I am not officially dating. In fact, I am officially not dating. That being said, I am trying to get back in touch with what dating is–here in the 21st century and all. One of these days, I will be dating, and–oh dear–I am not ready for this.

Gawd I sound like a fuddy duddy when I say that.

But here’s what happened. I think I accidentally had a date the other night. Accidentally, because I thought it was going to be an easy evening of dinner with an acquaintance I have known for several years, but haven’t gotten to know well yet. I’d anticipated we would spend some time sharing a meal and having some getting-to-know-each-other conversation. So even though I haven’t felt ready to start dating, I accepted his invitation to come over for dinner.

And then, not too long after we finished our meal, his cock got involved.

Oh yeah. I know, I know. With rare exception, any time you are dealing with a male there will be cock involved. And I actually quite enjoy that.

But what I do not enjoy is having to repeat myself, after once or twice expressing some version of, “Look, I love cock, but making yours happy tonight is not my responsibility, dear.”

You know, I just believe that that is a very fair position to take. But he continued to push–in those quietly ever-more-insistent ways. First a few fingers traced along my cheek. Then a few fingers traced along my skin at the hem of my skirt. Then a repositioning that reduces the physical gap between us on the couch. Then a kiss on the neck. Innocuous gestures.

But the essence of the gestures escalates, right. And the fingers along my skin become a hand, and the hand begins moving aside the hem of my dress, raising it up my leg. And then the hand slips to the soft inside of my thigh.

So I repeat my “No, thank you” non-verbally by shifting my entire body out from under the hand, because I meant what I said earlier in the evening, “I am not ready for sex.”

However, I am a thoughtful girl, and I do take delight in getting men all hot & bothered–but not leaving them completely high & dry. And I have grown to learn that masturbation–solo or mutual–can be a swell activity when folks are not–for whatever reason–willing and/or able to fuck. And I am not willing.

So, when it became obvious that my acquaintance was very keen on deepening our acquaintance, I schemed to evoke some fantasy material for him that he could indulge in after I went home. I mean, I was game for that, perhaps in part because I have a special interest right now in learning the more secret things that men like, in the belief that it will make me a better lover. So I started asking him about how he likes to masturbate–his technique and what he likes to think about while he is stroking himself.

And he started telling me.

All the while I am assuming that I had made it clear that I wasn’t going to stick around for the results, I was just going to help heat things up.

And this is where I feel lost about this dating stuff. When did it become the expectation that I would even be interested in sexually “pleasing” a man on our first date? And when did it become common practice to have sex anywhere near the “first date”? (And yes, this wasn’t supposed to be a “date” but the evening had taken on those kind of attributes.)

So I will jump ahead now past all the details and get to the part of the evening where he is half naked and we are in the bedroom. And I will assure you that I was still fully dressed (okay, my shoes were off). And I will confirm that there was no fucking there that night.

But I will confess that I failed. I failed to remember that where there is a man involved there is a cock involved, and that cocks–well, cocks are deaf, really. After all these years, how could I forget that?

I am frustrated with myself for forgetting all that. And I am pissed off that for three hours I had to keep asserting my boundaries.

I am grateful however, for the ultimately gentle reminder of how this stuff tends to go. Because I will start dating again someday, and I would like it to involve fun, and fucking. When I feel ready.

Photo: fingers of a climber by Roger Karlsson