Let’s begin with the term “dickie”. Does anyone outside a battered double-wide trailer call a penis a “dickie”? Really?

Then there’s the part about paying $2.40 each for what is essentially a paper towel with a hole in the middle. Really?

And the part about “just spit it out.” Like you need a bib on his cock so you don’t have to swallow? Really?

Look luvs. Grab a 12-pack of plain white terry washcloths next time you are at Costco, wash ‘em a few times, cut off the scratchy labels, and keep them tucked in a drawer or a basket by the bed. Easy.

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

He says this in a kind of condescending dismissive fashion, like, “why settle?”

We go on to agree with each other that exceptional sex occurs above the neck. It’s easy to just fuck, but having our head engaged and connected with our lover is what makes for remarkable sex. That’s our opinion anyway, and it’s a developing opinion, a change from our notions in our more youthful days. And it’s quite a statement coming from David, given that he loves to fuck.

Later, I am sitting in a circle of female friends and our conversation is about being present, right here, right now, and the talk spins somehow to the topic of being present during sex (or not). And we all end up confessing (well, it seems like a confession) that we have an abundance of experience with not truly being present during sex, not really being connected to our lover.

And I chime in at some point with my current sermon that Good Sex is the key to Happiness, and that the key to Good Sex is Authenticity. (I think you can follow the logic embedded here, that if A requires B and B requires C, then A requires C–happiness relies upon authenticity, and there’s the bonus of good sex in between.)

I tell my friends how I am on a quest these days to bring myself more fully into the now (and drag myself out of my noisy, distracting thoughts). I have decided to try engaging my body more, pursuing extraordinary sensory experiences as a way of unveiling more of my true self. There is a large range of possibility here–for I have five senses–any of which I could load-up with intense experience: fine dark chocolate, Tuning the Air, walks in the chilly sunrise.

Of course my bondage adventures align with my quest–the physical sensations on many levels: color, texture, pressure, pain, even the thunk of a coil of rope landing on a cement floor.

So, I tell my friends just a bit about some time I spent awhile ago with a man who understands and dispenses sensory intensity. I don’t give them many details, but try to convey that a high-stim experience indeed took me out of my thinking mind, and made me keenly aware of my body and very connected to myself; I was taken very, very much into the present moment.

And I did not go on to elaborate for them the sexual experience that evolved in the encounter–the arousal that rose to encompass all parts of me, from my tiptoes to the synapses in my pretty little brain. An arousal that rolled into uncensored and all encompassing orgasms that would possess me, sometimes for just a breathe or two, sometimes much longer–repeatedly over the course of two hours.

∞

Something I have contemplated since that night, is how so many of my orgasms were triggered in my mind. Multiple times I would look at this man–his legs or ass or arms or neck–really taking in his physical presence, his existence–and then waves of pleasure would erupt within me. Or I would recall something he had done to me–how he had touched me, manipulated my body, or the words and the warmth of his breath as he had whispered in my ear–and the waves would tumble through me again.

∞

I keep thinking about David’s comment, that anyone can fuck. I ponder the intensity of my body’s response to my thoughts when I was with this man. There was certainly a cycle of my body’s response arousing my mental response, and that response arousing my body even further. And there is absolutely the fact that it was my initial mental response to this man that brought me to a physical connection with him.

When I was younger, I was frequently happy to just fuck–”just fuck” as in, 80% of the stimulation occurring below the neck, no dynamic connection or engagement above the neck. (Okay, excluding kissing, which is technically above the neck, but for purposes of this discussion, it counts as below the neck :)

But anymore “just fucking” is just not enough for me. I suppose that makes me not much of a modern girl, I don’t know, but frankly I kind of don’t really care. What makes me soar is that which makes my heart soar–and connections are what make my heart soar, or experiences based upon connections.

Maybe I will change my mind about this. Maybe I will acquire a sex life that is so steeped in connections that I will be satiated, and feel comfortable wandering off into zipless fucks. But that’s not my pursuit.

And my recent experience wherein I found myself triggering multiple orgasms with my thoughts alone (albeit, after some serious all-over stimulation, but still . . .), it just fuels my quest for fucking-above-the-neck, before I fuck below the waist.