Communication

Well, after a couple days' break, we went out last night. Not really a typical date - clothes shopping and dinner - but fun. We chatted about random stuff. Including the fact that he had screwed up his courage and asked his boss for a raise, and that he had a plan for dealing with the psycho roomie.

Oh, and that I hate it when he leaves his dirty work clothes on the bathroom floor, and don't appreciate picking up after him.

Then we came home and had great sex.

Funny how communication seems to facilitate these things.


I am really not quite sure what to do about this guy. I don't know if I am overly prepared to write him off, if this is growing pain that is normal in a new relationship, or if there really are legitimate concerns. I have no concept of what a healthy new relationship really feels like. It's been too long, and I think I am getting cagey about having someone in my life and inside my head. Maybe I am less tolerant of quirks, having been more-or-less happily on my own for several years. I am afraid of losing my sense of independence, the feeling that if he disappears, things will keep chugging merrily along, with a slightly adjusted weekend routine, which is how out-of-town dating seems to go for me.

When Mr. Wonderful and I broke up, it took years for me to feel like I was really going to be okay on my own. I don't think I have given anyone a fighting chance since then.

Whether T is 'the one' or really only the fourteenth is pretty immaterial. It boils down to what I can cope with, how vulnerable I am willing or able to be. I know it can't go anywhere if I don't allow it, but I gotta admit, it sure ain't easy...

***Grin***

What a weekend.

T is amazing.

He came over Friday night with a backpack and a scrabble board, plus an ear-to-ear grin. We went for dinner, cooked dinner, walked the dog, watched movies, did dishes, and cuddled lots. He fits my life. He has a beautiful smile. And brains to spare.

Interestingly, we did not have sex. He said later that he had thought about bringing condoms, but thought I was something special, and did not want to rush things. Funny...I had thought about buying condoms, but did not want to rush with him. Strange...

My pets love him. My cat would rather curl up in his lap. My dog won't leave him alone. It's cute. He likes pets.

He was so shy and bashful on Thursday, but that faded fast. Some of it is his own courage...he was bashful and blushing madly Sunday morning when he (toe-in-dirt shyly) invited me to join him in the shower. It's a little contagious - I was blushing madly when I (toe-in-dirt shyly) accepted. My hot water tank must be broken...seemed like the hot water ran out right away...

Assumptions

I have known Beavis for a long, long time, but I can't say I know him well at all. Unfortunately, conversation is not his forte, so all I have to go on for much of the time is behavior and history.

I tend to stick my foot in it from time to time.

This weekend, I asked him if he knew how many women he had been with.

Perfectly legitimate question - we may get physically involved, and this is the sort of thing I should be privy to. However, my wording was a bit...offensive. There's that assumption thing - Beavis is a very nice looking guy, and I know for a fact that both his best friends were in the three-digit range ten years ago. I backed up and re-phrased my question, but the damage had already been done. I therefore had no right to get pissy about his reply:

"Probably a lot less than you."

When we started talking actual numbers, it turned out that he was absolutely right - his count is around half of mine. Of course, he was wise enough to not ask a question he didn't want the answer to, but I can do the math all by myself.

This sort of shocked me on a couple of levels. First: I had made a judgement about Beavis that was dead wrong, and offensive to him. Second: Beavis made a judgement about me that was dead right, and offensive to me.

Hmm.

Ancient History #3 - Sunshine on your Face

M. and I had discussed anal sex on several occasions. He wanted to try, just to see what it was like. My reply was that, in general, I thought it should feel good, since a gentle finger up my ass at the right moment was enough to send me over the edge. But, when I had actually tried anal sex, it had HURT LIKE HELL. I told him we could try, but I was pretty dubious about the whole idea. He never pushed it, though.

We went out for a nice Vietnamese dinner one Friday night, then came home, watched a movie in bed, and got it on. It was one of those not-quickie-but-not-all-night sessions, the sort of sex you have when you know someone really well, and can both get off pretty quickly, then get on to the snuggling-and-reviewing-your-week part.

After, we laid in bed, spooning, and discussing our respective weeks. I don't know what we were talking about, but something got his attention, and I realised he was poking me again. I rocked my hips a little, pushing back against him. We were just kind of messing around, but his cock was rubbing against my ass, and it felt good.

