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Not an atypical date (unfortunately) March 4, 2011

Posted by Leah in Craigslust, D/s.
7 comments

A reader recently inquired about my reasons for declining sex after meeting a potential partner off of Craigslist. Here is the story of an unsuitable date.

I answered a CL ad over the weekend looking for D/s play. He wanted to meet me at once. I told him I was on my period and suggested that we talk first over e-mail and then get together later in the week.

His writing isn’t spectacular, but clear ideas for play shined through despite the imperfections in grammar and syntax. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He claimed to have proficiency with Japanese rope bondage. The aesthetic of shibari fascinates me. I asked him to elaborate. He sent photographs and wanted to know which images I found appealing. I liked the arms knotted behind the back. I liked circles of bright fibers wrapping the breasts and bringing them into prominence. I liked the rope bisecting the cunt, making it look like some strange flower. I liked the patterns the weave made over the nude female form. I wanted to be tied this way.

Yesterday.

I decline to proceed immediately to his place, so we settle upon a nearby pub. Though he lives less than a block away, he arrives ten minutes late, just as I am preparing to ditch, in fact. But he is there at the wire, and he buys the round, so I stay.

He speaks about himself and his experiences with domination. He speaks about himself and his experiences with women. He speaks about himself and his experiences with bondage. He speaks about himself and his experiences with the world. (He is widely traveled and urbane, you see.) He speaks about himself and his experiences with the financial markets. He speaks about himself and his thirty-nine years of miscellaneous other experiences. He is infatuated by the cadence of his speech. I am an audience paralyzed by his presence. I present an opportunity for him to listen to himself.

While it’s clear that he is less experienced than he believes, the sexual parts ring true, and he is attractive. We agree upon condoms and a safeword (newspaper). This man — let’s call him Angus, since he is Scottish — then tells me to take off my panties. I am wearing jeans. He doesn’t hand over a remote controlled vibrator to secrete in my pussy. The request makes little sense to me. Letting libido override the klaxons blaring in my head, I nevertheless excuse myself to the toilet and humor this whimsy.

For the next hour, we converse about more of his experiences. I am garrulous when I have drink in front of me. But I can’t get a sentence in edgewise before he is speaking about himself again. Sometime during the third round, he informs me with absolute sincerity that his ideal for submission finds its expression in the Gor novels of John Norman. He asks me if I know the proper slave positions. Angus recites them to me. He promises to teach me my place in sex.

Ever since he had asked me to open my purse to show the panties I am no longer wearing, I have the awareness that I would not sleep with him. Despite this knowledge, while Angus supplies the pints from the bar, I keep on drinking them. I should have abandoned the date earlier. I have spent enough of my evening on this tedious, dour man. It is time now to bail.

I leave the dregs in the glass and rise from the table. He stands as well. As I collect the coat from the back of my chair, Angus directs me to henceforth call him Sir, to keep my head lowered, and to walk an exact two paces behind him as he leads me to his dwelling.

I ask after his order of knighthood, which he hadn’t thought to mention during his many soliloquies, but he looks at me quizzically.

I offer that I don’t think we are compatible and wish him luck at finding a woman who is.

I ignore that he names me a fucking cow as I walk in the direction of the tube with my head held high.

May this evening’s date be less of a disappointment!