I Found Mr. Right on Casual Encounters

I Found Mr. Right on Casual Encounters (Casual Encounters w4m)

Wouldn’t that be awesome!

Yup, sometime before it’s all said and done, I’d like to find my guy. You know, the one who can really take on me and my baggage for the rest of the ride. We don’t necessarily have to be sexually exclusive or live together, but we’d be committed to being there for each other when it mattered.

Whoever he is, he’s edgy and bold and hot as hell. He’s not afraid to play on Craigslist or to meet a real woman who does, too. He’s not afraid to ask for what he wants, whether it’s champagne and sparkling conversation or to blindfold me and fuck my face, or both. He’s smart enough to know when to lie back and let me suck his cock until he can stand it no longer, and he knows when to flip me over, grab my hair and fuck the shit out of me. We’re not gonna mess around with drinks and movies or even great conversation if the sex isn’t gonna be good, and best to find that out right away. I’m open to almost anything short of filth and excessive pain if we’re hot, and love pushing my own boundaries.

He’s also smart – really smart, like me, — and artistic and passionate and reasonably successful, whatever that means. And he’s strong enough to at least consider taking me on for more than a one-shot, even if he’s not ready yet, and that’s gotta be pretty fucking strong. I will wait for the right guy, and I’ll know him when I meet him.

Slender, attractive to most, strong, bold, wicked smart, healthy, fit, classy and raunchy both, and horny as hell most of the time. I’m over 40, generally attracted and attractive to younger men but always delighted to meet my libidinous and intellectual contemporaries. I like my men taller and stronger than me, well-endowed and cut, unattached (in case you’re the one), healthy and fit. You also can’t wear or ever wear cologne – it’s a mask and I’m allergic to it. I want to smell the animal. It matters.

Yup, I’m looking for Mr. Right on Casual Encounters, and having a lot of sex while I look. If the possibility of an LTR emerging from a hot encounter scares you, best move on.

This post confuses the CL readers.  I’ve put it out a couple of times, with some editing here and there, and it has been flagged more than once.  The Casual Encounters category is for those looking for ‘sex with no strings attached’, and Women Seeking Men has a specific prohibition on sexually explicit language.  But I knew what I was looking for, so I persevered, reposting it when it was flagged under a couple of different titles, and was lucky enough to meet a couple of brave souls off this one.

But not before dealing with an intense string of idiotically inappropriate responses.  So many men – boys, really –only seemed to hear or understand ‘the good parts’ of this post.  The male brain has a way of isolating the words that he likes best and remembering them only.  Clearly there are a lot of champagne lovers cruising CL.  “mybe u shoudjust find yoursefl a well manered germansheppard!!”   That one smarted a bit, and he was clearly typing with one hand. 

Jim hadn’t told me whole lot about himself, and had sent a grainy picture that must have been taken with his phone.  Buzzed head, squarish jaw, ruddy complexion and grim expression, but he appeared to be concentrating hard to get the camera aimed the right way, so I let it slide.  “I like you already,” he wrote.  “You sound like a wild animal that’s educated.  A pistol.  The possibility of ltr doesn’t scare me.  I hope to find that someday.  In the meantime what’s up?  Me, 6ft, 165 lbs, hzl eyes, white, age 41.”

He heard me, and this easy-going language appealed, so we arranged that he would pick me up at my place and we’d drive over to The Liberties, an Irish bar seven or eight blocks from my apartment.  I was once again trying to quit smoking that night, in the early taper-down stage again, and had brought just three with me for our evening out.  He rather awkwardly came around in the rain and opened door of his battered bucket of a car, and I kicked aside some empty coffee cups and water bottles as I sat down low in the seat.  He had to slam the door closed three times before it stuck, and a couple of butts fell from the stuffed ashtray with each slam.  I like a man who’s not trying to impress me with his car.  He had great, bright eyes, and he looked right at me when he said hello.  I liked him right away. 

 “Smoke on the Water” was blasting from the small dashboard speakers, and he turned it down as he climbed in next to me.  He had his seat pushed way back and low, kind of like the teenagers drove back in New England, and maybe everywhere.  I didn’t know exactly what to make of that, but I love 70’s classic rock, and was weary at the time of the hipster’s trendy, alternative sounds that permeate the bars and cafes of my neighborhood, so I just went with it, and left its meaning to consider later.

He had this little nervous tickle of a cough as we drove to the pub, and we had to circle around a bit to find parking.  When I moved here, I rented an apartment with a parking space, not knowing whether I’d eventually bring my car to California (I had left it in storage back east), or buy another, smaller city car.  I still haven’t done either, and am surer each day I don’t want one.  A car in the city is mostly a liability, in my opinion, and I’m proud to be doing my part for the environment right now by not running a car in the city.  But it was nice not to have to get soaked that night walking to the bar, eight blocks away. 