Wouldn't you know it, but he just slid in, no pain or anything. It felt great, and I told him not to stop. He didn't.

Well, I have to admit, Vietnamese gives me gas. A few minutes after we finished, I got that urgent feeling, like "uh-oh".

I ran to the toilet, sat down, and farted. Sort of. I mean, farts are just gas, right? This one was...drippy. Disgusting, really. He could hear it from the bedroom, and was laughing his ass off.

The next morning, M was up first. He noticed that the coffee pot hadn't been turned off from the night before. He blamed me.

I told him there was no way it was my fault.

I told him I was perfect, and would never forget to turn off the coffee pot.

I told him I had a halo and farted sunshine.

He looked at me and burst out laughing. "Is THAT what you call it?" he giggled. "Sure gives a whole new meaning to 'sunshine on your face'..."

Size DOES Matter.

Sorry, guys. I hate to say it, but it's true.

Size matters.

Average is good. Really good. Perfect, in fact.

I mean, I can 'hit bottom' with my index finger, if I stretch a little. Now granted, I've got big hands, but not seven (or nine or twelve) inches of index finger. Honest. True, pussies are built to stretch, but, like fat ladies and pink spandex, there are limits, or ought to be. Anything as big around as my wrist DOES NOT belong in my hoo-haw. Period. Exclamation mark. All that's going to do is hurt. If it looks like it belongs to a beast of burden, it just ain't happenin.

On the other hand, my index finger can do things that your little guy just cant. MY three inches know exactly where my g-spot is, and things like articulated joints and fine motor control allow me to do what's necessary. Unfortunately, your little guy just doesn't have that sort of talent, and needs to make it up with size. To a point (see above). If I get more sensation out of a tampon applicator, we've got a problem. Motion in the Ocean, my left foot...if you're speed-fucking me with a q-tip, it's still going to feel like a q-tip. Friction alone does not a good time make. Sorry, but it's true.

Now you know. Not polite, but very, very true.

Ancient Histroy #2: Donkey Dong

Well, I was doing my daily reading, and came across two posts that probably only relate to each other in MY head:

http://briliantdonkey.blogspot.com/2007/02/blind-man-walks-into-restaurant.html

and

http://swimminginthedatingpool.blogspot.com/2007/02/boat-sizes-and-ocean-motions.html

It reminded me of this guy I knew...

It all started when my girlfriend, Wiley, invited me down to The City for the weekend. I agreed, but only if we went out and got crazy. That was Wiley's cue to invite her pal Fruity.

Fruity is a fag. I mean this in the nicest possible way, but Fruity is...well...a fruit. A Fairy. Light in the loafers. Queer as a three-dollar bill. He likes pink and frilly things. He plays it up, too...the more homophobic you act, the campier he gets, which makes a night out on the town with him endlessly amusing for sick bastards like me.

We went to a club. Not a regular club. The sort of place where I REALLY stand out, but only by virtue of being the ONLY one in the place not wearing rubber, chains, or a feather boa. Because my hair colour can't be described in terms of kool-aid flavours. Because I haven't got a single facial piercing or visible tattoo. THAT kinda club. In fact, I think you need a membership to attend, though Fruity probably took care of that well in advance.

Going out with a gay guy and a straight girl is...amusing. Fruity and I quickly established that we have the same taste in men. After a few drinks, we took to sending Wiley to talk to the hotties, to establish which team they batted for (like I said, it was THAT kind of club). Fruity and I agreed that if the hottie was bi, we'd flip a coin to see who would get him. Heads for me, and Tails for Fruity, of course.

Fruity pointed out the bartender. He was CUTE. We sent Wiley on a scouting mission, and the reply came back in my favor, so I went up to order the next round, and strike up a conversation. As luck would have it, the Bartender was single, and willing to join me for a coffee after his shift.

For a hot bartender, he had suprisingly little ego. He was witty and fun, and also blind. I was pretty impressed - you gotta be SMART to be able to memorise the location of every liquor bottle in the rack, and talented to be able to mix a drink you can't see. He explained that he could see, a little...he could tell where my face was for instance, but couldn't tell what I looked like. I didn't fuss too much about the handicap...in fact, I took it as a bonus, as it meant that I didn't have to bother with makeup when we went out on dates. How convienent!

