Living in a porn film

Apparently my life has turned into a porn film. I have a potential new lover, one I met in a very x-rated flick kinda way. He showed up on my doorstep to deliver me a pizza. Quick: turn down the lights, cue the cheesy music and let me get my clothes off so I can fuck him.

Of course, that’s what everybody thinks when they hear how I made his acquaintance, even though it didn’t go down that way. This boy caught me completely off-guard, and when I first laid eyes on him standing on my front porch, sex was the furthest thing from my mind – I was starving and wanted some dinner.

Oh, you brought me a pizza! Let's fuck!

Oh, you brought me a pizza! Let’s fuck!

Not only did he pursue me, but he did so quite patiently. He didn’t even try to kiss me until the end of the third date, gave me time to talk to him, allowed me to get to know him and feel safe with him. There was a flurry of text messages, and then I left town for a couple of weeks. We still haven’t had sex (at my request…it’s more fun to drag it out and torment each other for a little while, allowing the sexual energy to build), though the sexting has been hot and heavy, and the night we spent fooling around was extremely erotic and left me wanting more. I invited him out, got way dressed up and took him to dinner. His eyes popped out a bit when I walked up to the restaurant. Which was exactly what I wanted…. Telling me that the meal I prepared him was better than what we ordered in the restaurant was a nice touch (my cooking skills leave a lot to be desired).

He’s a 5th generation Texan, and has the gentlemanly behavior, sweet southern charm and nice manners that come when a boy is raised in the Lone Star State, but with the extra benefit of having lived on the west coast for a while. He is handsome and boyish, with brown hair, blue eyes, a scruffy beard and a soft, round belly. He has almost no hair on his chest. He’s just shy of 6’, which is a bit taller than I prefer, though I could almost look him in the eyes when I wore platform shoes out to dinner. He’s almost 20 years younger than me, though it doesn’t make much of a difference. In the bedroom, we seem to be well-matched, with high libidos and mutual wicked imaginations. I’m actually more than a bit surprised that I don’t intimidate him. When we were making out on the couch after dinner, I looked at him and said that  most men were scared of my sexuality. He laughed, kissed me again and told me I had been hanging out with the wrong guys. Okay, you don’t have to convince me – I want to know where to find the men who say “yes, gimme more.” For the moment, though, I’m happy to have found one of them. It feels really good to have someone appreciate my libido, instead of treating me like I should be ashamed of my sexuality.

When I was married to my ex-husband, I would be climbing the walls because our sex life consisted of about five minutes, start to finish, once a month. He would get resentful and tell me I was a sex addict because I wanted to have sex with the man I had said “I do” to. It occurred to me, at the time, that perhaps it was better to find someone who wanted what I wanted rather than for him to convince me to live in his world (which I did, for the better part of five years), or for me to wait for him to live in mine (something that never happened, regardless of how patient and understanding I was). Neither sex life is better or worse, and people deserve to have sex how they want and when they want it, but when sex drives are that badly mismatched, nothing good can come of it. I was a cranky bitch most of the time, and couldn’t figure out how to shift the energy, make him want me, or even get him to tell me what it was that he wanted or needed. In retrospect, I was just way too much for him – he needed something that more resembled an old Ford truck, and I was a Lamborghini.

The new boy, though…I think he’s driven a sports car a time or two, and knows when to accelerate around the curves, and when to put on the brakes. I’m enjoying learning how it feels when his arms slip around my waist, the softness of his tongue sliding between my lips when he kisses me and watching him jump when I bite his extremely sensitive tiny nipples. I loved watching him masturbate to see what sort of strokes he used (and filed the information away for when I wanted to get him off with my hands), and delighted as he quickly became erect when I sucked on him. I kept coming back to his cock, torturing myself by allowing him into my mouth but not into my cunt, where I really really wanted him. I think he likes the way I squirm…he’s quite up for playing this game.

I have no idea of how our relationship might develop – I don’t really have much interest in having a boyfriend at the moment. But having a lover or three, that sounds like a damn fine idea. Nice to have a willing victim.

Cultural paradox

Last night I ended up going to a bar on the west side of downtown Austin. I almost never go downtown on Saturday night, but an out-of-town friend called and invited me to come out for his girlfriend’s birthday. They were watching the Saints game at Lucy’s Surfer Bar, a place where his girlfriend hangs out frequently (it’s a local haunt for ex-pats of the Crescent City).

