Despite what sitcoms, beer commercials and your bitterly divorced Aunt Trudy would have you believe, men are not sex-crazed animals who can only be tricked, cajoled or nagged into monogamy, much to my ongoing disappointment. Most men eventually do want the house, wife, kids and picket fence. It just takes them a little longer to get there.
This makes NSA dating more difficult than I expected. “Hi, I’d like to fuck you but I’m never going to be the mother of your children,” is not a great opening line, as I found out the hard way. Though if you’re ever bored at a bar, it can be a fun way to pass the time.
Instead, I often go about finding play pals the same way I found my dentist, my chiropractor and the chick who cuts my hair; I ask for referrals. I got a call from my playmate and fellow NSA-er, Lady X. She had put the word out and one of her boy toys wanted to meet me. Knowing Lady X usually has high standards, I was excited to meet Rocky. He was local, he knew the NSA lifestyle and he came highly recommended.
We met for drinks, which he automatically decided we’d turn into dinner, even though I told him I’d already eaten. Hmmm … not so good, but he was obviously very h ungry so I went along. When we finally did sit down to dinner, Rocky would lose track of the conversation, stare blankly into space and then explain that he was staring at some woman across the bar. Being completely bisexual, I like to look at pretty girls, too, but this was just undiplomatic.
Still, I give a lot of leeway on first dates. They’re awkward by nature and he came recommended. So I agreed to head back to Rocky’s place after dinner, hoping to witness an improvement once we’d left the crowded bar, and lost the clothes and the need to be upright citizens — all the pesky distractions.
But it got worse. I spent 45 minutes deep throating Rocky’s sizable cock, only to have it go all floppy on me again and again … and again.
Which I guess I could chalk up to first date nerves. Or a lack of chemistry. Or just another unexplainable penis malfunction (penises are notoriously unreliable). But if I was placing bets, my money would be that it was the six bong hits he took in the 15 minutes between us getting through his apartment door and my panties hitting the floor.
And that’s why I’ll always remember what’s-his-name as Rocky. Because, as it turns out, he was stoned the whole time.