The Best Worst Moment of My Life.

It was bound to happen. I mean, really, it was. But having my parents walk in on me having sex on their living room floor with my 21 year old boyfriend was a scenario even my mind would not allow me to imagine.

Blaze is my new boy. And yes, that is his real name. And yes, he is truly a boy, having lived on this earth for only 21 years. And yes, I've already figured out that he was 7 when I graduated from high school, and that I was pregnant when he wore his cap and gown. I'm not proud of this and it actually makes me very uncomfortable, but he (unfortunately) is not the youngest man I have slept with. Err, boy I've slept with, I mean. I came dangerously close to becoming a pedophile a few months ago when I was invited to a threesome with two 19 year olds. A story that needs to be told, by the way.

Blaze answered my local booty call ad back in October. We exchanged a few emails back then, the content of which I don't remember except that he said he lived in Lakeside (my hood) and that he was barely of legal voting age. I told him that I couldn't have sex with a 21 year old and he didn't argue with me and that was the end of our courtship.

However, his name stayed in the chat window of my gmail inbox, usually with a small, gray circle next to it indicating that he was offline. On occasion the gray would turn to green and I would think little of Blaze being online except perhaps, with a hint of condescension and maternal chastisement, "that cheeky little boy, answering craigslist ads..."

But a few weeks ago, on an evening when I was feeling all angsty and emo, I saw his little green light and decided to drown my sorrows with a long island iced tea and a 21 year old boy. So, I sent him a chat.

8:56 PM me: yo honey child

Blaze: hi ms bunny larou

8:57 PM me: how's your little juvenile self doing?

it's been, like, a year?

Blaze: I'm at the living room by SDSU studying

I'm pretty good

me: ohhh, i love that place

i used to go there in high school ALL of the time

mint mochas

yummmmmmm

8:58 PM Blaze: I've been pretty juvenile

me: playing with pokemon?

Blaze: Just Charmander

me: char char

8:59 PM (is it scary that I know what that pokemon is, and what he sounds like?)

(yes)

(it is)

Blaze: well I think everyone knows what Charmander does

me: true true

9:00 PM Blaze: I'm writing a spanish paper focusing on the conditional tense

me: i actually spent a week sewing 10 pokemon costumes out of dyed sheets for group home kids many years ago

okay, that sounds ridiculously boring

the conditional tense?

blech

9:01 PM Blaze: like in english it would be "I would like" or something

9:02 PM me: ok, still boring

Blaze: it's very boring

me: i would like to not be writing this paper

Blaze: but if I could learn a new language I would be pretty happy

me: yo quiero no escriber esto papel

that

s the extent of my spanish

9:03 PM Blaze: it's only a page it doesn't matter

me: i do admire you for learning a second language

it goes a long long way

9:04 PM Blaze: i hope so!

9:05 PM so you think you can just randomly message me and think everything is cool

well you're absolutely right

9:07 PM me: i'm always right.

okay, no, I am so not that girl

i do feel bad for taking you away from to papel

tu papel, i mean

to nesecitas estudiar

Blaze: i don't really care it's more of a side thing right now

me: tu

i keep mistaking to for tu

9:08 PM Blaze: every now and then i write a sentence

im with a friend so

it's not that intense

i have 4 test next week though

que lastima

me: lastiima.......

umm

9:09 PM Blaze: what a shame

me: ahhh

si, es una lastima

Blaze: nice

me: lo siento'

9:10 PM otra ves, quantos anos tienes?

Blaze: 21

9:11 PM me: aye mami!

Blaze: ty

i mean gracias

9:12 PM me: no problemo

9:14 PM Blaze: muchos trababjo todos los dias

9:16 PM me: si, mucho trabajo. Estoy muy triste y (stressed out). Necesito hago baracha.

(succccchhhh bad spanish)

mucho trabajo

9:17 PM Blaze: que es baracha

me: hahaa!

Blaze: drunk

me: yes, it appears so

Blaze: baracho

why are you sad and stressed out

me: que es baracho

9:18 PM drunk?

Blaze: yes

me: ok

waht's baracha

nothing?

