he peruses the menu, then finally announces: “I think I’ll try one of them Cafe Lette’s”. He then remarks that this Starbucks is bigger than the ones where he lives (an odd statement, as he told me he’d already been to this location for business meetings). He follows up with, “I like them Panera Bread’s. They’re real big and you can eat there too.” I smile and nod. Pointing to the bulletin board, upon which hangs several brightly colored flyers for events, he exclaims: “They’ve got that done up real purty.”

Danger, Will Robinson!

At that moment, two voices inside my head begin to war with each other. The snarky voice says, “Seriously? Could you ever see yourself with someone who uses the word ‘purty’ without irony? Or who is excited by the bright colors on the bulletin board?” The loving and open voice says, “Stop being such a snob! He could be a warm, intelligent, loving, kind human being on the inside! Give him a chance!”

Loving voice wins out and we sit down to enjoy some conversation. Ah…where to begin! Do I start with his revelation that he wants to be a motivational speaker?Along with the fact that he demonstrated his supposed skill at motivational speaking for 15 minutes straight, intensely, while he had me as a captive audience? How about the fact that he told me God has a plan for me? For everyday of my life, in fact! God knows and loves me more than anyone. I halfway expected that he would start a rousing round of “Jesus loves me, yes I know”…

From his deep faith in God (and his faith in God’s love for me), we moved onto the subject of government. He hates it all. Our country sucks and he would like to move to some other country that is better. He wasn’t certain what country that would be. He then relayed a conversation he’d recently had with a woman from South Africa. Upon asking her what her favorite thing was about this country, she replied: “That there are more white people than black people.” Trying to gauge his reaction to her answer, I asked, “Wasn’t she from South Africa?” “Yup, but she’s white!” I follow up with, “Wouldn’t there naturally be more black people than white people in Africa?” He laughs and says, “Of course!” Thinking we had dodged the bigotry bullet, I breathed a sigh of relief. Until….

“I’ve never been with a black woman before. I just don’t really want to go there. I mean, I can’t say I wouldn’t like to try it, at least once, to see what it was like. Still, I wouldn’t have any babies with them. She (South African friend) told me they can’t breed over there. You know, the blacks and the whites.”

Reservedly, I inquire: “How do you feel about that?”

“Well, I think it’s right! They have theirs and we have ours. I don’t have anything again ’em, but I don’t believe in breedin’ with ’em either. No ma’am!” Intense and emphatic headshaking to punctuate the point. “I wasn’t raised that way. You ain’t never been with a black man, have you?”

Immediately after this question, I am merely hanging in there for the amusement factor and the opportunity to push some buttons. I’m not proud, but it’s true. We’ve covered religion, politics and racism;  He decides it’s time to move onto sex.

“I like that you’ve got a high sex drive, like me.” I’m still trying to figure out how he determined that I had a high sex drive, as I never mentioned that to him.

“You’re short and curvy, just like I like. I like something to grab onto (Punctuated with what sounded like a sex grunt).”

Me: “I’m definitely not anorexic.”

“I like your nice round butt. Mmmm….hmmmm.”

“Thanks.” Hell, I’ll take compliments on my butt where I can get them!

“Wanna know what my favorite sex thing is?”

Me: “Not really.”

He laughs in disbelief. “Awwww…you’re funny! I like it when a woman uses her hands on me, with, like, some nice lotion. Mmmm-hmmm! Oh yeah, I really like that! Do you know how to do that good?”

“I have to say, it’s not one of my better talents.” Deadpan face and voice.

He studies me for a moment, trying to figure out if I’m serious or not. “Awwww…I don’t believe you! I’ll bet you’re real good in bed. What’s your favorite thing?”

“I’d prefer it remain a mystery.”

He decides to let that one go. “So, what size penis do you like? Show me with your hands.”

I refuse. Without feeling discouraged, he goes on: “Do you cum easy? Because I dated a woman once who couldn’t. Not at all. Found out she had been, you know, abused.”

Thinking that I sense some thoughtfulness, I murmer in sympathy.

“Yeah, I never knew it, but that is one mountain I would never want to climb again. I mean, women who have been abused, they are just takers, ya know? They had something taken from them, so they just want to take from someone else. Unless they go in and fix what’s broken, they won’t ever ben any use to anybody.”

Appalled, I say passionately, “You realize that nearly every woman you date will have had some level of sexual violence in her life?”

He seems stumped by this and senses my displeasure. Changing his tactic, he reaches out a finger and touches my bottom lip. “I like your mouth. It’s sexy.” Pouting a little bit with his very full bottom lip, he asks: “Do you think my mouth is okay? Or are my lips too big?”

I am nearly speechless and simply say, “So, what do you plan to do with the rest of your evening?”

He smiles. “Wanna kiss?”

I look around the Starbucks, crowded with college students studying. “What, like right now?”

He laughs again and batts his eyelashes, “Awwww….nawwww. I mean, do you wanna go out to my truck so we can kiss and I can play with you and stuff?”

I realize, with a mixture of amusement and horror, that he is quite serious. “No, I don’t think so,” I tell him.  “I think it is probably time for me to go.”

He looks sad, then asks the dreaded question: “So, can we go out again?”

My usual stance when asked this is to avoid a concrete answer, then tell them I don’t want to see them again by email. Absolutely cowardly, I know. Tonight, I opted for honesty.

“J, I think that you would not enjoy dating me.”

He looks stumped again and asks curiously, “Why not?”

“Well, I am a Godless, liberal, tree-hugging woman who would probably allow myself to be impregnanted by a black man if I fell in love with him. I think that would start to bother you.”

He looks slightly shocked, then hangs his head is silence for a moment, staring at the table. Finally, he looks up with a very serious expression on his face.

“Well, I’d like to date you. Still, if you don’t think you wanna go out with me again, what would you think about one of those friends-with-benefits sort of deals?”

For very personal reasons, I have to laugh. I sit there laughing for a moment, then let him know I don’t think that will work either. I stand up and put my coat on. He also makes moves to leave and says he will walk me to my car.

Once at my car, he hugs me, then moves in for the kiss. At this point, I am trying to decide if I should smack him on principle or hope that because he is hot I at least get a really hot kiss. I opt to allow the kiss.

You know, there are times when I’ve been performing more intimate acts and found that as the act grew more heated, my ability to breathe was compromised and my gag reflex was activated. However, I can honestly say that this is the first time that a mere kiss, on a first date, prompted that response.

 As he forced his tongue down my throat and he began to thrust, I reacted with instinct and pushed him away before I gagged. His breathing labored, he tried to move in for a second and I put a hand on his chest and said, “I need to go.”

“Wait. Are you sure you don’t wanna go out to my truck and let me play with you?”

I smile angelically and say with quiet certainty. “Absolutely positive.”

This entry was posted on January 8, 2011 at 12:05 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.