Here's to the booty call

There is something really damn sexy about sleeping up. I'm not talking about standing up, I'm talking about getting down and dirty with someone entirely out of your league. Part of it is the thrill of the chase, part of it is the knowledge that something about you this person finds attractive. A hell of a lot of it is that it helps a girl feel damn good about herself.

I am lucky enough to have someone "out of my league" that I've got a semi-regular thing with. And by semi-regular, I mean we get together probably once every 18 months. Little things like international travel, girlfriends, boyfriends, or 350-mile driving distances tend to get in our way. Every time we see each other, I have to remind myself that he is, in fact, there to see ME- and do the kind of nasty things that one usually only sees in videos brought home in black plastic bags.

Usually I'm not a fan of the idea of "leagues" but I openly admit they exist. It's a part of our lizard brains that we unconsciously still pay attention to. Physically, socially, this guy is everything that shouldn't be attracted to me. While he's not THE BEST I've ever had in bed (although he is the second largest), he is DAMN good, and usually even considerate. He's the type always willing to try new things, never has a problem with a long extended kiss, tells me what he likes (guys, take note, this is something most of you suck at), and makes sure I am enjoying myself just as much if not more. He talks dirty in bed and holds decent before and after conversation.

And, to top it off, when he spends the night, *he* actually insists that there is cuddling. Of course there are things about him that I don't like - but who cares?

There is a definite benefit to the kind of booty call you can call up and say "I need a weekend of getting laid, I have a hotel room in your city, when will you be over?" and their reaction is "give me an hour to shower and I will see you and your gorgeous body soon".

Sometimes a girl has to treat herself. You will most likely hear more about ST in the future, and more specific stories (exhibitionism, bondage, torture, and one of the greatest O's I've ever had, just to start) - but here's to the close-to-ideal booty call.

Sorry kids, a kiss is NOT a contract!

So I was in a gas station at two in the morning the other day, dressed in my red corset, garters, thigh-highs, boyshort underwear, and four-inch stiletto heels. No, I do not usually do this, we had just gotten out of Rocky Horror Picture Show and a friend needed to stop for cigarettes. It was even the gas station across from the theater, so they had an idea of what was going on.

Into the gas station walks a guy that, about six weeks ago, I had made out with a bit in a bar. I'm not talking "take me home now" making out, I'm talking about "you're cute and I'm a bit tipsy so why not" making out. He wasn't entirely my type, but he seemed nice enough, and possibly worth a one-night or one-weekend stand. I did call him once, but his mom answered the phone and either he never called back or he never got the message. Either way, I'd pretty much forgotten about him.

Until he walked into that gas station. First, he stared at me (sure, considering the outfit a legitimate reaction.) Then he walked up until he was about 2 inches from my face and said "why the fuck didn't you call?" To which I honestly responded, while backing up, that I had called and he had never returned said call. Then he announced to all that were listening that I was "his girl" and that he "owned this girl." I'm not talking about in a joking or sarcastic voice either - he introduced me to the rest of his group as and only as "his girl."

At this point, I basically gave him the cold shoulder. Physically turned around, didn't look at him, and simply said "I'm sorry, not me, but have a good night." To which he responded by threatening several times to "spank [me] right here and now", including raising his arm up as if he were about to. When I didn't respond, he got into my face and started insisting that I "Look at him NOW!" I glanced over and turned away, and he seemed to partially get the message.

Until we were leaving. For a few seconds, he seemed as if he were trying to get me to either come with him or he was going to get into the car with us. Either way, he just didn't seem to get the idea that I had NO desire to interact with him that way.

I don't have many doubts about my ability to take care of myself in general, but I admit I was glad to have friends with me there - I wouldn't have put it past this guy to push me up against the car had I been alone. This is why I don't play the bar scene much - you never know who you're getting - and this was a side of this guy I most certainly did NOT see the night I got his number.

I was firmly convinced the idea of kiss-as-contract went out in high school. Silly me.

Dear Bettie Paige Look-alike

You were cute-drunk the other night. It was fun drunk, though, and you seemed to be enjoying yourself. You caught my eye first, or rather, stole a random fry off my plate first, but I was OK with that - you were worth catching my eye. Then your husband didn't react badly when I started flirting with him. You both looked like you were having an enjoyable time watching the show. I figured that would be the end of it.

Then, he kept flirting with me. A little touch on the shoulder here. A wink there. Eating fries right out of my hand (quite literally). I was about ready to take one or both of you home - or at least out back! When he left to get you two your own food, you and I chatted a bit - and you told me you don't get out or have fun very often for very good reasons.

Then, all too soon, you both left. It was very early in the morning but very late at night. You had to get home to responsibilities (and hopefully a not-too-bad hangover). There was a hug, a few whispered questions... but alas, it was not to work out. I wish it had.

Even though it didn't work out, I hope to see you again in three months when you treat yourself to going out again. You give me hope - that a larger, but damn sexy woman can find a wonderful, flirty, really-darn-attractive guy that wants to sleep with you on a regular basis. That won't freak out about someone else hitting on both of you.

And hey, if you two decide you're looking to play with a third, I would jump on that offer (pun intended) in two seconds flat.

Mr. Fuzzy

In an attempt to connect with the community in My City after I moved here, I tracked down and went to a few munches. For those of you out there who are not familiar with that term, it's basically a lunch/coffee/meeting where "like minded" kinksters meet - usually for BDSM, but any and all kinks and/or interests are welcome.

Munches are not a small, dark back room where you have to know the secret knock on the door and password. Usually they're in a somewhat secluded area of a public restaurant, and very friendly. That, however, is beside the point to this particular story.