Blaze: i tried to translate it on google and nothing came up

me: it's what drunk girls trying to speak spanglish say

9:19 PM Blaze: Oh I'm what you resort to when your drunk

awesome

i love eettt

me: i'm so not drunk, little boy

i just wish i was

Blaze: why are you sad

me: ahhhh, that's a conversation

Blaze: yeah yeah we can play the age card all day

9:20 PM me: yes we can

Blaze: Yes we can!

me: YES WE CAN!

OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA!

Blaze: HOPE

me: indeed

9:21 PM i'm gonna go for a minute... gotta go put my son (who's almost your age, btw) to bed.

Blaze: hopefully we eventually will have class together

9:22 PM me: Well, most likely you will. He'll be the super smart guy you cheat off of

9:23 PM Blaze: I'm honorable

me: Hey, I'm gonna go out after I put him to bed and grab a drink.

you should join me

Blaze: I don't cheat!

me: now that you're legal,and all, and don't have to borrow my son's fake i.d.

9:24 PM podemos hablar en espanol por noche todo.

Blaze: maybe i can in like 30 minutes

me: whoa, that's speedy.

Blaze: let me ask my mom if i can go out

me: ok

good idea

she'll be worried

Blaze: or 3 hours

me: i won't be able to leave until at least 20 minutes from now

9:25 PM where you wanna go?

Blaze: i don't know i don't go out

jesus

me: oh, and by "a drink" i mean something alcholic

not nesquick

or sunny d

no puedo hacer baracho con nesquick

9:26 PM (how do you say "get drunk" in spanish? I keep saying make drunk)

9:27 PM Blaze: well you can if you drink enough

9:31 PM I thought you changed your mind

9:32 PM me: about what?

9:33 PM Blaze: it was because you signed off it was a silly joke

9:34 PM me: ohhh. humor doesn't translate well thrhough chat

kinda like my spanish

Blaze: oh man this will be pretty akward if this goes down

im a pretty akward guy

me: awkward?

realy?

awesome

look, i just need a drink

and i like meeting new people

and i'm feeling spontaneous

and you just happened to be in my path

so, relax

9:52 PM you can leave at any time, i won't be offended

i'll be nice

sprta

sorta

sparta?!

no war with sparta or greece

Blaze: okay cool

ill call you when i leave here

i have no money

me: aight yo

Blaze: i have 30 dollars

9:53 PM me: of course you don't

Blaze: 32 dollars

me: you're a poor college student

i'll buy you a shirley temple

Blaze: ty

me: see ya

Blaze: bye !!

(Gotta love gmail for saving my chats! Ahhh, posterity.)

We did meet up, at my very favorite karaoke dive, and I wooed him with my amazing vocal talent and my ability to down 3 long islands and still drive. As for him being awkward, I can only say that I find nerdy and slightly socially-off charming, as long as it borders more on the side of Ira Glass and not Autism Spectrum. Blaze is an Ira Glass kinda guy.

That night we also met a guy we call Emo Rob who isn't emo but is gay and sings country songs like a mofo. I was totally in love with Emo Rob after we sang the most amazing version of "Endless Love" together, only to be followed up with "Always." We ended up back at Emo Rob's house and played drinking games with his roommate, a recent Oklahoma transplant who gets her fabulous hair styled by the one and only Rob. The two of them were like a slightly depressing version of Will and Grace, with Will being a suicidal queen and Grace being a wide-eyed country girl who somehow stumbled into San Diego and Emo Rob at the same time. I would love to know if she thinks this is what Southern California is all about.

Blaze and I spent the following weeks chatting online during the day and having sex at night on the tiny twin sized bed in his room. Our conversations remained snarky and banterish and never went into the types of conversations that me and my psychoanalytic and esoteric mind like to have. But Blaze was fun and witty and kept me guessing and confused. And the boy loves to give head. Jesus, does he.

So when I learned that my parents were going to be out of town on Friday and when Blaze made subtle complaints about not knowing anything about me, I decided to invite him to my home for a sleepover. He agreed and this is where the story gets good.