I got there as the game was ending, which was a good thing – I’ve never been a fan of football. The bar was packed, and spirits were high: New Orleans had just won. It took me several minutes to make my way to the back of the bar. It was a fairly typical downtown Austin club scene – loads of people 25 years younger than me indulging in my least-favorite drug: alcohol. I finally found my friend and his girlfriend, and spent a few minutes catching up. It was decided that we would go to another bar, and we started making our way toward the exit. My friend’s girlfriend got distracted and started dancing, and it looked like we were going to be there for a while. Loud, crowded and drunk are probably my three least favorite environments to be in. (I may have mad social skillz, but I’m really an introvert.) I excused myself and headed home.

It has been an eye-opening experience to be single in my late 40s, and to discover how invisible I have become.

This invisible woman gets a whole lot more attention than I ever did.

This invisible woman gets a whole lot more attention than I ever did.

My inside reality is completely disconnected from the outside feedback I get. When I look at recent pictures of myself, I think I look more physically beautiful than I ever have, and am comfortable with the erotic, sexual parts of myself that are so integral to who I am. I know myself well, and like the person I’ve grown to be. I have more than a clue about what I have to contribute to the world. I feel like I’m at the peak of my power, and that I will continue to grow wiser, kinder, happier and more content. And yet, when I’m someplace like I was last night, I don’t even merit a second glance. Men rush past me to get to younger, prettier, thinner (and less challenging) women. I’ve stood by while men come up and try to hit on my friends and ignore me completely, or watch them wriggle to get away from having conversations with me because I’m cutting into time when they could be hitting on girls they are interested in. It’s not that I’m attracted to these guys, or trying to hit on them, but if I want to sit alone and drink, I’ll stay home and do it. There’s a reason I always strike up conversations with women when I’m in a new social situation….

Another older friend of mine was telling me about an experience she recently had of being in a bar and being similarly ignored. Only when an alpha male friend hugged her and chatted with her did the other men in the bar change their attitude toward her – all of a sudden she was someone desirable because this man who commanded their respect gave her this seal of approval. I suppose I could go out dressed like a slut, get myself drunk and throw myself at some guy, but that was so 1990 for me.

There is more than a kernel of truth in the adage, “men are judged by what they do, women are judged by how they look.” In keeping with this, society accords women the greatest amount of power when they are under 25 (I’ve known some poised women in their early 20s, but by and large, they are only shadows of who they become when they hit their 40s). When I was that age, I wasn’t valued for my looks at all, so you would think I would be used to it by now. Still, it stings to be told by society that you have no worth past your appearance. I often see women who traded on their looks in their youth, and as they start pushing 60, they are devastated to be losing their source of their power. It makes me glad I have brains, curiosity, creativity and generosity – those things only grow stronger with age.

One of our biggest generations of all – the baby boomers – is aging, and as women live longer than men, there is going to be a massive group of older single women. Already you hear stories about nursing homes where there are ten single women for every man. Perhaps some of these women will find that their sexual orientation is fluid, and they will become partners, romantic companions and lovers with each other. But not all women will; many will internalize society’s homophobia, others like me may find that they are incapable of switching teams and seem to be hard-wired to only desire men (a factor about myself that I find endlessly frustrating and depressing). What becomes of us? Sure, we can enjoy strong, intimate friendships, but what of those of us who still want/need sex, who desire to have an erotic life?

Valley of the dolls

Last week, I went to a new friend’s house to discuss an idea I have for a website. I showed up at the appointed time, knocked but got no response. The door was unlocked, so I went in. I hollered a loud hello, and heard a “back here” coming from his office. When I walked in, he was sitting at his computer, naked. Since he was expecting me, this was clearly for my, um, benefit.

I was a bit shocked, not by the nudity (I’ve logged hundreds of hours sitting in hot tubs with naked people of all sorts of persuasions) but because of the context. He and I had met about a month before, and had only socialized on two occasions. I don’t know if we had even hugged, or had any other physical contact. I had enjoyed talking to him, there was an overlap of interests and social circles. I had no idea he was interested in me sexually, nor had I indicated any overt interest in him. The second time I saw him, he was flirting with every girl in the room, myself included. I certainly didn’t feel special or singled out.

Fortunately, he knew enough about me and my predilections to know that this wouldn’t offend me. I appreciate boldness, honesty and forthrightness in a man, but I would prefer to get them from a man wearing pants. I must have looked embarrassed, because he apologized, and started asking me about my project. I excused myself to use the bathroom, stayed in there for a few minutes, and when I came out, he had gone to get dressed. When he came back in, we had a productive time discussing our project over dinner, and nothing more was said about our initial encounter that afternoon.