At the munch in My City that I attended, I was one of the first people there. The other person there was a guy about my age (as in, under 40) that seemed fairly chatty and friendly. We chatted a bit as others filtered in. Turns out most of this group were very hardcore lifestylers over the age or close to the age of 40. Not really my group, but it's always good to know others there.

So when group-wide introductions come around, Mr. Fuzzy starts talking about how he is a "Fuzzy**"- a person who likes to emulate an animal. Admittedly something I had not heard of before, but interesting. After the munch he and I were out in the parking lot chatting, and despite my best efforts to make my goodbyes, he does the following-me-still-talking thing for a good 20 minutes. Mostly talking about how he wants to wear his purple fox outfit while getting laid. I could tell from the direction he was going that he wanted me to be the other party in this fantasy.

I told him it wasn't my kink. Not a bad thing, but not my kink. If I had been at all attracted to him, maybe, possibly, I could put up with that, but I simply wasn't. However, no matter how many times I said "I'll see you next month." and "good luck finding someone for that" and "that's just not what I'm into" he managed to not get the idea. Listen, if that's what you're into, cool. But if someone says "that's not my kink" and "no thanks" then you should get the hint and let it rest! They're not into it, and you should respect that, just as they should respect that you ARE into it.

Besides, I can only imagine the places I would have found fake purple fur for the week after- and that's just not a pleasant thought.

**Note - people into this are also known as "Furries"

How to (ac)count?

Alright, I know I can't be the only person out there with this problem. When I encounter the dreaded "how many sexual partners" question on medical forms, from friends, or when I'm looking to simply renew my birth control prescription, the answer is so much more complicated than a simple number.

First, is the question of who, exactly, they consider a "sexual partner." If it's penetration, that's one thing. If it's mutual touching of naughty bits, that's another. If it's touching at all, that's a third. Then you have the question of limits. I mean, by the technical definition of "intercourse" anything I do with another woman is out. Unless there's a strap-on involved?

Then, you have the Clerks-like question of where does oral sex, both given and received, fall in? Then what about the group situations? For example, if I'm on the bed, with one person eating me out, one person playing with my top half, another kissing me, and one person supporting each of my legs and watching, how exactly does one propose I "count" that?

Or, if there is more than a year between hookups with the same person?

Or, what if you hook up with someone pre-gender reassignment surgery, and then post?

I admit, I've considered an Excel sheet. I do have a list that is 80% mental, 20% randomly jotted notes in a carefully-guarded notebook. I know full well I am far from the most active person out there. But that dreaded single-number question gives no wiggle room and no room for explanation. I'm not trying to weasel out of what I've actually done - I'm just trying to figure out how to answer that damnable question!

Mr. Wasabi

Mr. Wasabi was one I met off a Craigslist ad. He seemed nice enough, said a few interesting things, and willingly provided a photo that proved he was at least close to the age/gender he was claiming to be. We agreed on going out for drinks, and we'd go from there, depending on chemistry.

I let him choose the place for drinks - probably my first mistake. His choice was a giant sports bar / casino / restaurant. Admittedly easy to find, and the interior, once we got into the bar, wasn't bad - your usual green and gold, TV's everywhere place.

He spent the first hour of having drinks telling me how he'd chosen this place so he could "not miss out on the game" while we chatted. Then he asked me 40 questions about myself, ranging from how I felt about family to how I ended up in My City. Whenever I asked him about himself, it was the same story - that he's neurotic (his word) about family and about organizing things. He also brought up going to sushi at least once every 20 minutes.

Finally, after he's gone through a pitcher-plus of beer, he says we should actually go get sushi. I figured why not, maybe once his eyes are off the TV things will get better. We had driven separately, and he tells me I should just "follow his car."

(Sidenote- driving immediately after a full pitcher of beer - especially when you just told your date you have gotten 2 DUI's in the last 14 months - probably not a good idea.)

So we get to sushi, get seated, order, etc. The conversation starts getting a little weirder. He is asking me exactly how kinky I am, what I'm into, and what all I've done. It's not like I hide these things, but he's asking like he expects me to happily invite him and his 10 closest guy friends to a gangbang. Not going to happen, based on what he's said/done thus far.

Later, when the food comes, and he continues drinking, he says the thing that killed the date. He leans over and asks me if I realize that wasabi is a great condiment, because it "increases bloodflow." I commented anything spicy would do that, and then he says "I want to put wasabi in your snatch."

I barely survived the rest of the date without running out, and promptly deleted his phone number out of my phone. I may be kinky, but that just sounds painful - and not the good kind of pain. That's the kind of thing you ease a long-term girlfriend into after three or four dates, minimum, not bring up right away.

DisIntercourses

The simple fact is, being a single, bisexual, kinky, bigger-than-size-two, arguably confident girl in the Western US means you have adventures (and not always the good kind) in sex, sexuality, hooking up, and getting laid. Of course, the names of the not-so-innocent should always be protected (a lady never kisses and tells) but some of these stories are just so hilarious they have to be told.

Why DisIntercourses? Because this is discourse. About intercourse. Because sometimes the stories are Interesting. Sometimes they are Disbelievable.

No names will be used in this blog, only letters or given names that may or may not correspond to the actual person being discussed. No topic is taboo, and comments are welcomed although monitored closely - just like in real life, Spam does not belong in my private areas!

Most of these stories will be what actually happened to me. A few will be from those near-and-dear to me. If you feel you have a story to contribute, feel free to email this blog name at gmail and it may be posted as a guest entry.

So read through. Send an email if you have a question about anything in particular. And enjoy DisIntercourses.