We’ve been interacting on Tinder for about a week.
Her profile has three photos. They’re all of her in the same yummy, slinky dress.
Her hair is jet black.
Her eyes, almond-shaped, are, I think, brown. (It’s hard to tell in the single close-up.)
Her lips are gorgeous, rounded, full.
Her smile is sly, a little restrained, sexy as all hell.
We’ve been interacting. I’ve chosen her panties on a couple of occasions. She’s ambivalent, scared. She’s read my blog. It’s not, I think, that I have “so much experience,” that she worries about what I might do with, to her. No, it’s something else.
She’s worried that, in comparison to others, she’ll pale.
I don’t understand this, on so many levels.
First, she’s just smoking hot. That’s un-missable in her photos. Second, as I’ve written many times, my way is not to compare. Sometimes, always, sure, I appreciate specific things about specific women, about specific sexual encounters. (See what I wrote about the Amazon’s mouth.) But I don’t compare. I never think, “Oh, she isn’t as hot as x,” or “She’s not as good as y.” All I ever think, when things are going well, is “Fuuuuuuuucckkkkk!”
And in her case, I know things will go well.