He arrived that Friday and I mixed us a few drinks and we sat outside and smoked menthols and bantered our usual drivel. My son, who has become allergic to sleeping in his own bed and has completely taken over mine, was sound asleep in my room. This left us with two other bed options: the firetruck toddler bed or my parent's absolutely divine queen sized tempur-pedic. We opted for the queen.

However, I was out of smokes and needed a few more while finishing our cocktails and Blaze very kindly offered to go buy me some. In the meantime, I hopped on Facebook and saw that my aunt (who my parents were visiting) was online.

"Hey Aunt Mary! Tell my parents I'm having a raging party at the house and we're all trashed," I sent her.

"Are you really?" she chatted back.

"No, my life is boring now. Remember? I'm a mom."

"Ha! Well I would tell them but they just left." What?

"Oh, really? Why'd the leave? I thought they were staying the night."

"Your mom's not feeling well so they decided to go home. They left about 15 minutes ago." 15 minutes, from Pasadena... we got at least an hour and a half.

"Cool, " Blaze drives up the driveway. "I gotta run. Love you!"

Blaze hands me my smokes and all I can think about is how fucking lucky I am that I was just saved the total devastation that would have happened had my parents come home and found me and a random man naked in their bed. I tell him about the conversation.

"Should I leave?" he asks.

"Nah, it's okay if you're here when they come home. It's not like I'm not allowed to have boys over to the house when they aren't here. Just not naked boys in their bed. That would be a problem."

We decide on a movie, snuggle up on the floor of the living room, and start making out. I'm watching the clock over his shoulder... 15 minutes, 25 minutes, 35... The sex, as always, is great. It's sweaty and grabby and oral and awesome and I'm busting out the orgasms every 2 minutes. But still watching the clock. His clothes are off and somehow mine are still on (I was in a skirt) when we hear the car door slam. 51 minutes?! What the fuck!?

The clothing scramble is now on and the sweaty and grabby now refers to aerobic efforts to locate the condom and the argument over whose underwear are whose. My parents come in through the kitchen, buying us an extra 15 seconds. Blaze is furiously pulling up his pants and I am straightening out my sex hair while attempting to create an air of jovial, airy conversation in order to give my parents the illusion that we're just two buddies enjoying a movie on the floor of their living room. Except sometime during the sex the movie had turned into an informercial for an ab-roller.

We just might pull this off, I think as we snuggle side by side and pretend to be fascinated by the informercial, laughing and commenting unnecessarily at the host of the show. My mom walks past the living room without saying hello and goes straight to her bedroom. My dad is no where in sight. These are bad omens. Even Blaze picks up on this.

"Should I leave?" he asks again.

"No," I answer, in a whisper. "That would be too obvious." I am feeling 16 years old.

My mom walks past again, several minutes later, and I venture a Hey mom and we chat for a moment about her dinner. I ask her why they came home and she says she wasn't feeling well and I say this is my friend Blaze and she says Hello Blaze, nice to meet you. She says she's tired and she's going to bed and I have no idea what she knows or doesn't know about what we just did in her home. But I'm thinking the worst.

At least we weren't in their bed, I keep telling myself.

The next morning I try very hard to act normal and pretend that my evening with Blaze was as innocent as The Princess Bride. Mostly I just feel nausea mixed with intense fear. The mood in the house was somber and thick with something like grief mixed with stomach flu. They know. They KNOW. Still, I tried to console myself, saying things like, "You're 32! A grown woman! You did nothing wrong!" But I didn't feel 32 and guiltless. I was 16 and caught with my boyfriend doing something God and everyone knows is a sin. And a big one.

My mom hadn't emereged out of her room by 11am. I was genuinely concerned and also desperate to get a read on her. I slowly opened her door and found her asleep, but she stirred and lifted her head.

"Hi mom. You okay?"

"I don't feel well. I'm still sick."

"I'm sorry," I say, feeling confident. "You need anything?"

"No, I'm just tired."
This is good, this is good. "Alright. You sure you're alright," I venture, cocky.

"Well, Amber, it was really hard for your dad and I to come home to you and your friend having sex last night."

Dear caught in headlights.

