Sunday, December 7, 2008

I Shall Endeavor To Master My Disappointment

There's this guy. We'll call him Neil. Neil answered one of my craigslist ads a few weeks ago, and normally I would have forgotten about him immediately, but he lives only a few minutes away, and we all know how nice it is to have fuckable neighbors out in the exurbs. Well, I know, anyway. If you don't know, then you probably live in a more urban environment, and you really should be exceedingly grateful that you don't live in an exurb because no number of guys telling you that you have a nice house will ever make up for the severe reduction in the population density of willing bottoms. But anyway.

So Neil told me in his first response that he's married, and he hasn't played with a guy in a while, but that he's a very eager bottom and that he hopes to find someone regular to play with, when his schedule allows. My recent experience with married guys (in brief: great kissers, totally cockhungry, never available) should have led me to delete Neil's email, but I answered, and then we exchanged cell numbers, and he called and texted me a few times, and he seemed maybe a tiny bit dweebish (as opposed to geekish or nerdish, both of which are totally hot), but I figured that was just because he hadn't sat on a cock since the Republicans controlled the Senate. So we chatted a few times, and -- because he also works near where I work -- we arranged to have lunch one day. And he had to cancel the lunch, so I stopped trying, but he emailed me a couple more times and then said he wanted to get together this weekend "for a drink." I told him we could have a beer at my place and left it at that.

My only free time on Saturday was when YFU was doing the first of this year's Nutcrackers, (She's too tall to be Clara this year, so now she's an Older Sister and a Mouse, which means that she's very busy, but only in the first act, so next weekend, I only have to sit through one act. Hooray.) so I told Neil that I'd be free from about 1:30 to about 3. He said he'd text me, and he did, saying that he wanted to take me for a ride in his classic car. I texted back that we could just have a beer. He texted back, "Beer and chat only, ok?" Whatever, Neil.

Anyway, he shows up, and my first impression is, "Hair Club for Men." And, really, it was just all downhill from there. I offered him the beer I'd told him we'd have, and he asked for wine instead. So I took the last of my Hardy's Australian boxed Shiraz and gave him a glass, and he set it down on the coffee table and never once touched it again. Neil manages a group of clerical support staff in an obscure government agency, and he's about as interesting as you'd expect someone with that job to be. (You can say that I'm about as interesting as you'd expect a CPA to be, and I won't argue with you one little bit.) During the fifteen minutes or so that he sat with me and didn't drink my wine, I learned that a) he's very active in his local Catholic Men's Organization, b) he hates football, c) he doesn't have much sex with men because he has a lot of guilt, and d) his idea of a classic car is a truly ugggggly but otherwise nondescript green sedan from the 1960s. It didn't even have fins.

And the whole time we were sitting there, I was thinking a) this guy, who's married doesn't want to hop in the sack with another guy, who's partnered, until they've dated for a while; b) there is no way on earth that this guy's wife doesn't know that he's gay, but I bet she's happy because he clearly hasn't asked for sex since their second kid was born fifteen years ago; c) maybe I should just jump him now because then he'd probably get upset and run out the door, but in the time that it took for that to happen, I could get a good feel and verify, with absolute certainly, that he's wearing somebody else's hair; and d) it's not worth it; besides, I'm already absolutely certain that he's wearing somebody else's hair.

Anyway, when his time was running out, he told me that I had a very relaxed and appealing demeanor. And then he told me that he wanted to call me to set up a time for us to have lunch this week, so we could continue to get to know each other. Then he offered me a ride in his nondescript vintage car, but I demurred, saying that EFU had gotten on an earlier flight and that I would soon have to leave to pick her up from the airport. That last bit was sort of true, except that I still had forty-five minutes free.

Naturally, I didn't bother e-mailing him, but this evening, I had just finished saying goodbye to a very nice bottom, and I saw that there was an email from Neil. It said that it was nice meeting me but that there had been no spark. (Ya think?) He put spark in scare quotes, but they were single quotes instead of doubles. It took me a couple of minutes to stop laughing. I considered sending a reply thanking him and asking whether that was his real hair, but a) that's not my style, and b) I already know the answer.

I did, however, send an email to another guy who'd asked me to have lunch with him:
Don't take this the wrong way, but I generally prefer not to have lunch with a guy until after he's been tied to the bed (or whatever, if you don't get tied). I understand wanting to feel safe by playing with someone you know, but lunch conversations can be weird if all the time we're wishing I could be shaving you.

There are some submissives I'd happily have lunch with, but it generally depends on having things in common other than a mutual desire to have my cock down his throat. I usually find that out when we're conversing after the fuck.

I mean, I'm fine with fucking married men, but dating them? That's just wrong.


A Lewis said...

We had an extremely hot (well, two of them, actually).... neighbors at our last house. Amazing. Loved it when their shirts were off....when they talked naughty or were suggestive to me .... delicious, these straight boys.

Jason said...

Maybe you could choose not to fall into their coy trap of mutual-confusion next time and simply deliver a demand or action, with engaging eye contact.