After a few dates, we went back to his place for 'a nightcap'.

After a few 'nightcaps', we wound up making out on the couch.

One thing led to another, and we found ourselves in the bedroom. Eventually, naked.

I swear to god, the floor shook when he unleashed that monster from his pants. It might have been from the impact of my jaw hitting the ground...that thing was HUGE. I've never seen anything THAT size on a creature smaller than a HORSE. I mean, it was as big as my ARM.

My pussy whimpered.

"You plan to put THAT where?"

"What do you mean?"

Turns out, Donkey Dong had NO IDEA that he could be making his living as a porn star...or a circus freak, for that matter. I guess it makes sense...I mean, he was blind. He'd never seen another man's penis in the gym showers. He'd never seen the envious glances that I'm certain he got in said showers. He was absolutely clueless.

I half-heartedly retrieved a condom from my handbag. The packet had a smaller diameter than his penis. Crinkling it thoughtfully, I told him I didn't think I could go through with having sex with him.

As he closed the door behind me, he said

"This is because of my disability, isn't it. You think I'm a freak."

Well, yeah...

But not in the way that he thought...

Fruity sure was jealous when I told him about it, though...apparently gay men looooveee a huge cock...

Ancient History #1 - What do you do with a boy?

Well, with this cold just getting more and more miserable, I don't imagine I'll have much to say about dating for a bit. I mean, if I'm too sick to go to work, I shouldn't be out there spreading the disease. Besides, I gave myself a week to mope over the London trip (turned out to be totally unnecessary), and have nothing lined up.

It had never occurred to me when I started this blog that total strangers would actually make a regular effort to see what I had to say. Suddenly, I feel compelled to write something...I'd hate to let the six of you down...

So, I thought I'd dust off the ancient history.



I was raised in a lesbian household. In my world, there was Mom and Mom #2, and Dad was a rather distant, shady character, as he lived in another city entirely, and had twice-a month weekend visitation, when he had time for it. I was five when my biological parents divorced, and seven when my moms moved in together.

Mom has lived consistently with women for the majority of the last 25 years, but does not consider herself a lesbian. She dated a man for about two months when I was a teenager, and I have to say her taste in women is MUCH BETTER than her taste in men. However, I suppose in her mind, two months in 25 years is enough to qualify her as 'not a lesbian'. Of course, she doesn't think she's bisexual, either. I usually quit asking nosy questions at that point, lest I get some evasive hippy answer like 'love makes the world go round' or 'everyone deserves to be loved'. Personally, I think Mom hasn't figured out that it's the New Millenium now, and nobody really cares if she's gay.

Mom #2, Mom's first long-term girlfriend, was as dyke-y as a dyke can possibly get. Her main hobby (after man-bashing) was woodworking. She ALWAYS showed up at the Take Back The Night marches (usually with my sister and I in tow, chanting slogans and pumping our little fists in the air). Mom #2 even had the army boots and the classic leather bull-dyke hat. She was butch with a capital 'B". And feminist with a capital 'F'. She probably would have scratched her crotch in public, if it weren't so reminicent of The Patriarchy. She thought that sex with men was sleeping with the enemy.

I was never confused about whether or not I liked boys. Ever. It was never in question. Mom probably realised that early on, but Mom #2 held out hope until about my third boyfriend, at which point she gave up and recognised that I really was (unfortunately) straight.

Being raised by lesbians in an all-female household really does not equip you for dating boys. I learned to dance in an environment where the taller person leads...and I was 5'8 by the age of 16. I STILL expect my partner to WANT to talk about his feelings, all the time. When two girls move in together, they immediately go shopping for curtains and matching throw-pillows. When a girl and a boy move in together, you're lucky if he agrees to restrict his dirty-sock pile to the bedroom floor intead of the whole house. Dating boys was just FULL of nasty suprises.