And before I could stop and think, before I could realize what I was saying, the words, "We weren't having sex" came flying out of my mouth. It was as if they were an automatic, instinctual survival reaction, a reflex, totally involuntary. And a total lie.

"Your dad went to the door and saw you through the window and said to me, 'You don't want to go in there. Amber's having sex.'"

Again, like that little rubber mallet to the soft spot on the knee, "We weren't having sex."

"Your dad said he didn't have his pants on."

I am a broken record. "We weren't having sex, mom."

Sigh. "Your dad is really upset. He didn't sleep all night. This is just really hard."

Shit fuck mother fucking sonofabitch damn mother fucker.

"Blaze is just a friend of mine who came over last night on a whim. I knew you guys were coming home because I chatted with Aunt Mary and she told me you guys were headed home. I wouldn't be having sex with someone if I knew you were coming home. I'm not that stupid."

Yes I am.

"Well, that's good to know." Silence. Total fear. Panic.

"We weren't having sex, mom. We did make out and kiss a bit but that's it." Am I a teenager? Am I in trouble here? Am I gonna be grounded?

"Alright, well, you might want to clear this up with your father." I'd like to do that about as much as I'd like to make love to George W Bush.

"Alright mom. You sure you don't need anything?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay." I gotta get the fuck out of here.

And I did. I scooped up my son after his nap and didn't show my face until Sunday night. And when I did, I wasn't sure what to expect. More disappointment? More morose grief and despair? I came armed with loads of practiced conversations with detailed 5-point alliterated outlines and a conclusion. I think I even had some references, too. Maybe even some of them Biblical. But they were unnecessary because, true to my family pattern of ignoring the big, fucking huge elephantitis in the room, my parents acted as if nothing had happened.

"Hi honey!" they chirped as my son and I walked through the door.

"Hey guys," I answered, feeling extremely unnerved. Why can't my family just yell at eachother like normal families do? Why can't we just put it all out there, our rage, anger, disappointment, fury. Why do we always have to pretend we're not mad and avoid ruffling each other's feathers and be so goddamn nice?

"How was your day?" Awful. Shitty. I've been replaying Friday night over and over and over in my head, talking to my friends and processing every single detail. I've been hating myself for living with you and for not being able to live alone and support myself. I've been wrestling with the fact that I still feel like a child around you and that I have yet to be an adult in your presence. I'm tired of being responsible for your pain. And I'm tired of believing that when I live in alignment with who I am, I am creating suffering for you.

"Fine," I answer. I'm fine. And I am. I am fine. My little mantra lately has been, "I am not responsible for my parents' pain." This is soothing for me and reminds me that I am an adult and so are they. Who knew that I would need to have my parents walk in on me and my prenatal boyfriend having sex to finally feel like an adult around them?

Somehow, in my world, this makes perfect sense.

Lip Locked.

I've been too busy having sex to write about it but will eventually have to come up for air. And when I do I will tell you all about the recent sexcapades that make me laugh and cringe and swoon, all at once. There's a great story about a condom that disappeared during sex and reappeared a day later in my hoohah. There's another one about the back seat of a car, another one about getting laid on the couch while the guy's moms (yes, moms, plural) were camping out in the backyard. There's a threesome story and premature ejaculation story and a "shit, did I just become a pedophile?" story.

All in good time.

Anonymous Alcoholics.

I went on a second date with a guy I actually like last night. He's a 30-year old world traveling RN who lives as the "house mom" at a sober living home for recovering addicts and alcoholics. He's got 3 and a half years of sobriety, is a huge fan of AA and lives "one day at a time." I happen to like the drunks. I like that they have lived life hard, have wrestled with themselves and with others and with God and have finally come to a place of surrender. I like that they have no illusions about themselves; "I am flawed" is a central idea to recovery. I like that they have to stay self aware and go to meetings and talk about the stuff of every day because, for an alcoholic, the stuff of the every day is what tries to kill them.

I can relate to all of this.

He sent me an email before our first date telling me that he was a recovering alcoholic and that he understood that this might scare me away. Oddly enough, it seems to pull me closer. Even more odd is that the last guy I dated and liked was a world traveling RN and addict in recovery.

