The Irish Musician, part one

I met the Irish Musician for a drink late night one Saturday. I’d been committed to some sort of Art event with Kinky Phd Mom earlier, and he had a gig in Berkeley. I played wing man while she chatted up the owner of a sex club… because she can find them anywhere, texting Irish Musician that I was a running a few minutes late. Which was fine, he said,  because he was still putting away equipment.

When I arrived at the overly loud sports bar—the closest you get to a “local” on his end of the main drag we both live off of— there was a cold pear cider waiting for me. He was drinking Guinness. We couldn’t, I don’t think, hear much of what either us said over the loud boyos guzzling a last one for the road or the shouting of the potential for the football match ups to be played the next day that blared out of the TV whenever there was a break in the Led Zeppelin. Guns n Roses came on at one point, and we agreed in our approval. And them somehow fell into a conversation about The 39 Steps. Which we both loved. Which was enough for us to leave, and walk the 4 blocks back to his apartment.

I don’t think we kissed on the way. Maybe? I’ve found that going home with someone without even kissing, with only a conversation and a drink, where we establish some intellectual agreement…. Works pretty well for me. Of course, we both knew what we were there for: sex. A little on the rough side, a little on the kinky side, a little on the D/s side.

He lives in a rather large apartment—larger than mine. Shared of course: he is 30ish and the rents and real estate are outlandish in this city. It has a large living room, a dining room, a kitchen, three bedrooms, all nicely away from the living area, 2 bathrooms. I asked to use the bathroom and he sent me to the “girls room”: full of cosmetics. I peeked in the “boys room”: clearly used only by him. The privilege, he says, of being the leaseholder, the one who’s lived there the longest. A few times there have been male roommates, but he likes having the bathroom to himself. I suspect the girls also keep the apartment cleaner, even thought it is clearly I.M.’s space: the bookshelves his visiting father built, filled with his noir novels and mid-century records.

It’s cold in his living room. The fireplace is laid with a fire, but unlit. So many of the apartment in San Francisco were built without central heating, you’d think we lived in LA. Newer places, places Google-ers and other new money have bought or flipped, have been refurbished to be centrally heated, but really, you can manage with a space heater for a month or too. I have a fireplace, and radiant heating in my bathrooms and kitchen, and a space heater I actually use, but I don’t have dot com dough, just frugality.

A lot of these boys don’t even turn on their space heaters. It does cost, and I suppose sex warms them up enough. It’s only a month or two, after all.

He fetches me a glass of water and somewhere in there we kiss, and kiss, and kiss. He says “I like the way you kiss”, or “You’re a really good kisser”, or something like that, I don’t remember because I am kissing him again, because Lord, is he a good kisser.

We hear noises and giggling from one of the back bedrooms, and he says he expected his roommates to be asleep. I smile, and shake my head: I don’t care, at least I don’t unless they want to join in: this time at least I’d like to be alone with him. I look up at him—he’s just under 6’2”, lean in that boyish way that makes it seem as though he might grow some more, yet. But muscled, too, strong. I like looking up. At 5’10”, this sometimes greatly reduces my dating pool, but I’d rather look up, at least a little. I crane my head and he fists my hair into a ponytail and yanks on it hard, bending to kiss my neck.

“Take off your shirt” he says

“Out here?” I stutter.

“Yes. Do it.”

So I do. I fumble with the tie at the back of my silk blouse as he sits down on the couch, leaning back, assessing. I assume he is hard, or getting there, but it’s hard to tell with his pants, which are sort of drape-y. And he held is body a little a-ways from mine when we were kissing; crushing my chest, to his, but our lower bodies kept a part, still strangers.

Fucking shirt won’t untie. Mentally I blame my cold fingers, but don’t want to say anything out loud, to sound recalcitrant. He quirks an eyebrow at me. Impatient? Or trying to figure out if I’m nervous? Or both? I rip the shirt over my head in frustration, only to have him say “Take off your bra”.

My breasts look fucking beautiful in my beautiful bra, but they are saggy: I am 40, and I breast fed. Also, the light is on, even if it’s low…. He must be able to see my stretch marks. From being pregnant. And it is freaking cold.

Just then, there is a tumbling sound from one of the bedrooms, and then more giggling.

“Your roommates might come out,” I say.

“That’s part of the thrill,” he says. Oh shit, oh sweet jesus. And, just like that, I’m drenched.

I take off my bra, standing before him, twisting my arms behind to present them to him, looking him in the eye. He motions me closer and I come to him, and when he orders it, I present first one and then the other breast to him to suck on, to lave at, to bite.

