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Abstract

’ll be part of my world.</p><p id="c3f8">He takes me to a dark restaurant that I’ve never heard of in the fifteen years I’ve lived here. Downstairs is a speakeasy; he makes a reservation for us to head down there after dinner.</p><p id="b8c9">The entire date fits the bill of everything a night should be. We talk nonstop. We laugh. He tells me that he’s never been outwitted before (<i>my gravestone shall say “her wit was the only consistent compliment by every man she’s met”</i>). As we get tipsy and talk about Las Vegas, Vance puts his hands on the back of my neck and leans in to tell me an xxx fantasy he has in a casino. This man isn’t a looker and yet, that one move gets me wet in a flash.</p><p id="53eb">After Vance pays the dinner bill (<i>where of course I do the faux motion of grabbing my wallet and he automatically declines my offer</i>), we head downstairs. I’ve never been to a speakeasy before. If you’ve never been to one, imagine your high school friends who had super cool parents, and their basement was all decked out for lounging.</p><p id="505e">We continue drinking and talking. Sitting next to him in the dimly-lit booth, Vance pulls me in for a kiss.</p><p id="dff0">The night is going too well. There has to be a bomb that will drop. There has to be. So far, he’s checking off all the boxes. <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-worst-valentines-excursion-ever-d02a71f881f9">Drives a non-Jeep vehicle</a>. Has a young kid. Is extremely financially savvy with a goal to retire by 50. Owns side hustles that provide passive income while he works his “big boy” job as a Vice President for some digital blah blah blah company.</p><p id="d3e6">Vance tells me how his parents died and then experienced a major health scare (<i>a benign tumor in his brain</i>). As a result, he realized he has spent his whole life being conservative about money, and now he deserves to spend it. That means enjoying nice dinners, limousines, and trips. He says he hesitated to mention the tumor on the first date.</p><p id="ee48">“Well, you seem capable of forming intelligent conversation so maybe it’s making you smarter,” I quip.</p><p id="0481">Back in his car, we make out until I order him to drive us back to my place. I have never, ever had anyone pick me up at my house on a first date. He parks and we continue making out until I drag him instead and we flop passionately on my couch.</p><p id="aa09">There has to be a catch to this guy. In my mental list of requirements, he continues to hit the mark.</p><p id="7b6b">Clothes begin coming off. Is he circumcised? Yup. Check another box (<i>and a mental sigh of relief</i>). Bonus for erring on the <a href="https://readmedium.com/i-mentally-compare-dick-size-7ebae918834a">larger size of man meat</a>. All of our clothes are off. And the last remaining box remains unchecked.</p><p id="72a8">All of the guys I’ve fucked since going down this post-divorce dating world have relatively fit bodies. None were fitness models by any stretch, but they looked good for their age. I assumed Vance fell under that category because he plays tennis and mentioned going to the gym earlier.</p><p id="348b">I’m reminded of something he mentioned during our date about how he grew up as “the fat kid”. Was he the size of a fucking house? The excess skin and remaining fat make me want to start a GoFundMe for plastic surgery. How is it possible for someone to be so sexy on the outside and look this way undressed?</p><p id="8396">The lack of muscle also reduces his stamina dramatically compared with other guys I’ve boned. That means more work for me during sex and him getting winded much sooner. With very little action, he sweats like he’s runni