It's weird to date a guy in recovery because it's weird to not drink on a date. It's inconvenient to not be able to get drunk and accidentally end up making out on the couch. Also inconvenient is that, in the case of me and second date guy, we had no place to go back to... I live with my parents and he lives with a bunch of dudes in a sobriety house that has very strict rules around bringing some girl home. So our first kiss was sober and awkward and with a bar between us meant to keep the (not in recovery) drunks from sleeping on the harbor benches.

The stark sobriety and alertness that was a part of the first kiss continued in the super-ridiculous make out session we had in the front seat of my VW beetle (this time e-brake and stick shift creating havoc between us). Everything about this was just so high school, including the fact that he would come up for air every few minutes and check the time as he has a strict 11:00pm curfew every night. And the sober part. And the hands groping body parts over clothing. Oh, so high school.

I didn't want to be doing this with him, and I couldn't figure out why. I have no problem having sex with men I don't know and I usually have a great time. Why was I not enjoying this? Was it because I was sober and all in my head? Was it because I was rammed up against my car door with an e-brake stabbing my thigh? Was it because the creepy guy in the van parked right next to us was watching us with bemused delight? Maybe. But what I discovered, after driving him home in a furious rush (he was 5 minutes late... a HUGE no no) is that I want him to care about me before I let him touch my body. I want to know that he likes me, is interested in me, and is pursuing me. I'm not convinced that he wants to do anything but get into my pants and this brings up a rage and anger that I know is not just about him.

A few weeks ago, this same rage came forward in a conversation with my married friend, Mark. He was whining about the fact that I wouldn't have sex with him and telling me that my standards and values were too black and white and didn't make sense to him. "How is it that you can go home with a guy you met at a bar but won't have an affair with me," he would ask. Because, Mark, I love you. Because I want you to love me! Because I want to be more than just a piece of ass to you that you get to fuck and not be invested in. Because I want you to be able to commit all of yourself to me, Mark. And you don't want that. You want your wife and you want me, too. And I am not willing to share. I deserve a whole man.

A whole man. A man with whom I can share deep connection, intimacy, and commitment with. I've been told my whole life that to ask for all three of these things is to ask too much. Mark and I have the connection and the intimacy but he is (clearly) unable to provide the commitment. My second date, it seems, may also be lacking in one of these three departments. Both want to have sex with me without partnering with me and I'm done not getting my needs met.

I told Mark I couldn't be in any kind of relationship with him anymore because to do so means reinforcing the belief that men are incapable of being whole. While growing quickly disillusioned, I still believe that men are capable of intimacy, connection and commitment. It just may be that I'm not attracting these kinds of guys.

Yet.

Married Men.

Recently I got back in touch with an old friend from college. Mark and I were very close all through college and our relationship was filled with crazy sexual chemistry that we never acted on. He was always dating someone, or I was, and quite frankly I thought he was too good for me. Mark was charismatic and laughed easily and intense in a very relaxed way. He was attractive, a sort of blend between Chris O'Donnell and Paul Rudd. Girls had crushes on him and guys respected him for his skills on the rugby pitch. I was always very aware of the times I would get special attention from Mark, like when we would stay up all night talking about what had meaning for us at the time or when he would come and find me in the cafeteria. I wasn't sure if the aliveness and connectedness I felt with him was just my own perception and was a bit afraid of how much of a charge there was between us. Instead of dating him, I dated his best friend and nearly got married to him. Mark did marry, and I attended his wedding, slightly aware of my left-behind feelings, wondering what it was that his wife had that I didn't.

When Mark friended me on Facebook a few months ago, I was thrilled to be back in touch with him. I immediately felt the same connection and spark that had been there 10 years ago, but again assumed I was the only one feeling it. Until he asked me to have an affair with him. Then I knew it wasn't just me (I know. Don't be jealous of how perceptive I am).