He sounds out of breath when he says “Lets go in my bedroom”. Thank god. At that point I probably would have fucked him on the couch, even in the cold, even with the threat of interruption. Or maybe because of it.

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RealLove

There a few men on OKCupid that might actually meet my criteria personality-wise for a True Love Life Partner. But I also have my sex checklist. And, honestly? An addition to the True Love Life Partner Checklist: I want someone who is a little possessive. Who burns so fucking hot for me that they couldn’t imagine sharing me.

I am emotionally monogamous, even if I am fine with physical promiscuity. I am not polyamorus. And, on the other end, I’d be concerned if my partner found me lacking enough to have to go out and seek other entertainment. I might be okay with road rules, but I probably wouldn’t indulge: the headache of scheduling and managing is not worth it simply to avoid going without for a week. And, if the person was my dream match—why would I want to bother?

Would I give up my checklist if I met the right man? Well, my checklist keeps sliding around, so possibly. But I would rather avoid the question. And, not settle. I don’t know that I will sit around wondering about, wishing that I had had a threeway when I am 80: but giving up my checklist for the “right” guy might taint him later should things flail. Twisted, I know.

So, for now, not pursuing RealLove. Maybe in 6 months? Maybe the time will give me some more qualifiers to add to my list. And, if they are my One True Love, they won’t be the one that got away, right?

My forever type

I like to ask my partners how they knew what they liked. I mean sexually when I ask. And, on my odyssey I’ve learned that I have very specific sexual tastes. I can enjoy a lot of stuff (not all, trust me), but what really pushes my buttons, rings the doorbell, lights my fire: it’s pretty specific.

This post isn’t about that.

Were I to give up nonmonogamy, to take a chance on love, which as I’ve already said I’m not sure I believe in as constructed by modern western patriarchal society, I know what it would take. I think.

Height: between 5’11” and 6’1”. I enjoy my 6’2.5” love but he makes my neck hurt… just like kissing my husband used too. It is possible I could get with a taller guy, but about 6’ feels perfect for someone just-slightly taller than me but we still line up/mesh up really well in terms of where all the body parts are.

Body/fitness/appearance: Must be in shape, as per previous. Self-care and self-respect are big for me and this is an easy indicator. And, oh, yeah, I like to feel safe, and I like to be pinned down, and I’m pretty strong. And ab’s are sooo lickable.

Face: I genuinely have no thoughts/ preferences here. Beard or no bread: fine. I think growing up where I did predisposed me to swarthier men, but light brown hair works too. If anything a face that’s not too perfect, with a little wear and tear. Show me that you’ve worked for your life, that it hasn’t been handed to you on a silver plate. That you aren’t THAT vain, no matter how buff the bod. A face with character.

  • Self-aware
  • Emotionally Mature
  • SMART, and willing to engage in intellectual conversation/banter/debate. LOVE engaging in it, maybe
  • Self-respect
  • Integrity
  • Success. Doesn’t have to be monetary, but a good reflection of integrity and self-respect. Also makes me feel safer that I won’t have to take care of them.
  • Curious/Curiosity about the world. A lot of times this means reading a lot and/or traveling a lot and/or being interested in making things (physical or digital). Any and/or all work in my book.
  • Passion for art of some kind (music, painting, photography, fashion, movies: something)

Even better: right brain/left brain balanced. Liberal arts major turned scientist or vice versa. I find these people the most interesting and have the best conversation with them: and I love a good conversation. Or a liberal arts minor and hard science major. Painter and soldier. You get the picture: I like right brains AND left brains, and contradictions are awesome and fascinating and so is getting lost and taking the long way round. Not going for the easy or obvious answer: not settling.

Ultimate: 95% of the above and they love language/words/are interested in the meanings of words, the structure of language, what it all means. If not that then some other way culture is transmitted across time and as a reflection of a region. ie cultural identity and signifiers. I doubt I’ll ever find this man, and it is definitely a particular interest of mine… and now that I am typing that, wouldn’t we be too much alike?! Someone who has powers of observation and is interested in what makes “soft” things work (culture, identity, society), I’ll leave it at that.

So, if anyone knows a 6 footish right brain/left brain guy interested cultural signifiers, who is in good shape, not ugly but not pretty, very smart, doesn’t mind that I have a kid, about my age, in the Bay Area…. EMAIL ME. Oh! And he must be very self-confident. And not slut-shamey.

