Well. I met Daniel on Saturday night at this chocolate restaurant near Union Square. It didn’t start promisingly: he was more than half an hour late! We were supposed to meet at 8:00, and at 8:25 I swallowed my pride and phoned him. “Hi, where are you?” I said. “’Cause I’m … waiting.” I didn’t mean to sound bitchy or neurotic but I was really irked. A first date is hard enough. If he had arrived at 8:00pm, I wouldn’t have had the time to get my stomach all knotted up with terror.
“I just got off the train,” he said. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
After about five minutes I started to think he wasn’t coming at all. Eventually he showed up, sporting an unattractive goatee. Gah!
But a date’s a date. I’d already given my name to the hostess (after arguing with myself over whether this was take charge, non-Rules behavior likely to make my date think I was too bossy. Luckily, common sense prevailed) and we didn’t have to wait long for a table, despite the crowd. Once we were seated things went better. We ordered our chocolate fondue – guaranteed to put me in a better mood – and talked about Terry Pratchett and things like that.
"Sorry about the goatee," he said eventually. "It's for my Halloween costume. I'm going as [Shaun from] Shaun of the Dead. I still need a cricket bat, though." I thought of Marc, with whom I had watched Shaun of the Dead not so long ago. "Hey, have you seen a show called Spaced?" Daniel asked. Spaced is a British series that starred the lead from Shaun of Dead. Daniel went on, "I've downloaded all the episodes, but I can't seem to play them." Of course I've seen Spaced. Courtesy of Marc.
The conversation went along without a hitch from then on in, and eventually we repaired to the Flatiron Lounge on East 20th Street. We discovered that both of us had KT Tunstall in our iPods, and this led to a new seam of talk while we waited for our cocktails in this gorgeous Art Deco bar. When the lower level room opened up about forty minutes later, we went downstairs, where it was quieter, and darker. I sat on the upholstered bench against the wall. Daniel looked like he was going to sit opposite me, but I made room for him, and he sat next to me. Ha! I thought.
My hand was resting between us in what I hoped was an inviting yet not desperate way. Eventually his hand slinked towards mine, and we clutched at one another's palms until, in the midst of chuckling about something, I looked right into his eyes. He took the hint, and we started kissing. Score.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw your photo. I never thought someone as gorgeous as you would date me…” he said.
It was practically guaranteed to make me melt. Any reasonable looking man who claims to be floored by my beauty is pretty much assured to pull me. I am really easy like that. His professed awe at my looks only increased my confidence, as perhaps he knew it would.
“I thought your photo was hot,” I said, because a) it was true and b) it seemed impolite not to return the compliment.
"My brother's a professional photographer," he admitted. "He took those pictures."
We sat there making out and feeling pretty pleased with ourselves until I said, “So, I read your profile at OK Cupid.”
“And I saw that you’re bi. …. Can I ask how many men you’ve been with?”
“Three.” He paused. “I haven’t actually slept with any of them. I’ve only gone down on them.” He looked a little sheepish. “I just like sucking cock.” We were pressed up close together, his arm around my shoulder.
I didn't quite look at him. “Me too,” I sniggered. “See, we have a lot in common.”
“I think I’m between a two and a three on the Kinsey scale,” he said, and I started to laugh. “What?!” he said. “You know, it’s a one-to-six scale, with three meaning you’re equally interested in both sexes. I think I’m closer to two, cause I really like the female form,” he added, casting an eye over me. Ooooh.
“I’ve never done anything with a girl myself. I’m from a different era,” I said. Since, after all, Daniel is 26. “Really,” I went on. “When I was in college it wasn’t cool to experiment, it wasn’t a rite of passage like it is today.” (Of course, I went to an all women’s college, so this isn’t exactly true, but it’s substantively the same.) Back in the early-to-mid nineties, girl-on-girl action wasn’t a staple of MTV, and it wasn’t shorthand for being sexually adventurous. It just meant you were … a lesbian. It wasn’t sexy, except to other lesbians, presumably. Oh, OK, no doubt it was incredibly hot to the legions of straight men who seem to fantastize about lesbians. But I didn't know that at the time.