The chatting started off mild and only bordered on flirtatious. I liked the attention I was getting from him because I like him, so much. There are very few men that I have met in my life that I feel as much love and respect for. Not to mention the connection... it is powerful what we have. We talked openly about our lives; me, about my struggle to be in relationship with my father, he about his stale marriage. He adores his wife, he said, and they are best friends. But the sex is bad. "Always has been," he told me.

It doesn't take long before it's all out on the table. He wants to have an affair. He doesn't think it's wrong. He doesn't want to lose his wife and family and doesn't want to curb his sexual expression. I tell him there's no way I'm being that girl and he is surprised at my scruples. I tell him, "Get divorced, have sex with about 30 other people, then call me."

In the meantime, I am still fielding responses from my Local Booty Call ad. One evening, while chatting with Mark on Facebook, Shane texted me (no, not the same Shane. There's a story here. I'll tell you about that later). Shane is a guy I'd been avoiding because he was ridiculously attractive and was convinced would have nothing to do with me once setting eyes on me. He was insistent, so we talked one night on the phone. That night I was chatting with Mark his text said, "There's something I need to tell you.... I'm married."

WTF?! Jesus, Mary and Joseph!

Shane's story is the same as Mark's, down to the whole I-want-my-cake-and-eat-it-too idea of not leaving the wife but enjoying me on the side. In a long lunch-break conversation the following day, I tell him that I will not have an affair with him and I urge him to have a conversation with his wife. "Talk to her. Tell her what's going on for you. Perhaps you guys can make some arrangements, get creative, go to therapy, decide to have an open relationship. But Shane," I cautioned, "You will not feel good about cheating on her. It sounds good now, but it will eat at you every day."

The next day I got another text. "My wife and I had a conversation. We're on our way to having an open relationship."

Sheesh.

I'm left to wonder what it is about me that I'm attracting married men. As a therapist, I know that women who get involved with married guys are waving the huge, "I'm afraid of intimacy and commitment" flag. This might be true about me. But the fact that I'm not going there (yet), I believe, speaks volumes. I think it speaks to my integrity. I think it may also say something about what I do want in a relationship some day.

But until that relationship shows up, I'll keep writing...

While the parents are away, the Bunny will play...

My parents are out of town. They left to go celebrate their anniversary in New Orleans a few days ago and will be gone for about a week. Hearing that they were going on a vacation was music to my ears, and for more than just one reason.

I have been craving solitude lately. After several years of living alone, having roommates is just awkward. I have to be concerned with how my living affects two other people. I can't play my music at ridiculously loud levels or leave nasty dishes in the sink for a week. There's also my own weird issues of not wanting them to see how much TV I watch or how much time I spend on Facebook instead of doing something more "productive," and so I quickly disengage from these guilty pleasures when I hear my mom's footsteps coming down the hall. Like I'm 16 years old again, hiding shit from my parents. Plus, my parents- while very lovely people- tend to bring out some of the worst in me. Just the sound of my dad's voice can make me feel like ripping off my ears sometimes.

But one of the best things about them being gone for a week is.... boys. I get to invite boys over to the house! Talk about being 16 years old. I spent some time sorting through my local booty call responses and decided on Shane, a 31-year old recent transplant from Madison, Wisconsin who is a professional poker player who canvassed for Obama in several Wisconsin counties. Shane is witty and intelligent and easy to be around, and attractive in every way. He and I drank way too much whiskey, watched episodes of The Flight of the Conchords, talked politics and waxed poetic about our love for Obama. Shane was Friday.

Saturday I had a girls night out and Sunday was a different boy, Tim, a flight student from England. He was all British and great shoes and amazing kisser and knew way more about American politics than I do. And Pete just left, moments ago.

I don't have a boy lined up for tomorrow night. It seems a shame to have a night at home without the parents around go to waste...

Johnny.

I have learned something about posting Craigslist ads: you'll need a whole day to manage the replies. It's a bunker down with popcorn, a cocktail, and laptop in a comfy chair kind of experience that really does require a good eight hours or so. Eight hours? Really? Really.