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ng a marathon.</p><p id="8411">When Vance cums, he says it so calmly I wonder if he’s faking. One hundred percent of all guys I’ve fucked my entire life sounded like their arms were ripping out of their sockets when ejaculating while screaming “Spartaaaaa!”. I love it; it’s an animalistic yell for their final thrust. It’s almost comical how matter-of-fact he stated it.</p><p id="f796">We lie in my bed engaging the usual post-coital chit chat. I’m running my hands along his neck and shoulder while he whispers how good it feels. I’m too close to his nipples, which are inverted and terrifying. I’m laying on his arms which have less muscle than mine, which seems impossible given his tennis playing.</p><p id="af33">Eventually, Vance gets on top of me and begins passionately kissing me. “Are you hard again?” I ask. Clearly, he was. Having jerked off before the date and then cumming twenty minutes ago, he’s blown away that I can make him hard a third time. <i>For you younger folks, it’s quite rare for older gentlemen to cum three times in a day</i>. When it’s done, he lays in bliss telling me how this may be the best night of sex in his life.</p><p id="9193">When he leaves, it’s clear that we’ll see each other again. Our first date lasted seven hours. Vance and I are smitten. In my case, it’s an intellectual attraction. But I know myself. I know the thing that gives me pause when first dating will consume me later.</p><p id="1df0">I decide that compared to other guys, this is fixable. I can’t fix <a href="https://readmedium.com/bro-are-you-impotent-or-not-cf08cde2dbf1">Sean’s limp dick</a>. I can’t fix <a href="https://readmedium.com/im-angry-i-had-a-great-first-date-7f1804562952">Marc’s uncircumcised penis</a>. I can’t increase Thomas’ income by at least $100k. But a body can be sculpted and every single guy I’ve dated stepped up their workout game to match my fitness level.</p><p id="bd1b">This is one checkbox that I can make work…right?</p><div id="b73d" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/married-to-a-hoarder-bc1392ed8c11"> <div> <div> <h2>Married to a Hoarder</h2> <div><h3>Yes. It’s as bad as you think.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*hqwBwFb9BkTnme2C)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="8fcf" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/feeling-marriage-envy-when-youre-married-c436f02de8f"> <div> <div> <h2>Feeling Marriage Envy When You’re Married</h2> <div><h3>The grass seems so much greener.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*Ex1JH10DpOo-a1wc)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="c837" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/divorce-and-moving-out-cant-happen-soon-enough-ea98f4ceb29e"> <div> <div> <h2>Divorce And Moving Out Can’t Happen Soon Enough</h2> <div><h3>It’s the final countdown.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*5oZggLT5fAgML1qE)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

My Seven Hour First Date

That was unexpected.

Yesterday, I wrote about wiping the slate clean of former relationships and starting with someone new.

Today is my date with Vance. I’m nervous. So nervous that I spend hours getting ready. I doused myself in self-tanner the night before and my makeup looked like perfection. Since we’re being classy bitches going to a nice restaurant, don’t dress like a whore.

I mean, not too much like a whore.

Red and black form-fitting dress with a low V-neck. Would I normally wear a bra? Yes. Am I going to? Absolutely not.

Since Vance is coming to my house, I asked my cleaning person to visit today instead of tomorrow. I don’t need anyone to bear witness on the first date to the disaster that is my house after kids.

He calls me in the afternoon and asks if it’s okay if the date is bumped out by half an hour. Vance mentions wanting to work out and show up hungry for dinner. I jokingly say that I shouldn’t bake cookies so my house smells like sugar to make him hungry.

“Well, there’s no reason not to have cookies,” Vance jokes. I look at the time and because my second Love Language is Receiving Gifts (and also giving them), I squeeze in some baking while getting ready.

The downside to the Receiving Gifts Love Language is that you’re hustling to prove your worth through the things you provide. Physical Touch would have been a hell of a lot easier than the last-minute cookies I make to impress a man I haven’t met yet.

When Vance arrives, I’m looking as good as I possibly can look. Low cut red dress and my makeup looks snatched (why yes, I am an old lady trying to use hip words from today’s kids). We hug and he kisses me on the cheek. I hand him the bag of cookies.

“Wait. You made these just now? Like by hand?” he asks. When I confirm, Vance’s eyes grow ten times in size. “This is so sweet. Seriously. I really, really appreciate this.”

I’ve baked a lot for guys. This is the first time I’ve received a “thank you” that matches my baking effort.

As I lock my front door, I tell him that he needs to be on nipple alert because of my dress. If there’s anything that puts a date at ease, it’s joking about nipples. I’m relieved that he doesn’t drive a fucking oversized Jeep like Thomas and instead, has a BMW SUV.

“You know what? Forget this restaurant,” Vance declares. “I love your vibe. Would you be up for going somewhere way cooler in Newport Beach?” Hell to the yes.

We’re talking nonstop the entire car ride. He’s cute and dorky-looking. Tall, bald spot on the back of his, and probably not someone I would give a second glance if we hadn’t met online where he is more photogenic than in real life.

But for the first time, I’m on a date with someone who is making me laugh.

Vance’s voice is a whole other level. It’s like I’m Prince Eric and Ariel has pulled me to shore, except he’s talking instead of singing how he’ll be part of my world.

