Most of the ones that got away did so because of timing.
Paul (not his real name, but he looked like a Paul. Or a Peter. Or a Stephen – with a ‘ph’ not a ‘v’) will never know just how perfectly wrong his timing was.
I met Paul in a beer garden. Again, most of the ones that got away escaped from beer gardens. Or pub lounges, if the weather was shitty. Metaphorically slipping out of the window when I was busy fucking someone else in the toilet.
“It’s hot when two girls get off, but it doesn’t work the other way round.”
“You know. Like women watching a guy play with another guy’s dick. It doesn’t have the same effect.”
I’ve had this conversation too many times. Far too many times. There’s a longer blog to post another day about the fact that straight-guy sexuality is so tightly woven into our culture that often dudes struggle to get their heads round the fact that, you know, they can be objects of lust just as easily as they’re subjects. But I’ll bore you about that another day.
For now, in response to the person who said this to me, allow me to describe an interaction so hot it makes my toes clench, even just remembering it.
On Sunday morning when I slipped back into bed, I realised something: your body changes on a daily basis, and so I will never know every inch of it. It is always new.
From the scent of you, to the heat you radiate, to the marks and curves that come and go: I will never know every detail of your body.
How did I chat people up before? When I was single, and I had to put some effort in beyond just saying “Your dick. My mouth. Now”?
I think I probably started with a hint: a story about this one time at college, leading to a detailed breakdown of who did what. But where there were strangers, now there’s one guy. Where there were hints, now there’s directness:
“Your dick. My mouth. Now.”