I had some idea of how straight sex was supposed to work - we were a Liberal, Progressive family, and had books about these sorts of things (but no TV). As a child, I had a illustrated book about bodily functions, which included a section about what a man and a woman do when they really, really love each other, and want to make a baby. Unfortunately, there wasn't much elaboration, and the Joy of Sex that was hidden in MY parents' bedroom was the one that was strictly girly action. Our Bodies Our Selves is not terribly educational about penises, either (though I must admit it is VERY educational about g-spots and clitorises, and I got REALLY good at masturbation...) My moms were pretty open about things like bodies and sexuality, but much of that simply didn't pertain to straight sex, just by virtue of their own preferences.

Mom did buy a big box of condoms when I had my first period, and put them in the basement bathroom. She told me that she didn't care if I used them, handed them out to my friends, or blew them up as balloons, and that she would never ask where they had gone, but would replace the box when it got empty. I got The Talk about the mechanics of preventing pregnancy and STD's, but no real details about actually having sex. To be honest, the first few boxes wound up being inflated and stuck to my friends' lockers as pranks...

Despite being raised in an all-girl home, I knew about penises, in an academic sort of way. They were the Instruments Of Oppression. Symbols of The Patriarchy. I had no idea that they were so...funny-looking. Really, you expect Instruments Of Oppression to be so much more...impressive. I probably ruined my first chance of a serious sexual adventure by snickering when I had my first glimpse of the Symbol Of The Patriarchy...something referred to in Capital Letters really has no right to be so pink and cute.

Most of my education about girl-boy action was based on hints I had gleaned from reading the Clan of the Cave Bear series and a few of Mom's romance novels. I still have a much-loved and carefully bookmarked copy of the Valley of the Horses. When I finally got around to Sleeping With The Enemy, however, I discovered that BOYS don't read those sorts of books, and have NO IDEA what to do with GIRLS, except for what THEY gleaned from reading their fathers' Penthouse Letters. Up until the age of 25 or so, most guys seem to think 'clitoris' is Latin for The Holy Grail, and don't seem to understand that it's ALSO a REAL BODY PART. You'd NEVER have that problem dating girls.

Thankfully, guys do get better at that sort of thing as they age, and I've never wavered about my preferences...bring on The Instruments Of Oppression, baby!

Oops.

Mr UK got a text message last night. We were in a pub at the time. He very nearly blew his beer right out his nose. Giggling, he handed his phone to me.

It was a message from his flatmate. It read:

"Christ! Bath tub not made for sex! So glad you found that out and not me! I think we'll get crummy builder to fix it, eh? I will call them tomorrow if you haven't already..."

Oops.

But, really, what do they expect us to do with a 2-man corner tub? I don't know if the Brits are too 'propah' to do it in the tub, but in Canada, I guarantee that the builder would take one look at that puppy and think "yup, someone's just gonna have to fuck in that" and frame it in with 4x4's. Hell, depending on the builder, they'd probably test it for themselves.

I took one look at it and knew. Mr UK didn't have to be told twice. Hell, the flatmate's been dreaming about it for ages, apparently, and as soon as she gets her Aussie boyfriend over the pond, she intends to test the repairs. It's obvious what that tub is meant for. It even has a butt-shaped indent in the corner.

And now, a 2-inch gap between the tub and the wall...

Oops.

i hate morning sex.

I really, really do. Mornings are not my friend, and the last thing I want is someone's heaving bulk squashing me when I haven't had my morning coffee yet. I don't want to breathe my dragon breath on him. I don't want him breathing his dragon breath on me. I don't feel sexy when my eyes are glued shut. Especially if we were out carousing last night, and I'm still feeling a little seasick.

And for crying out loud, don't get offended when I don't get off.

I really think there's a fundamental difference between boys and girls on this one. Guys wake up ready to go. For them, it's roll over and poke, poke, poke.

For me, chances are you just interrupted a really cool dream about flying, and I wake up annoyed. I am not ready to go. Foreplay is necessary. Foreplay is the last thing on the mind of a guy who just woke up with a woody.

If we must, don't crawl on top of me, and don't expect me to want to do the reverse cowgirl. Puleeze. I just woke up, and my back hurts. Something suitably gentle, like spooning, you might get away with.

Although the coffee in bed afterward is a nice touch...coffee in bed beforehand would be a much nicer touch...

Aah, well, I shouldn't complain...at least I'm getting sex...