Don’t Tell My Mother I Write About Sex On The Internet (Motorbike Man Pt 2)

I’m on top of a hill at sunset with a man who rides a motorbike. After we got the ‘hello, how are you’ out of the way he gave me a pair of gold earrings with delicate fish engravings.

The only place open to eat was at the Casino bistro with the soothing sound of poker machines in the background. He was lovely, polite and our conversation was the best I’d had on any internet date. He was impressed to learn that I knew what Sofism was and I was impressed to learn that he was the first guy to ride to some ridiculously high Himalayan mountain on a ridiculously small motorbike. Adventure man! My dad would approve.

I wasn’t immediately attracted but I thought all this good conversation should lead to a second date. He cooked me butter chicken from scratch.

Gift giving + motorbike riding + conversing + cooking = fairly sweet so far. Then three things happened:

1. He asked me to go overseas and meet his family

2. We slept together

3. He told me he loved me

Let me awkwardly elaborate further on point number 2* in a non-erotic manner.

I snogged him after dinner in a lull in the conversation. Was I bored? Was I genuinely attracted or just curious? Had it been more than two years since my last sexual encounter, was I just really hot for it? I can’t recall my motivations but the result was wet, sloppy and uninspiring. Undeterred, perhaps confusing urgency for passion, I went wandering with my hands. He grabbed them and led me to his (single) bed.

My Dear Readers, normally I’d agree with the ‘It’s not the size that matters, but what you do with it,” but nothing was being done with it and I had to ask the dreaded “Is it in?” Poor fella, I know it’s hard to hear but I genuinely didn’t know. It was tiny and remained flaccid no matter what I tried. Despite this he continued to assure me ‘I’m OK sweetie, I can go all night.’

Now, I don’t really mind what I’m called in the bedroom, I don’t even mind having my breasts referred to as ‘Mary Kate’ and ‘Ashley.’ Hell, I’ll even call your triceps ‘Des’ and ‘Troy’ if it boils your potato. ‘Babe,’ which I abhor in daily life, makes me feel a little bit naughty in the throes of passion, but ‘Oh, sweetie!’ made me feel like I was out to high tea with my grandmother.

So I’m being referred to as an endearing aging pensioner and I actually cannot feel a thing. I fake it so it’ll stop. Before I ‘get there’ he cries ‘I love you!’ repeatedly.

We had lunch a few days later. Conversation was strained. He again asked me to meet his parents. I told him I didn’t think it would work between us. I left a real nice hat at his house.

*Seriously, don’t tell my mother I write about sex on the internet!


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