I like a lover to be at least a few years older than me. Looks are important, brains are more so. I want someone who is at least my equal intellectually, is interesting, funny, charming, intense, and who can fuck. Well. Dominant, kinky and secure enough to experiment during sex.
I prefer men with normal bodies in good shape. (Too many muscles means too much time at the gym means too little confidence in yourself means self-loathing and obsession means you’re not paying much attention to me, now, are you, sweetie?)
Also, there’s the whole issue of Manscaping. I am definitely pro ball-and-asshole-shaving, but please don’t be shaving every last hair on your body. Besides looking a little odd, it’s dangerous! And, let’s face it: getting razor burn while sucking a man’s nipple is not my idea of fun. I don’t like completely shaved pussies on a grown woman, and I like my men with some (trimmed, if necessary—trimmed is good.) chest and pubic hair.
I love the way pubic hair holds onto the scent of a man; trapping it, keeping it warm and moist. I love the way it feels on my mouth and nose when I’m taking his cock down my throat: Soft and wet. My saliva mixed with his sweat. Maybe there’s some girly juice there, too, just for good measure.
This list is by no means exhaustive, and while it may seem like a tall order (actually it IS a pretty tall order!), I have managed to find two such men and lure them into my little web. It is all so good. I have but one tiny little complaint:
The geography sucks.
We all agree that I need a fuckbuddy. Thomas has gone off on his quest for a soulmate, and we still chat now and then. He’s just not as available as I need for him to be. We may hook up again, but right now it’s just not in the stars. Jason the College Boy is back in town, but has a new girlfriend, blonde and cute. He still sends me text messages, but they’re always at inconvenient times. I really need someone whose schedule will accommodate my own. And who has many of the above-listed qualities. Okay—some of them.
So this guy Mark sent me a wink on alt.com. I had posted my profile a few days earlier and had been getting lots of responses, most of which I wasn’t interested in pursuing, for personal, choosy reasons. But this guy was fairly intelligent, judging from his writing. Nice body; a bit overly muscular, but for a fuckbuddy I can forgive that. He was interested in some of the same kink that I was, but mostly wanted a girl to hang out with and have sex with a few times a month.
Okay, sounds a little vanilla, but again, fuckbuddies can be less than perfect. Good.
We started chatting, and exchanged more photos. I sent him a face shot, since none of my online photos include my face.
He had killer tattoos on his back and shoulders, and some extra nice artistic nude photos done by a friend did his body loads of favors. We decided we were interested in meeting. He suggested I come by his club (yes, he owns a club; a club which I’ve frequented on occasion.) later that evening. My ex had the boys, and I was going to my nephew’s baseball game and to dinner with my folks. I said I’d try, but time ran short and I had to phone him with my regrets.
The next morning, Mark and I chatted and made arrangements to meet later that afternoon. I was going to drop some of my business cards by for his clients. When I phoned him around four, he was getting ready to go for a run. He had been “lifting” that morning. (I started wondering if he drinks those protein shakes, too…)
“No problem, Mark,” I said. “I’m in my car not far from you. I’ll just meet you there in a minute.”
I pull into the lot where he’s parked, near the river. I spot him on the other side of the lot, bare-chested, wearing red nylon running shorts and stretching his hamstrings. He sees me, and starts walking toward the car. I open the door and get out.
“Hey, Mark! How’s it going?” I walk toward him, extend my hand and shake his, looking him straight in the eye.
No fireworks…no heart flutter…no dry mouth. This guy was definitely not doing much for me.
“I’m Good,” he says, looking me up and down, obviously following the outline of my swimsuit through my slipdress. He laughs nervously, “You’re gonna think I never wear clothes!”
He was pretty unmistakable with the washboard abs, the tight ass, the tattoos, the broad shoulders, the close-cropped Caesar haircut, the huge pecs and ….
Oh, Dear Dog.
The chest hair stubble.