SIR, YOU NEED TO PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON

It’s always interesting to see how a person acts when you take them out of their comfort zone. Someone who’s amazing in bed and fantastic on intimate dates can be a total disaster when you toss in a little too much alcohol and mixed company. This was my experience with one of my partners early on.   

In February, a good friend of mine invited me to a burlesque show. I mulled over the invite for a few days, and when I finally agreed and she got our tickets. A week later, she messaged me that her husband surprised her with tickets to the very same burlesque show. I didn’t want to be the awkward third wheel, so I invited Milo, a dance instructor I was dating. I often hesitated to bring men I dated around my friends, especially when it’s still new. In the past, when things would end, I hated having to explain why we broke up or stopped seeing each other. But luckily, both her and her husband were in the lifestyle, and that awkward conversation could be avoided. When I decided to invite him, it was for multiple good reasons. Not only was the sex amazing, but he was also reliable, and since he was a dance instructor, I knew he owned formal attire that the event called for.  

It was agreed that he would pay her husband for his ticket. They would pick us up in the city, we would drive out to Brooklyn, see the show, then go dancing. It was a simple enough agenda, but the night went a bit array.   

The night of the show, I met Milo at a Mexican restaurant downtown for a quick drink. When I saw him at the bar, I could tell he already had a few too many. While we waited for my friend to arrive, I got us each a margarita against my better judgment. Right when we finished our drinks, she and her husband pulled up. When we got into the car, she reminded us that she had made a pre-game drink to avoid the overpriced ones. But, because the drink was too strong for me, she and Milo finished most of it.   

When we arrived at the loft, the atmosphere was incredibly sexy. It reminded me of a scene from the 1920s speakeasy, and I loved it. We walked up the stairs, greeted the host, and looked for the right spot to view the show. The show progressed nicely, the dancers were beautiful, and their sets were entertaining. All would have been amazing had it not been for my date.   

When we first met, I asked him if he smoked, to which he said no. I had to remind myself that a person that smokes when they’re drinking will never admit they’re a smoker. Many times, throughout the show, he would disappear onto the balcony to take a smoke. When he wasn’t inhaling toxic fumes, he was poorly executing a whisper that everyone within earshot could hear. I had to tell him multiple times to be quiet, and I began to get embarrassed. The next thing I knew, when I turned back around, his shirt was off. I guess he figured that since the dancers were taking off their clothes, and he too was a dancer, it was an open invitation for all dancers to strip. I saw the hostess strut over, perky breasts exposed, landing strip visible, and wearing a feather-trimmed sheer robe; into his ear, she whispered, “Sir, you need you to put your shirt back on.” She stood firm, waited for him to follow her instructions, and she walked away. Two acts before the last, I turned around, and he was nowhere to be found. I walked downstairs and out of the building to see him walking back. Where he went, I will never know; but when we got back upstairs, it was the final act. — Thank God! — After the show, we all chatted for a bit, then left to go dancing.   

We bopped around from bar to bar, drinking, dancing, and hoping to find the spot that would keep us going to the sun came up. The final place we ended was tight as a virgin, but the energy was amazing. I was still reeling from his earlier behavior, and to rid myself of the ordeal, I passionately kissed him with a touch of anger. When we kissed, I felt my annoyance change into arousal. I felt a pinch on my ass that I swore came from my friend or her husband (which I would’ve happily invited), but nothing else happened. We left in search of food, then he whispered that we should head back to his place. Once again, I got the impression that they wanted the night to end with all of us possibly together, but I kept my mouth shut.   

We sat back as they drove to his place and dropped us off. Once upstairs, I was overcome with so many emotions, I had to end the night on a good note. So, I made sure to fuck all the bad parts away. Despite how I described the events of the evening, make no mistake, I was mortified. I seriously debated seeing him again, so I had no option but to erase it with sex. I sucked his dick, he ate my pussy until I came, and we fucked like it was the end of the world. When it was all done, and we were both orgasmed out, we passed out.   