The response to a Craiglist Casual Encounters ad, if you include a photo like I did, and if you don't sound like you might be trying to get a guy to go to your website with a credit card, is overwhelming. 400+ emails overwhelming. Within minutes of clicking the word "publish," the emails start flooding in, one after another at an alarming pace. You'll read through one email, delete it, and find 3 more in it's place. You'll read one of those three and 5 more are in your inbox. And so it goes for the next 24 hours.

One guy who responded, Johnny, I initially deleted. He was just too Jersey meathead for me. He looked like a guy who was far too into himself for me to enjoy being around. But then he and I ended up chatting through gmail and my mind changed about him. He had good chat manners. He used good grammar and his sentences were strung along with proper syntax. He was charming but not ewww. He was interesting but not self obsessed. He asked good questions. And, he offered to buy the drinks.

He suggested Margaritas at my favorite restaurant in east county San Diego, Por Favor. We met, drank, had easy conversation with no awkward lulls. He had been married once, had a son who lived with his mother most of the time, and had spent time training Navy Seals. He had a degree in electrical engineering from Oklahoma State where he had been recruited to play football. His father was dying and he had ambiguous feelings about this. He told me he had never mourned his mother's death, was afraid to be alone, and that I now knew more about him than most of his friends. He asked me, "How do you do that? Get people to feel so comfortable around you?"

I was liking Johnny. He was sexy. He was playful. He was strong and tall and would pull me close to him and say, "You have no idea how sexy you are, do you," and then kiss me. He liked being seen with me, I could tell, and there is no stronger aphrodisiac than catching your guy feeling proud to be seen with you.

Except maybe a good kiss, which he also had. And a gorgeous home. And a fantastic body. And a great, big bed with clean, expensive sheets. And pretty amazing skills in bed, if ya know what I mean. What girl doesn't like to hear "I looooove eating pussy." I was thinking I had struck local booty call gold.

Until.

He couldn't keep it up. Bah! What!? NO! The poor guy tried and tried and tried, and then I tried and tried and tried, but the soldier had lost his salute. Now, this is just an awkward situtaion all around and I did my best to fumble through it. "What do you need?" I asked, hoping it wouldn't include a closet with chains and handcuffs. "To eat your pussy some more." Oh, just that. Okay, I'll oblige.

But no dice. Fortunately he had a different sort of sex toy supply that did the trick, and in a phone call the next day he invited me over for round two. He apologized and blamed the alcohol and told me he couldn't wait to do to me what he hadn't been able to do last night. Quite frankly, neither could I.

So when it happened again on night number two, the awkward level went way up. He was trying to stay calm, but I could feel the frantic underneath the sexy exterior. I was trying to not call myself a fat, disgusting pig who makes guys' penises go limp, but the body loathing had set in and all I wanted to do was run out the door. We both kind of floundered around like fish on a boat deck for what felt like a really long 15 minutes before I finally called the game. "I've got to get up early," I lied. "I should go."

"You okay?" He asked.

"Yeah. I'm okay," I lied again, close to tears.

"Look, I can tell you're getting frustrated. Please know that this is not about you."

"I'm having a hard time believing that, " I said, honest for the first time. "It's kinda starting to mess with me."

"I know. I understand. But you've gotta trust me. It's so not about you."

I left and we haven't spoken since. He's texted a few times, and I lied again about being sick. He called again today, while I was writing this and I ignored the call. I'm not sure if I can lie again. But I also know that my fragile body image can't quite take these kinds of blows. One guy friend I told this story to said to me, "Don't take it personally. Keeping it up takes a lot of work. Sometimes, when given the choice of chasing tail or getting a burrito at Sombreros, I'll choose the burrito." Another friend, Crystal, said, "Girl, you shouldn't have to work this hard in a booty call! A marriage, maybe. But for booty! Shit. Move on."

I might just move on to a guy whose burrito works with minimal effort on my part. In the meantime, I could use your stories. Girls, have you had this experience? Guys, what should we think? Educate us.

Local Booty Call

It occurred to me that I would like to have a local booty call as I was driving home from a friend's house whom I frequent when one or the other is feeling... restless. Sex with this friend, who I call "the Dude" due to his personality's uncanny resemblance to The Big Labowski, is fantastic. It's nasty and grabby and sweaty and noisy. It's headboard banging on the wall and steamed up windows and me getting tossed around. There's nothing romantic about the kind of sex we're having and I'm not sure I want it to be. There's no lovemaking going on with the Dude. It's just raw, animal sex.