I dated one guy who came close but he thought I was too beautiful for him and also implied I’d slept with too many people (no I didn’t tell him the real #, it shouldn’t matter). Hopefully the characteristics I’ve captured will eliminate an unfortunate repeat.

Sigh. Not holding my breath on this one. Also, not planning on settling.

Ahoy, non-monogamy.

How Many?

Boys like to ask how many partners I have had. Sometimes I am wary of the question: slut shaming. Sometimes I think the boy is trying to get too close, dig too deep in my brain. Maybe then I am scared of the potential slut shaming, too. But also worried that it will reveal too much about me. As much as I am trying to thrive I am still very protective of myself. I don’t know my own strength many days.

One of my partners was commenting on how tight, but wet I was (!). Enraptured, he said how can you be like this when you must have had so many partners. Well, it was a little cruder and more to the point. I didn’t say what I thought, which was, don’t your other partners do kegels? And, your penis is HUGE, of course it feels tight. Or, remember, I had a kid, too!

I asked instead how many partners he’d had, and told him (honestly) that it was more than me. Reminded him that I’d been married, faithfully and monogamously, for a long time. And we went back to fucking.

Including non-PIV but lots of activity, and including girls: 31. PIV only, no girls: 18. Not what you thought, right?

Of course, I have 3 dates this week. I expect that number to go up.

Like fish needs a bicycle

Or, reasons why to seek a long term relationship.

1. There is sex: have that somewhat covered

2. Partner in crime/someone to do something with… really, someone with whom to go on dates. This doesn’t have to be someone of the opposite sex, I don’t think. But at my age and peer group, it’s sort of opposite sex by default. I mean my girlfriends are mostly married with kids, so have less time to go do something fun, one on one. Someone to be an adult—or kid, as it were—with.

3. Love. I think a lot of people “settle” out of fear of loneliness or out of insecurity or out of weakness, or out of fear of weakness. Those things aren’t love. I love my son and he loves me. That is love. I love my aunts and they love me. That is love. I love my girlfriends and they love me. So what do we mean when we say truly/madly/deeply love: is it love with sex? i.e. the same as platonic love, only it includes sex and this therefore makes it non-platonic love? Is it when you want to be the center of your sexual partner’s attention? I am not sure I know what love is, for me. I’m getting okay with the idea of wanting to find out what it is, but I have reservations: seems like a messy and involved process in which one can easily get confused or become self-deluded. And also, why? Is it that amazing that the effort is worth it?

Tips

A short list of to-do’s for men…without naming names:

  • Shower before you see me
    Even if you did this morning.
  • Wash your asshole out
    Especially if you want a rim job.
  • Use lotion/moisturizer
  • Shave your balls if you’re going to
    Nothing is worse than stubble in that area, especially if you want me to be down there for a while.
  • Don’t use deodorant body wash/Irish Spring soap/anything of the kind
    Tastes like metal. Enough said.
  • Cologne: ok, but don’t use too much.
    A spritz, not a bath
  • Trim your nails
    And file.
  • Brush your teeth
  • Manscape, but just enough
    I’m a little old fashioned and hair=masculinity. But please trim “down there”. No wax/full body hair removal, though.

I don’t believe in love.

My parents have been married for 45 years. They nag at each other; my father withdrawing further and further into himself whilst my mother hurls invective and recrimination for the vaguest slight. Romeo loved Juliet but they both ended up dead. Narcissus couldn’t recognize Echo, and Helen abandoned Menelaus. Don’t speak to me of Odysseus and Penelope: he spent years with Circe.

I don’t believe in love. Not the “lose yourself in everything and give up who you are kind of love”. I don’t believe in killing yourself because a man is dead. I don’t believe in giving up an empire for a kiss.

I don’t believe in being someone’s emotional wheelbarrow, pushing them up the hill, over an over again.  I don’t believe it is ever worth it to lose yourself in an all-consuming love: I don’t believe the fairytales. Because what happens when one of you changes, when you grow old and careworn and sorrows have changed your face?  I don’t believe in being consumed. I don’t believe in being subsumed.

I don’t believe in love, not that kind of love.

I believe a woman can fuck whomever she wants to, whenever she wants to, however she wants to, without apology. I believe in goals, and actions, and integrity, and honesty. I believe in leading a life worth living.  I believe everything I see is perspective, not truth… but that truth exists. I believe each day provides its own gifts, an that each day, and each gift is different and special unto itself. That the day is what I make of it, not anyone else’s responsibility. If loss is nothing else but change, and change is Nature’s delight, how can love stay for ever? And, if it is not eternal, why compromise for it?

I don’t believe in love, but I do believe in myself.