I almost had a date recently. He was a very handsome and charismatic stranger who I actually met in person. I do believe he wanted to fuck my brains out. That’s an awfully nice offer at my age. I was even willing to excuse the silly cock selfie he texted me. I understood that he hadn’t actually done the research on me to realize that I’m not particularly interested in submissive men presenting anatomical offerings for my consumption. Like I said, he was really hot, with a wicked smile. I could have jumped him right then and there if we hadn’t been in public at the time.
So, I asked him, “Are cigars welcome at your establishment?”
And that’s the last I’ve heard from him.
Whew. That was a close one.
Nothing worse than having one’s brains fucked out by a Health Nazi.
I feel so dirty and used just thinking about it. I might even have been stranded at his remote domain, far from civilization, wondering how long I’m going to have to play nice in order to safely and diplomatically make my escape. Fortunately, that didn’t happen even if the notion of being trapped in a remote location with a sexually voracious man actually makes my knees weak. It is best not to let one’s fantasy lead one into less than hospitable surroundings. Honestly, I don’t know how high class prostitutes do such things. What an adrenaline rush that profession must be.
In addition to avoiding being trapped with a Health Nazi, I also feel fortunate that, at this moment, I do not have to shower thoroughly, soothe my delicate tissues from their latex exposure by applying aloe vera, gargle with Listerine, nor worry about STD’s for six months while I wait for the hook-up-artist’s germs to “culture”.
My life might even have been saved!
On second thought, maybe he was CIA, but he wasn’t properly briefed. Ooops!
“So, all I have to do is fuck her brains out and the cock crazy bitch will reveal her sources? Sure, I can do that. Wait! You didn’t say anything about the cigars! No way. I’m out.”
They just don’t make men like they used to. Pussy.
I would prefer to never have sexual intercourse again than to deal with such brainless male bimbos. I would rather spend the evening with a man so old, so debauched, and so used up that the only way he could bring me to orgasm would be by mere words. Oh I love that! I love creative use of words and male energy. I love that even more than I love cock. Besides, there’s always my wonderful tempered glass dildo if the situation demands it. Not only is it perfect, always hard, and available upon demand, it washes spotlessly clean.