The Dude has never let me down. Every time I have called he's said, "Come on over." I arrive, he pours me a drink, we chit chat about our lives, maybe even care about each other's lives. At some point we find ourselves a tangled mess in his bedsheets, and then I am out the door. Sometimes, while we're both at work, we'll send flirty texts back and forth through Facebook, recounting last night's events or anticipating the next time I'm over at his place. I have had to really struggle to stay at work, some days, knowing that he's at home just 10 minutes away. My relationship with the Dude is easy, clear, and simple. It's not fulfilling in every way, but it doesn't need to be.

My only complaint about the Dude is that he lives 40 minutes away. Driving home, at 3 am, after a cocktail or two or six, and after being fucked every which way is... not fun. I hate it. But I have no choice. I have to get home to wake up with my son. My parents usually think I'm at my girl friend's house or playing poker with buddies, and thanks to their addiction to Ambien, they have no idea that I'm arriving at 4 am instead of midnight. My son reliably sleeps through the night, so my slinking home in the twilight hours has gone totally unnoticed. Except by me, who is horribly wrecked the next day due to sleep deprivation.

So it occured to me that I need to find a more localized sex friend. But then it occured to me that I live in east county San Diego, where things like the republican party, confederate flags, flatbillers, methamphetamine, and high school drop-outs flourish. And while I realize that I'm not trying to attract my life partner in a booty call, I would like to be around them without hating everything that comes out of their mouth.

I had already tried the local bar which was a TOTAL bust. Every guy there looked like this. And all of the girls in that bar were total bro-hos with the long nails and the dark-underneath-light-on-top hair and who had clearly chosen the all-you-can-tan monthly plan at Hollywood Tanning. Clearly, I did not fit in here with my short hair and disinterest in Nascar and failure to be turned on by barfights and racist tattoos.

So, I did the only thing I knew to do. Craigslist Casual Encounters. I had overcome my fear of it a few months before in a state of total and complete need-t0-have-penis-now (and, oddly enough, met the Dude that way) and so decided to give it a second try, this time with some more stringent location requirements. If you'd like, I can write more about how I went from a judging people who post on Casual Encounters as skanky, pathetic, disease-ridden sex addicts to thinking it's a healthy outlet, later.

Here's my ad:

Do You Live in East County? Do you NOT fit in?

Maybe its because you listen to NPR.  Or maybe it's because 

you voted for Obama.  Maybe youshare my loathing for

country music.  Maybe you participated in some higher

education.  Maybe you are self aware, compassionate,

open-minded, non-discriminatory, environmentally conscious,

don't go to the river on the weekends or have a confederate

flag hanging in your front yard?  Maybe you're not a bro,

don't wear the bill of your hat ridiculously flat, don't own

a pair of dickies?  Or maybe you're not a fan of Nascar,

don't know who Junior is, and have never been to a

monster truck rally?


Please tell me you exist.  I could use a friend out here
amongst the natives.  

I am looking for a friends-with-benefits kind of
relationship with a single guy who lives out in East County
(El Cajon, Santee, Lakeside, La Mesa) but who, like
me, doesn't fit the stereotypical east county mold. I want
this to be stress-free and with as little drama and
weirdness as possible, so please don't respond if you
are married or attached in any way. I'm a busy, single
mom who would love to get out of my house a once or
twice a week and enjoy being adults together. You'd
need to host every time as my place is not an option
(roommates who are conservative... but excellent
babysitters!)

I'm well educated, laugh easily, outgoing, quick-witted
and am turned on by a guy who is confident without
being cocky. I'm active (run 2-3 miles a day) but still
have curves (some of which are in the right spots, some
which are... not), so if you're into skinny girls you can
move right along. I'm not into drugs (including pot) and
don't want to be around them. I'm clean, disease free,
and expect my new man friend to be the same.

Alright, so that's enough for now. Please send a photo
or two and tell me about you!