While it’s true that men and women are turned on by different things, I believe his come-on followed a pattern of one of the most common male fantasies: the Valley of the Dolls Syndrome.

Trust me, it will take a lot more than Valium to get me naked in five minutes flat.

Trust me, it will take a lot more than Valium to get me naked in five minutes flat.

This term, coined by polyamory blogger Pep-o-mint, refers to the lightning speed with which men can get women into bed without any effort, and it goes a little bit like this: “Oh! You’re the plumber! Let’s fuck!” Works like a charm, every damn time, and takes nothing more than a knock on the door and a stiff dick. There’s no need to chat a woman up, ascertain that she’s interested in him, or spend any time getting to know her. She’s merely an object, a prop in his fantasy, ready to fuck, anytime, any place. While men claim that they know that porn isn’t real, I’m constantly surprised how many men seem to have bought into this illusion. (Actually, this is a fantasy for women as well; Erica Jong famously wrote about it in Fear of Flying in 1973, but it is much more common for men.)

I have a friend who has been trying to sleep with me for years. He stopped by one night and met a friend of mine who was visiting. When I turned him down yet again, he told me that he was considering going next door to ask my friend if she wanted to have sex. He had talked to her for less than a minute. Did he really think that would work, or was he just lonely and desperate? Another time, I posted an ad on Craigslist Casual Encounters and specified that it would take much longer than 5 minutes to get me into bed, because it was important that I be comfortable with a man before sleeping with him. One guy wrote back that was fine, but that he expected we would be fucking within the hour.

His response was immediately deleted, and that was the last ad I ran. I just don’t have much interest in casual sex these days. Or porn, or romance novels. My libido is high, and getting higher by the day as I start working out again. I crave sex, but not of the sort that is nothing more than a quick fuck with no intimacy, or one that includes no actual touching or kissing. Wait, I take that back – I love quick fucks, but they have to be with someone I already have a connection with. And I like casual sex as well when I’m in a relationship; I fall much closer to that end of the non-monogamy scale than full-blown polyamory. But right now? Not so much. My heart is still tender from the divorce, my confidence in my capacity for intimacy is shaken and I grew tired of being the girl you’d hook up with but have no interest in dating years ago.

Is it possible to have sex with someone five minutes after you’ve met them? Sure. I’ve seen it happen at swingers clubs and play parties, but more often than not, people who play with each other in those situations have already established a friendship, either at other events or in real life. I have no problem with casual sex; I’ve had more than most men and women I know. But even if a relationship goes no further than the bedroom, it’s still a relationship and I expect to be treated with respect. I want the men I sleep with to have integrity and good communication skills, because quite frankly, a liaison that’s based primarily on a sex requires a lot of maturity.

There is only one way I know to get a woman into bed within five minutes of meeting her: hire an escort and pay her to have sex with you. Short of doing that, establishing a connection the good old-fashioned way of talking and building a rapport is still the best way to go.

How to fuck up date #3, thereby ensuring there will be no date #4

This, sadly, is not a work of fiction. Guys, please learn from this dude’s mistakes….

  • Tell me you are bringing your dog over to my house (said house is home to cats), which is okay because your dog’s just a big homo. When the dog runs away because you left the door open, go out looking for him. Once the dog returns to the house, tell me repeatedly that if i weren’t here, you’d be beating him.
  • Smoke a ton of cigarettes and throw your butts all over my front yard.
  • Drink at least a 12-pack of Lone Star tall boys. When we go out to run an errand, and I tell you that I don’t want you drinking in my car, insist that you drive so you can keep drinking. Stop to get more beer on the way back. Get progressively drunker and sloppier as the evening continues.
  • Tell me you are thinking my guest house looks like a great place to live.
  • Aggressively pursue your kinks without asking me if I’m interested in them, or asking me what my own kinks might be.
Next time, try bringing flowers instead.

Next time, try bringing flowers instead.

  • Go on a drunken monologue about libertarianism. Throw in several racist comments about our current president. When I attempt to tell you about my own beliefs, interrupt me and dismiss my perspective.
  • Tell me earlier in the day that what I’m making for dinner sounds good, but don’t eat until 10 p.m., long after I’ve eaten by myself.
  • When I tell you that I have work to do, refuse to leave. Tell me you’re going to go and lay down and wait for me, and then complain because I’m working and not spending time with you.
  • Make several derisive, derogatory comments about intellectuals. Neglect to find out that my parents are college professors.
  • Take a shower, but somehow come out with your junk still smelling like stale sweat. Expect me to be happy about sucking on that foul-smelling thing.