That’s IT?!?!

Okay, so I just got laid. Close to an hour ago, actually.

Before the rousing chorus of, “Yay, Dawn!” deafens the blogosphere, I just need to ask, why the FUCK do I leave the act so disappointed so often? Cripes. I thought it was building up to something good — I’d heard around town that G3 was supposed to be a hot lay. I’d like to refute that rumor. ASAP.

Well, I can admit that I’ve had worse, but frankly, I was out for sex — pure, unadulterated, hot, nasty, dirty fucking. None of this, “Oh, I should make him wait so he’ll respect me” bullshit. No way — I wanted a rock-hard cock and I wanted it tonight, and frankly, I didn’t give a shit who it belonged to.

IKEA Boy has this theory that if you didn’t cum, well, then, it didn’t count as sex. Well, then I’m still a fuckin’ re-born virgin, if that’s the case. He tried, but not enough. And then, after HE came and came back from getting rid of the evidence, I was lying on his bed, still practically fully clothed, wondering WTF I was doing there. I watched him come back in and start pulling on his clothes.

I asked, “That’s IT?!?!”

(Women everywhere can feel free to thank me for voicing what more-often-than-not rolls through our heads.) heh.

He looked puzzled and said yeah. Then had the audacity to ask, “Do you want to watch a movie?”

I said no, I was leaving. Thanks anyway. So he walked me out to the security door, hugged and kissed me, and said, “Let’s keep in touch.”

What, so I can be your hole again? There was no oral, whatsoever. Cripes. I was longing for that. Oh well.

For as many men as I’ve been with (and there ain’t enough bandwidth in cyberspace to name all of THOSE names), I can’t say that I can find a reason to continue sleeping with men. I really can’t. The few I have enjoyed, well, disappeared from the face of the earth, and the rest, well, I must’ve been a good, willing and happy hole for them, because a number of them have come back. Sometimes, I’ve even accommodated, but that’s because I needed sex, not because I needed a man. Maybe I should start dating women — I’d like to have meaningful sex for a change. 🙂

The evening, prior to offering my orifice to the closest candidate, had been going remarkably well. Flirting and serious conversations intermingled beautifully. I’d told Shan earlier this week that this guy was SO not marriage material, but he’d be good as a fuck buddy. She has known him for years and thought he might actually BE that “good guy” for whom I’ve been searching. But I knew better, from the beginning, so I’m hardly disappointed in the fact that I have NO reason to see him again. Argh.

I drove around Alexandria for a few minutes, after I sprinted for his front door and pealed Samantha Jones out of his lot at 70 mph. I realized how much I despise leaving or being left, with cum running down your inner thighs and a sense of ennui drowning your brain. I have gotten to a point, with my one-night fucks throughout the past few years, where I possess no emotion after the act — like I know it’s going to end dismally, so I might as well just leave first, before I have to pretend that I’ve had a great time. I should get a fucking plaque on the “Walk of Shame,” for all the times I’ve pulled on my scandalous panties and run for the hills.

:::Sigh::: Another pair of scandalous guchies wasted. Oh joy. I think retailers should pay you the cost of your racy bras and panties when you have a bad lay, ’cause I will not be wearing those items again any time soon, if ever.

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