Confession #2: Big Regrets -- Older, but not wiser

Spring, 2004 --

My early thirties. I was taking some time off work, not doing much except focusing on my well-being: sleeping in, eating nice meals, leisurely walking in nature, reading. I was perfectly content. There were no men really in my life, and I did miss my wild side, but it usually leads me to trouble, and I wasn't sorry there were no opportunities to indulge it.

My best friend and my mom really thought I should be "dating". What a silly term, I don't know anyone who's going on a "date" anymore. In the end, she bought me an eharmony subscription and asked me to check it out, or at least to browse. It seemed kind of fun, so I did. I wrote a pretty good description of myself. I never lie because it can only lead to big disappointment upon meeting. In fact, I play down some of my good qualities in hopes of managing expectations. However, for some reason at that time, I described myself as having "long hair". I felt it was long, it had always been short before; it was a few inches longer than my shoulders. When the first of my most promising pursuers asked me about it, I said it was about to the middle of my back. In my mind, it seemed so... or did I subconsciously exaggerate it because he seemed so attracted to it?

In any case, there were several men who seemed interesting. The biggest disappointment came early, when one asked me to bypass the normal steps and immediately get acquainted. I agreed and the first thing he wanted was more pictures. The most promising was a guy from a larger city, about 45 miles away. Even though I don't much like the phone, we talked for hours and hours and had the best conversations. He was very different from me, more conservative, but nice and sarcastic, with a quick wit. I liked him. He often joked that he wanted to hire me as his "personal assistant", but I would really be more like his kept girlfriend. Several of our conversations really excited me, and I expected him to be a little wild in person. He wanted to meet, and I was eager to do so. Like a gentleman of old, he wanted to come to where I was and take me to a very nice restaurant.

Leaving out some of the gory details, I told my friend and family that maybe they were right, and that I was to meet this man. I've always been like an open book when it comes to happenings in my life. It's hard for me to be secretive about how I'm feeling... that's just essentially who I am. They were excited and asked if they could drive around the restaurant parking lot and try and guess who he was. He didn't have tons of pictures of himself on the site, so I wasn't sure I would immediately know him myself. We had told each other what colors we would likely be wearing (I was in black, he was in white), and of course, he'd recognize my trademark hair.

We easily found each other and sat down. We both seemed pleased with the other, but I was nervous. I ordered a martini and drank it far too quickly. He had a drink too, and I think that gave him the nerve to tell me his great disappointment in my hair. It wasn't that long at all. I didn't feel I was deliberately misleading him -- I had been so honest about everything in my life, including my weight (I'm not size 4 waif bedizened with bling, but rather a healthy, busty girl next door size 12), why would I lie about that? He did seem to appreciate my chest, although I think he was expecting someone taller, thinner, more elegant (I'm just surmising, after our entire meeting), but at the time he still seemed interested.

Then our after-dinner conversation turned to politics. He was a big Bush supporter, and I most definitely was not. Although my date was not well educated and had started his own business to become successful, he identified with Bush? the guy who squandered every gift he received? Old money buys you a degree from Yale? It was not to be tolerated, I had to set him straight. He's part of the great recipients of the Bush tax cuts because he owns a business that makes, what, $175K a year? Please. We're talking about millionaires and billionaires taking more of the pie, not this guy.

After a rather unpleasant back and forth, we left the uncomfortable subject. It had soured things a bit, and probably unnecessarily so. The drinks had plied us well, though we were sober enough to make such complicated arguments. He was getting ready for a long drive back to his home, and I went out to his truck with him to chat before he left.

We had some musical tastes in common. He put in a CD while we talked, flirted. The ice melted a bit and it seemed we were back to the way it was on the phone. We kissed a lot, and he was a good kisser. I got very excited. I wanted more. Sometimes I can't help myself. I gave him a look of intent, a sexy, serious look, and leaned over and unzipped his pants. I quickly pulled him out and into my mouth. He nervously looked around to see if anyone could tell, but we were in a dark corner of the parking lot, and he relaxed. I still felt an attraction and I wanted to please him. His cock was big, and I was worried my mouth would go dry. He gave out a sexy low moan as he came, and I nearly came myself. I swallowed and licked him clean. I smiled up at him as I did. He looked amazed and very happy, like it had all happened so suddenly. In my joking way, I acted as if it had never happened and said, "well, see you later!" He understood my sense of humor.

I went home and expected he'd call when he reached his. He didn't. I wrote him an email telling him that I'd had a nice time, an interesting time, and that I just wanted to know he'd made it home safely. The next morning I got my reply: he had a nice time, he'd made it home fine. No mention of any further meeting.

I suspected this possibility. This guy probably went there looking for a sweet little wifey type, and here he finds someone more likely to be the other woman. He didn't like the impropriety of my blow job, though he enjoyed it.

