HO HO HO!!!

That's what I spent this holiday season being. Yes, that's right. I really got into the christmas spirit this year. I gave my all to my fellow man, I was happily generous and giving, I was greedy and excessive, I was cranky and stressed, and I was drunk as fuck. 

I went and saw a movie Christmas Day with Z, which was a lot of fun. We saw Black Swan. Interesting movie. Then we went to Santeria and had amazing mexican food, which he couldn't eat most of because there was more jalapeños than meat in his. This fact changed our plans from going on a strip club crawl to going back to his place so his belly could settle down. We were only supposed to cuddle and watch a movie, but that never happens. I always go there with the best of intentions. Half the time we're at his house because he doesn't feel up to going out, and we always plan on just sitting around cuddling and watching movies. In fact, I've taken to trying not to cuddle so as to facilitate the "Friends watching movies together" vibe. But it doesn't work. Back stroking starts up, and it quickly escalates from there. I don't know what it is about this guy. He's not a fantastic lover. He's fine, but not fantastic. He's not inventive, he's not extremely sensual, he's not built like a brick shithouse... (well, he kind of is, as I found out when he actually picked me up from a me kneeling on him position, keeping me inside him, and carried me to the bed. That was eye opening, I tell you what.)

He's simple, when it comes to sex at least. Uncomplicated fucking. And therein lies the draw, I think. I don't get simple very often. I'm not drawn to simple very often. I like subtle nuance. I like play, and knowledge, and discovery, and testing limits. I like complicated, in other words. It's fun, it engages my brain as well as my body, and it keeps me entertained. That sounds odd, but honestly, long sex sessions would be boring without the spice, that kick that gets my brain churning. 

With Z, there's none of that. There's a little bit of foreplay, and a whole lot of penetration, with a whole lot of me on top. And that's it. For hours. I couldn't do it all the time, and we'll never, ever be able to be in a relationship because of that (and, of course, many other good reasons). But it's a whole lot of fun every now and then. In fact, it's a little addictive. And it's fucking amazing exercise. My thighs have never been so strong! But, addictive, so I avoid too much of it. I never sleep over, which bothers him a bit. But the intimacy involved in that would be too much. So, I left around 11pm. 

And made my way to a bar called The Bitter End. I had intended to go straight home. I really had. But I realized, as I was walking down Burnside, that I felt good. I felt kinda hot. And I felt unfulfilled. There was a hole (pardon the visual) that hadn't been filled yet, and I wanted to be social. And what was stopping me from being social? The idea of somebody being offended by it? Fuck that. So, I went to this bar and sat at the bar itself, ordered a Bulleit bourbon, got out my physical journal, and started writing. I wrote out what I wanted to happen that night. I had espied with my little eye a nerd, in amongst a sea of REALLY drunk jocks and hipsters. He was sitting alone kitty corner to the bar, and I turned myself just a bit so he was in my line of sight. And then, I worked my wiles. You know how long it's been since I've worked my wiles? I think the last time I did it I was 24, and my friend dared me to pick up any guy in a bar we'd just walked into. Seriously. It's been that long. I took that dare, and I made it my bitch. But that's a story for another time. This time around, my wiles included crossing my legs, leaning towards him, smiling slightly, cocking my head to the side, and making eye contact. Then ignoring him for a bit. Then writing in my journal "Come talk to me, asshole!". Then, five minutes later, writing again "I SAID, come talk to me. NOW!". And he came. He pretended to get up to go to the bathroom, and then sort of accidentally came closer to my chair than the bathroom, smiled, and asked me to come join him. I was feeling topish, and said he should come join me, since my phone was plugged into the outlet at the bar. He grabbed his bar, and we sat and chatted. I was right about him being a total nerd. He did tech support for Comcast. Which means he works for a worse devil industry than I do. 

We chatted for an hour or so, and then the bar was closing. We stepped outside and chatted for a bit more, including ourselves in an amusing conversation that was going on amidst a group of very drunk young Irish boys. My chosen nerd kept getting more and more nervous, shuffling his feet, clearing his throat, looking at me and then looking away. I took pity and asked him where he was going now, and when he said his home was only 4 blocks away, I gave him an obviously inviting look. I'd had every intention of going home with him since before actually talking to him. I wonder about this fact, whether it makes me something I don't want to be. I don't think so. I think it makes me ridiculously intuitive, since I knew who and what he was going to be on first sight. And I was right. He promptly invited me back to his place for a drink, and we linked arms and walked off. His apartment was adorable, very clean, a little spartan, but overall very nice for a bachelor pad. He got me a beer and we sat on the couch. He was incredibly nervous. I asked him if he had any experience inviting women home from the bar (here I felt a bit of a liar, since I'd blatantly manipulated him into inviting me home, which doesn't make him the aggressor), and he said no. So I smiled and said "You do realize we don't actually have to have sex, right? We really can just drink a beer and chat." 

Whereupon he fell upon me with an alarming amount of enthusiasm. This guy was not a small man. He was tall, and hefty, and had a goodly bit of bulk to him. So, the couch was NOT going to work. We repaired to his room, where had a single mattress on the floor as a bed. With no bedspring. Apparently he'd put all of his non-bachelor style effort into the living room, and neglected his bedroom. But, the mattress suited our purpose. He was a lot of fun. Very giving, very generous, and very sweet. But, he'd had too much to drink. And while he didn't get the dreaded "whiskey dick" that semi-alcoholics and their SOs across the world have come to fear, he was NOT going to finish that night. He enjoyed himself, for hours, but by 4am I was tired. And you know what? Hours was too long. I was done. I HATE feeling selfish, and will go to superhuman lengths to avoid coming across that way. But come on. I put a whole hell of a lot of effort, and used some of my hard earned and not inconsiderable skill, into giving it the ol' college try. Wasn't going to happen. So, 4am rolls around, and I get up and say I'm getting a taxi. He gives me puppy dog eyes and asks for a couple hours more. I laugh, say "Oh, hell fucking no. I'm tired, and I'm not sleeping here. So, I'm going home. I hate to leave you hanging, but that's the way it's got to be right now". He hems and haws and looks uncomfortable, so I offer him my number and a second try. Which he jumps on. We exchange numbers, my taxi shows up, and I leave. 

Strangely enough, he never got back to me when I texted him a week later. And he still has my absolute favorite necklace in the whole wide world sitting on his desk. I'm tempted to show up at his doorstep one night. I love that necklace. :(