In the morning, I took a shower, and on my way out, he apologized for getting that drunk. I told him, “I forgive you, but let it be the last time.” We kissed, and I left. Over a year later, we still see each other, and I’m happy to say, that was the first and only time he got that drunk in my presence.   

I MAKE MY BAD DECISIONS SOBER

For as long as I can remember, I never loved the feeling of being drunk. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good margarita with my Mexican, or bottomless mimosas during brunch. But when it comes to getting drunk, it’s just not my thing; I prefer to get nice. Because I don’t get drunk, I can never use the excuse, ‘I was so drunk, I can’t remember’ line. This means I have the unfortunate responsibility of having to playback, in excruciating detail, all the events of a drunken night with friends, or a day of drinking that ended up in a fight.  

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no goody-two-shoes. I’ve thrown up across tables, fell asleep in bathroom stalls, and in many clubs. But, like an elephant, I remember everything that happened leading up to the moment I fall asleep. I can recall the exact sip that put me over the edge. On a drunken birthday, I remember picking up dollars from the floor and handing them to the strippers on stage. I remember waiting on line to use the bathroom, then falling asleep on the toilet. I remember the bathroom attendant looking over the top of the stall to make sure I was alive. And I remember my friends escorting me back to my section and letting me go to sleep. I woke up when the ship docked.  

I used to envy those people that blacked out, for the sole reason of zero accountability. I always saw the ‘too drunk to remember line’ as a cop-out or an excuse to do fucked up shit and get away with it. –” I’m sorry I slept with you best friend; I was drunk.” — I wished that I could fuck up majorly and, like Jamie Foxx, blame it on the alcohol, but I couldn’t. For a while, I envied those people; Then, when I started attending sex parties, I learned to love my ability to remember.   

If you’ve never been to a sex-club or swinger party, they’re always BYOB. To my very first party, I brought a bottle of Bacardi Coconut Rum. I had the bar-lady mix it with pineapple juice, took a few sips, and then scoped out the room. The liquid massage the rum offered my body, was just the right amount of relaxation I wanted and needed. I engaged in some great conversations, ate some pussy, sucked some dick, was in a threesome, and rode a man’s face. And the only reason I remember every detail of that night was because I was sober.   

When I started attending LS (Lifestyle) parties regularly, less and less alcohol was needed. For starters, attending parties with a guaranteed partner removed a lot of pressure. And since I screened my partners before the party, I had an assortment of dicks ready to please me. Secondly, with the right amount of people, the party jumped off rather quickly, and with everyone having a good time, a drink to loosen up wasn’t necessary. That high school dance feeling of, waiting for other couples to dance, did not exist. I was extremely comfortable being one of the first couples to start things off. Lastly, I wanted to be in total control of whatever happened throughout the night. I need to know what titty I’m licking, dick I’m sucking, pussy I’m eating, and whose dick is fucking me. In a room full of bodies and chaos, I need to have control; and I couldn’t have that if I was too far gone. Would I recognize the person a few days later, while walking down the street? –Of course not! But, at that moment, I knew that every decision I made was mine, and that was all that mattered.   

In addition to wanting to have that control, I wanted to be able to remember how it all felt. I wanted to remember the kiss on my partner’s lips when he sees the outfit I changed into. I wanted to remember the feeling of my lingerie against my skin. I wanted to remember the feeling of eyes on me. I wanted to remember my partner kissing me, then laying me down on the mattress, and removing my panties to devour my pussy. I wanted to remember the weight of other bodies on the bed. I wanted to remember the feeling of tangled limbs and hands caressing my legs in the air. I wanted to remember the feeling of my toes and nipples being sucked and licked. I wanted to remember the feeling of a veiny dick in my mouth as my partner devoured my pussy into a screaming orgasm. I wanted to remember the moment he turned me over to fuck me. I wanted to remember the smell of the pussy I bend over to eat and the feeling of her breasts in my hands. I wanted to remember his hands around my throat, restricting my airway as he rammed my pussy and found his orgasm. And, in the end, I wanted to remember him pulling me back to kiss my lips once he reached his orgasm.  