“No, you’re right,” he said. Well, I hadn’t expected him to agree that I was from another generation. I’m only seven years older than he is, after all. That shut me up pretty quick. We returned to kissing.
“Do you want to come home with me?” I said at last. I had only had one drink, but I was feeling pretty confident. I wish I could remember how I introduced it, cause it was probably a little less blunt than I’ve just recorded it.
He was agreeable, though, “I’m not planning to sleep with you tonight…” he said.
“Oh, no pressure!” I cried, thinking, huh, we’ll see about that.
We took the train back to my place, nattering away. At my house I directed him to take off his black and white spectator shoes (very forties) and put my finger to my lips as I led him upstairs.
“I’m just going to snoop,” he said, gazing at my bookshelves, as I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
“OK,” I said thinking, Thank God I cleaned my room. And put away all my meds, and shaved my legs…
When I got back to my room we sat on my bed and started fooling around. When his shirt came off I was astonished: his chest was really hairy. Like a rug. “I have a really hairy chest,” he said, a bit redundantly. No kidding! I was not, however, squicked out, more like in awe of this amount of hair. It wasn’t sexy, or soft, but it wasn’t gross. And I hadn’t expected it at all. It looked like fake hair, there was so much of it. He had dark hair and was, except for the abominable goatee, clean shaven… I never would have guessed he was so hairy. And yup, he had hair on his back, too.
Anyway, eventually we lost our clothes and when he saw me naked, he kind of took a deep breath and said, “You’re so gorgeous…” as if he couldn’t believe his luck. That made me feel a little better about the fact that the numbers on my scale are about 15 pounds higher than I would like. It was like he thought I really was beautiful, and out of his league. This, more than anything, will encourage me to get naked. I am quite shallow.
We fooled around for a bit. I started to go down on him. His groin smelled so much like other boys I’ve been with, a nice boy smell. I started to lick his cock, and then his balls. I took each into my mouth, and sucked a bit.
“Oooh,” he said. “That’s another first for me.”
“What?” I said, distracted. “Really?” No one had ever licked his balls before? He's had three bi experiences but no one has ever sucked his balls? I just found that completely incomprehensible. Then he stopped me, “I actually really get off on hand jobs…” he said.
Well, I can take a hint. I slipped my hand over his dick. “Tighter,” he directed hoarsely. “Over the head.”
“Do you want to come on my tits?” I said. I really, really wanted to see that.
“OK.” He slid on top of me and I worked him over until he came. Then we scrambled around, looking for the tissues I did not have in my room. Eventually, Daniel was dispatched to the bathroom, for toilet paper.
A bit later, we started fooling around again. “Oh, wait,” I said. I showed him my list of questions. “I’m not monogamous,” I said, hastily, “And I wouldn’t expect you to be…”
“I’m sexually involved with someone else,” Daniel said.
I hadn’t realized that. I ignored a pang of disappointment.
“She’s OK with this?” I asked. I really do not want to be a party to cheating or contribute to another girl’s unhappiness.
“Oh, yeah, it’s not serious.”
Hmm. “Where does she live?” I asked, thinking, I’ve probably got the advantage here, since I live just two stops from him on the local. I didn't want to compete, but...
“Connecticut,” he said. Ha!
We went back to the questions. “No, I’ve never done that, or that…Well,” he admitted, “I think I have had a discharge from the penis at one point…”
“That’s OK,” I giggled.
“So, is this the first time you’ve brought home someone on the first date?”
I grimaced. “I’m afraid not,” I said, and gave him a brief resume of my recent behavior. We started fooling around again.
Eventually he breathed, “I think I have to fuck you.”
“No pressure,” I repeated. “Really, we don’t have to …”
“Do you want it?”