It was pouring by the time we found parking, and he wearing one of those cool, Australian outback-style oil-coats, kind of J. Peterman-esque, with one of those cape things attached that really made his shoulders look powerful.  I hoped they were.  I like a guy strong enough to throw me around a bit.  He moved with the long-legged stride of a big cat – yeah, he was kinda hot.  “You’re a smoker?’ I had asked as we drove. 

“I quit.”

“Good for you – when?”

“About two hours ago.”  I wondered whether this would leave him in search of alternative oral gratification as it did me – I hoped so.

The Liberties was the wrong choice for us.  Too shiny and sterile, the table too high and exposed, stools without backs that asked us to sit up too straight, the music too loud, and the waiter kid couldn’t read that we wanted to be left alone.  And Jim didn’t drink.  He hadn’t told me that he was a recovering alcoholic, four years clean and sober and in the program.  Not that this was necessarily a problem, but I might have proposed a different kind of evening had I known.  I ordered my usual Hefeweizen, and he drank coffee. 

His ticklish little cough persisted through the evening.  We discovered a lot in common:  he was over 40; he was a parent (as I am); he lived apart from his child (as I do).   Having children changes a person, and while childless men can be wonderful fucks, they miss an essential part of me if they haven’t experienced the particular joys and terrors of parenthood.  Sure, I can talk about politics, music and sexual practices with lots of people, and clearly I can fuck the childless, but I do like a man who knows what it is to be responsible for a small and helpless life.

This guy really had a lot of been-there-done-that going on – he’d been through a lot, and that always has great appeal for me.  From a largish family, he had escaped rural New England as well, to the streets of the Haight with his girlfriend in the early 80s.  They quickly found themselves living a dangerous life of alcohol and IV drug use and law-breaking activities that supported their lifestyle.  When their daughter was born, they somehow managed to incorporate her into the party, a thought that deeply disturbed me, but which resonated at some important level.  When his partner committed suicide, shooting herself, he toted the child around with him for several more years, before finally delivering her to his parents back in New England, when she hit school age.  He told this story with very little emotion, but his choice to share it with me spoke volumes.  Some women might be scared off by this history, but this kind of edginess appeals to me. 

At the predictable halfway-through-my-second-beer mark, I was definitely ready to do this guy.  Good looking and good natured, he wasn’t fazed by my somewhat tempered tales of difficult times.  He was sweet, easy and complicated both, and I really liked his mouth.  In fact I kept staring at it as he talked, and I know he noticed.  He had a great smile, and nothing I said shocked him.  I sometimes like to say shocking things to the innocent guys, just to see what happens, but nothing I could say was going to scare this guy away.

That cough was becoming a problem, though.  It grew more and more frequent through the evening, and he sometimes interrupted himself with it.  I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or not – he didn’t seem nervous – but it was distracting as hell.  I didn’t need him stopping to cough in the middle of the good parts of sex. 

Finally I just spit it out.  “I think we could have a great time back at my place, but you’ve got that cough, don’t you?”  

“Yeah, I guess I do.  What are we going to do about that?”

“Well, I could take you home, feed you some Robitussin and have my way with you, but I’m thinking maybe another time would be better.”  He agreed, and dropped me home shortly thereafter. 

When we finally did hook up a week or so later and get ourselves naked, we did very, very well together.  His kisses were sweet, his hands were knowing.  He was the first man to smack my pussy, and I was so hot at the time it splashed.  He had a huge and gorgeous cock, with a massive mushroom head.  I loved taking him in my mouth, couldn’t get enough of it sometimes.  I loved to lie next to him and let him just pump my face, for as long as it took for him to come.  You’re a good sport,” he said once, after an extended time in my mouth.  I laughed.  “My pleasure,” I assured him. 

Jim and I hung out maybe six or eight times.  We had a wonderful dinner one night at his favorite restaurant in Daly City, Joe’s of Westlake, a classic kind of diner arrangement that was the antithesis of the trendy city places I’d been working in.  I cooked dinner for him one night, a big pot of chili, which he happily ate.  “I’ll eat anything,” he told me, with a vague leer.  I accidentally left the heat under the chili when we went strolling my neighborhood after dinner in search of ice cream, nearly setting the apartment on fire.  He was open, easy and genuine, and what we lacked in similar educational background we seemed to be making up for in laughter and great sex.  I knew he wasn’t the guy I’d spend the rest of my days with, but I sure was having a good time there for a while. 

And then this email, after a couple of tentative dates fell by the wayside:  “We are still going out to dinner, i’m not sure when.  I’ve become romantically involved with a friend of mine, it simply would not feel right to sleep with you again.  we can still enjoy one another’s company over dinner.  i’ll call you soon.  J.”

I replied that I was happy for him, and of course, didn’t hear from him again.