I make all of my bad decisions sober because I want to be in control, and I want to be able to recall the memories of each encounter. I want to remember the feelings of inhibitions lost and lust that enveloped the room. I may forget the names and faces, but that intoxicating feeling will stay with me forever, all because I make my decision sober.   

I love my mom! But…

Now, I know this sounds bad but let me assure you. My mom and I have, quite possibly, the best relationship a mother and daughter can have. She is my best friend, my proudest supporter, and my strongest shoulder to lean on whenever I am feeling down. All of my friends love the relationship that my mom and I have and I wouldn’t trade her for all the money in the world.

With that being said: I love my mom; but… every day I scroll through instagram and/or facebook and I double tap random pictures. Pictures of people that I know very well, once knew a long while ago, may have never met and/or will probably never meet. It’s all fun and games until I scroll across that one post: the post of that one friend, whose face is grinning from cheek to cheek, with their hand exposed, showing an engagement ring, with an “I said yes” comment. Naturally and with true feelings of satisfaction for my friend that has finally found a person to walk the journey of life with, I do what everyone else does. I like the post and write a “congratulations” with all the random emojis that follow. Sometimes, I’ll even tap on their page and just look back at some of their happy love-filled images and smile and wish them all the luck on their journey forward together. Then, the bitter thought begins to creep up in the back of my throat as the reality sets in; I will, again, be attending another wedding with my mom as my date.

Like I said, I love my mom with all my heart but for the past two of my friend’s weddings I have attended, she has been my date. We ride in the Uber to the venues, talk and laugh with all the other wedding guests and eat all the lovely food and cake and have a blast. But, when the couple would has their first dance I watch them embrace, sway from side to side, look into one another’s eyes, and I long for that same moment. When they call for all the other couples to join them I always, naturally sit it out. I would look on as man and woman, man and man, or woman and woman embraced and silently think when will that happen for me? I would run out of fingers and toes ten times over if I actually sat down and listed all the men that have entered my life with the hope of a relationship that never truly manifested.

I am 31 years old. I have been single for almost three years and as pessimistic as it sounds, I do not see my status changing any time soon. The dating world that I once knew no longer exists, the butterflies I once got in anticipation for a first date never happens. Hell! Even just a request for an actual date is, for me, comes as often as the solar eclipse.

“Make Dating Great Again” that’s a slogan that should go on a hat!

My mother’s friend’s daughter just got engaged. She’s in her mid twenties and I am eternally happy for them. But I know when its time to RSVP, as this is a family friend, my mother will probably take my father as her date and I will be that, ever awkward, third wheel. The saving grace this time around is, luckily the wedding is in 2019 and under normal circumstances, that would be enough time for any attractive woman to: meet a nice man, woo him with charm and wit, and hope that he will eventually see what all her family, friends, co-workers, and acquaintances see – “that she is actually an awesome individual”. He would take the initiative to secure a relationship and her affections and they would spend the year getting to know each other and when it was time for her to send in her RSVP she would actually have a plus one.

But, with today’s lack of romance, in my experience. I’m more likely to win the jackpot or be struck by lightening before I meet a man that actually, simply, wants to go on a date. No man that I encounter even wants to go on a date with me. The conversations start of G-rated and often makes an abrupt left turn for X. This often leaves me wondering; “did I say something that insinuated that was what I really wanted”, do they try this every woman, or is it me? Are the signals I’m sending through the Internet getting crossed or misread? Are they coming out on the other end translating to “I’m a hoe, don’t take me seriously, I only want to play around?”

After almost three years of the same scenarios playing out exactly the same way. I have come to the conclusion that I have no idea what I’m doing in this new era of dating.

How awesome it would be to meet a man, have him fall in love (or like) with my personality and have the passion to be with me and only me, we would continue to grow as a couple and I could have a couples dance with Man-X holding me closely, swaying to the music, and holding my hand through the ceremony. That would be very awesome indeed.

February 24^th, 2018