“Yes….” Then I rallied, suspecting my delicate regard for his sensibilities might push him over the edge. “But only if you…”
“I do!” Ha, I knew it!
“OK! Hold on,” I scampered out of bed. “I have lube here somewhere...”
But I couldn’t find it anywhere, which was frustrating. “When’s the last time you used it?”
“In June, I think.” I was glad to give him some evidence that I'm not always so promiscuous. “But I know it’s here! I just saw it the other day!”
Eventually I gave up and climbed back into bed with Daniel, brandishing the condoms which, luckily, had not required a search to uncover.
He lay on top of me and it occurred to me how much he looked like Michael, or rather, how much he reminded me of Michael: tall, thin, dark haired, (and, Daniel had said, he was one-quarter Puerto Rican; Michael was Mexican), with ridiculous indie-thrift store clothes…. But he wasn’t Michael. Which is good, I reminded myself, because, remember, Michael was a creep. Daniel was sweet. And, more importantly, not my boyfriend, and not in a position to make me loathe myself.
He went down on me and from my vantage point he had that expression that I always see on men when they’re preparing for oral sex, sort of this sentimental, worshipful look. I don’t really want to consider that too much, come to think of it. The thing is, I’m generally indifferent to oral sex. I always feel guilty that I’m not enjoying it more. My mind wanders, and I wonder when we’ll get to the real sex part. I have an old fashioned, semantic attitude: I don’t believe oral sex is really sex. Just like Clinton.
When Daniel entered me I did feel raw, even though I was pretty wet – it had been a while. I remember the last time I had sex with Eddie, who was, just as he boasted, huge: even though I had accidentally neglected to remove my tampon, Eddie had fit right in, no pain at all. Although I didn’t enjoy the rawness now, I liked the thought that I was not all stretched out, as it were.
“You’re really tight,” he whispered, as he pumped into me and I thrust back at him. I nodded, smugly. I hear that a lot, I thought, but did not actually vocalize the thought, thinking it might seem show-offy. Not to mention that it would make me sound like a total slut.
“You’re trembling,” he said, wonderingly, as my legs shook. I was trying to come.
After a while he slid underneath me. “When you went to the bathroom, just before we left the bar, I had this image of you riding me…” he panted. God, I love that term, riding me. It’s so dirty, or at least it's the kind of euphemism I find really dirty and yet for some reason, not sleazy.
“Really?” This seemed very insightful on his part, although, of course, it wasn’t particularly. “I like being on top,” I admitted, as if I felt coy about it. Which I don’t. A gynecologist once informed me that I have a tipped uterus, which would, she said, make sex more comfortable for me that way. I straddled him, and we manipulated his dick into me, and then I rode him, watching his face all the while. I came in the way that I do nowadays, like a switch being flicked, not the huge wave it used to be, and then Daniel took over again, sliding me onto my back and slipping my legs around his neck. I loved watching him.
After he came we were tired, so I turned out the light. “Spoon?” he asked, so I turned onto my left side and he slid against my back. I dozed intermittently, and we later woke up and, after I finally found the lube, fucked again. We woke up at around nine, and fucked once more. Each time was sweet and fun and despite the soreness I loved having him inside me. “You know what I think?” I breathed at last. “I think we should go out and get breakfast, cause I’m starving.”
“OK. I actually have to go soon.”
“What are you doing today?”
“I’m going to Connecticut.” I giggled. “I told you I was--" he began.
“No, it’s OK,” I said.
Then we climbed into our clothes and went out for breakfast. He asked what I was up to today and I admitted I might get together with friends. "Sometimes we play this game, Settlers," I said diffidently, because a guy game geek is just a geek, but a 33 year old woman who plays board games might be a bit weird.
"The Settlers of Catan? I've played the card game. Maybe we could play that sometime."
I bowed to the inevitable: "You should meet my friend Marc," I said.
Afterwards I walked him to the train, we kissed, briefly, and he disappeared into the station.
I’d like to see him again.