He takes me to a dark restaurant that I’ve never heard of in the fifteen years I’ve lived here. Downstairs is a speakeasy; he makes a reservation for us to head down there after dinner.

The entire date fits the bill of everything a night should be. We talk nonstop. We laugh. He tells me that he’s never been outwitted before (my gravestone shall say “her wit was the only consistent compliment by every man she’s met”). As we get tipsy and talk about Las Vegas, Vance puts his hands on the back of my neck and leans in to tell me an xxx fantasy he has in a casino. This man isn’t a looker and yet, that one move gets me wet in a flash.

After Vance pays the dinner bill (where of course I do the faux motion of grabbing my wallet and he automatically declines my offer), we head downstairs. I’ve never been to a speakeasy before. If you’ve never been to one, imagine your high school friends who had super cool parents, and their basement was all decked out for lounging.

We continue drinking and talking. Sitting next to him in the dimly-lit booth, Vance pulls me in for a kiss.

The night is going too well. There has to be a bomb that will drop. There has to be. So far, he’s checking off all the boxes. Drives a non-Jeep vehicle. Has a young kid. Is extremely financially savvy with a goal to retire by 50. Owns side hustles that provide passive income while he works his “big boy” job as a Vice President for some digital blah blah blah company.

Vance tells me how his parents died and then experienced a major health scare (a benign tumor in his brain). As a result, he realized he has spent his whole life being conservative about money, and now he deserves to spend it. That means enjoying nice dinners, limousines, and trips. He says he hesitated to mention the tumor on the first date.

“Well, you seem capable of forming intelligent conversation so maybe it’s making you smarter,” I quip.

Back in his car, we make out until I order him to drive us back to my place. I have never, ever had anyone pick me up at my house on a first date. He parks and we continue making out until I drag him instead and we flop passionately on my couch.

There has to be a catch to this guy. In my mental list of requirements, he continues to hit the mark.

Clothes begin coming off. Is he circumcised? Yup. Check another box (and a mental sigh of relief). Bonus for erring on the larger size of man meat. All of our clothes are off. And the last remaining box remains unchecked.

All of the guys I’ve fucked since going down this post-divorce dating world have relatively fit bodies. None were fitness models by any stretch, but they looked good for their age. I assumed Vance fell under that category because he plays tennis and mentioned going to the gym earlier.

I’m reminded of something he mentioned during our date about how he grew up as “the fat kid”. Was he the size of a fucking house? The excess skin and remaining fat make me want to start a GoFundMe for plastic surgery. How is it possible for someone to be so sexy on the outside and look this way undressed?

The lack of muscle also reduces his stamina dramatically compared with other guys I’ve boned. That means more work for me during sex and him getting winded much sooner. With very little action, he sweats like he’s running a marathon.

When Vance cums, he says it so calmly I wonder if he’s faking. One hundred percent of all guys I’ve fucked my entire life sounded like their arms were ripping out of their sockets when ejaculating while screaming “Spartaaaaa!”. I love it; it’s an animalistic yell for their final thrust. It’s almost comical how matter-of-fact he stated it.

We lie in my bed engaging the usual post-coital chit chat. I’m running my hands along his neck and shoulder while he whispers how good it feels. I’m too close to his nipples, which are inverted and terrifying. I’m laying on his arms which have less muscle than mine, which seems impossible given his tennis playing.

Eventually, Vance gets on top of me and begins passionately kissing me. “Are you hard again?” I ask. Clearly, he was. Having jerked off before the date and then cumming twenty minutes ago, he’s blown away that I can make him hard a third time. For you younger folks, it’s quite rare for older gentlemen to cum three times in a day. When it’s done, he lays in bliss telling me how this may be the best night of sex in his life.

When he leaves, it’s clear that we’ll see each other again. Our first date lasted seven hours. Vance and I are smitten. In my case, it’s an intellectual attraction. But I know myself. I know the thing that gives me pause when first dating will consume me later.

I decide that compared to other guys, this is fixable. I can’t fix Sean’s limp dick. I can’t fix Marc’s uncircumcised penis. I can’t increase Thomas’ income by at least $100k. But a body can be sculpted and every single guy I’ve dated stepped up their workout game to match my fitness level.