I’ve written before about how central the concept of overcoming obstacles, resistance, is to my desire. For me, there is something lifeless, flaccid, about unobstructed desire. A sure thing can be hot, once or twice, but for me, the very sure-ness of a sure thing is corrosive over time.
Some months ago, I went to a bar, the bar I’ve written most about. I seated myself next to an attractive caramel-skinned woman who was nibbling delicately on chicken wings, and I greeted John, the bartender. He introduced me to the new (female) bartender, yet another in the parade of flirty hotties they put behind that bar. I was in a good position, hotness to the left of me, and hotness in front of me.
John told the other bartender to take good care of me, that I’m “important.” He’s good at his job, at making guests feel known and valued. He greets regulars, of which I’m barely one (I’m there every two weeks or so), with familiarity and warmth, and he remembers everyone’s favorites.
The conversation between me and my neighbor began haltingly. We both were intermittently on our phones. And I should say, a) I’ve only once in my life picked up a woman in a bar, and b) I very quickly established in my mind that tonight wasn’t going to be the second time. She wasn’t interested in me. And I, honestly, wasn’t trying.
There was a moment early on when I actually had a negative reaction to my neighbor. I don’t remember what caused it – maybe her too-long flirtation, across me, with the twenty-something Italian guy from Bensonhurst (for readers familiar with the connotations of New York neighborhoods) from central casting. But I lost that negative reaction – completely, and quickly, as her leg pressed against mine, and as our conversation turned inexorably toward sex, toward this blog.
As she read this post, and then this one, I could see her body respond, and it was fucking delicious. I could see her recoil at each occurrence of the words “cock,” “cunt,” “pussy.” But I also could see that the words had another effect on her. Even as she described herself as fairly non-sexual, I could almost smell the effect my words were having on her cunt. She was activated, in a way she herself didn’t seem to understand, by my particular style. At one point, she expressed a desire to lose just a little weight. “Stand up,” I said. “I want to look at you.” She did. “Turn around.” She did. I know that as she was doing this, as I was drinking in her delicious, curvy body, she was feeling that same combination of anxiety, discomfort, and arousal.
And this particular combination – a sexual reticence informed by just a dash of shame, and desire – and intimidation – for me, and for what I offer, and what I represent – is fucking catnip to me.
The evening proceeded, the conversation continued. I drank five, or six, or seven scotches, and she kept drinking, too. I don’t think it really gelled for me what was happening until quite late, but she was actually becoming interested, in spite of herself, in how I might make her body feel.
Somehow, my slowness on the uptake was helpful. We walked out, together, both fairly tipsy. She wasn’t yet ready to kiss, but she had given me her number (I hadn’t asked), and as we traveled our opposite directions home, we continued flirting by text. She sent me two selfies – one, of her thighs, and one, of her belly, and the top of her pubis. They were hot. Our texts were hot.
“You know what I like?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” she replied.
“Knowing that I make your pussy wet. And knowing that you wince as you read that word.”
“I did just wince reading that. And it also felt pretty good.”
We made a tentative plan. And then, the next day, she texted me that she had been “tipsy,” that she had very much enjoyed our conversation, and “all of a sudden I’m thinking I want to have sex with you.” But the next sentence was, “But I don’t.” The text concluded that she would like to see me again, but that “sex is out of the question.”
I recently wrote a series of posts on “safe dates.” The dates were inspired by a lunch I had with Anya. I had fun writing the series. And the truth is, I didn’t want to have sex with this woman in the bar. That’s not what I wanted from her.
What I wanted from her was something like what the “safe dates” posts are hinting at. I wanted to explore her limits, her boundaries, with her. I wanted to milk those dual sensations she experienced when reading my text, the wincing, and the good feeling. I didn’t think we ever needed to fuck for us to have a lot of fun exploring. I think she has a lot to learn about her own sexuality, and I wanted to do that with her. That’s what I wanted from her.
So my rejoinder to her was this: I agreed that sex is out of the question. It’s not what either of us wanted. But she had to be open to one of my safe dates. If not? We wouldn’t be meeting again.
We didn’t meet again. She asked me not to contact her again. I clearly butted up against something uncomfortable in her. I’m good at that….
As much as a “sure thing” can get old, sure rejection is even worse.