I never heard from him again.

My regret here is not that I didn't hear from him again, but rather that it made me feel promiscuous and slutty, ideas that I try to reject.

True Confession #1: Daniel

My confessions are not necessarily in chronological order. I think I'm more likely to confess the ones I dwell on the most. But let's see how it goes. Some stories will only make sense emotionally because of others that happened earlier.




Ok, with no more ado, here's one I've thought about a lot lately. Not the most graphic one, so if this one bothers you, I wouldn't recommend reading any others.

Spring, 2002 --

I was working in a small town and commuting from a wealthy suburb of the state's capital. I'd already had several erotic and risky encounters, but I was getting hungry to do something bold. I watch too many films, and my imagination has often run into the idea of surrendering control. Submission, not just to someone, but to a plan. Complete control of will amid fear, anxiety. Anxiety always, for some reason, heightens my need for release -- it's like all my anxiety suddenly is channeled into sexual gratification, and it is hard to deny.

I fantasize constantly about surrendering, being taken. I don't know why it circles around the idea of being used. It always excites me. Even as a pre-teen, I'd lie in bed and work myself into a wanton frenzy thinking about being kidnapped and kept, slowly coming to desire my captor.

I know the difference between fantasy and reality, and I know in reality this would be horrifying. I'm sure that's why they are, indeed, fantasies; they're not meant to be actually experienced. Yet don't many men want a menage a trois, and go on to experience it? (And enjoy it rather thoroughly.) In the dream, of course it never goes too far. The world of BDSM is an attempt to enjoy dark cravings in a safe environment. Safe words, clubs (where there are lots of witnesses), long communications about intent and expectation. The long set up, of course, destroys some of the thrill of the unknown, another element of the fantasy.

Maybe lots of people share these sorts of fantasies. It wasn't ever enough for me to not attempt to live it. I had to try and have the fantasy. I do want anyone who might read this to know that never in my wanderings in these areas was I physically harmed. Emotionally? Perhaps. I've only been physically harmed once in my life (when I was 19), and there are lots of regrets with that, so I'll save it for later.

I have a strong internet personality. I've belonged to many communities and contributed often. My profiles are provocative. I met Daniel when he decided to IM me based on something in my profile. He made some arrogant comment, and I had to rise to the occasion, sniping something back quickly. (I don't IM anymore for some reason, I wonder why?)

He lived nearby. I was a few years older. I could tell he was insecure about the fact that I was well employed and well educated... better than he was. He often tried to show off his pseudo-bourgeois knowledge, and I always exposed it as such. I've always loved food and wine, and I've lived in some great cities with access to cultural events, museums, and fine restaurants. (I've always exploited these opportunities when I could, which is why I've saved no money in my life.) He proclaimed himself an expert and I revealed that I knew more. So our relationship was, naturally, rather contentious at first.

I don't remember what he saw in my profile that attracted him. I do know that we quickly turned that repartee into something more interesting. We eventually enjoyed the anonymity of the computer and shared some of our secrets. We had some common themes in our fantasy life.

We talked on the computer for a few weeks, and once or twice on the phone. I don't like the phone much, so most conversation was in IM. After a few rather dirty exchanges, we decided we should meet. We worked out a plan, although I think we forgot to plan beyond our initial meeting.

I drove to his house, it wasn't far, which was good because I may have lost the nerve. I felt confident that he would be pleasantly surprised. I was worried a little bit about what he would look like. I'm not all about looks, but I have to feel some sort of magentism.

The door was open. I took a deep breath and walked in. He was sitting on the couch, naked below the waist, with the biggest smile. He was somewhat handsome, and I didn't feel at all threatened by him. I took off my clothes and I could tell he approved. I have large breasts, I felt his gaze fixed on them, his admiration clear in his expression. We didn't speak. I quickly walked over and knelt before him, taking his cock in my mouth. I've given many blow jobs. It takes a few minutes to figure out what a particular man likes. I try different paces, places and techniques. I like it when someone tells me what feels good, I don't like to guess. I like encouragement.

He almost squirmed with pleasure when I methodically licked his balls. I always follow careful geometric patterns, with symmetry. I knew it would not take long, judging from his reaction, and I could feel the pulsing in his cock. I knew he was bout to come, and I eagerly took him back in my mouth so I could feel it and taste him. I genuinely like giving head, unless his semen tastes particularly bad. I knew I would soon know, and I felt myself getting wet at the idea of what the scene looked like... perhaps as if it were in a movie. That idea excited me further. He finally came. It was thin and nearly tasteless, except for that sort of tingling sensation that I always feel. I felt pleased with myself that he was so happy. I looked up at him, trying to look sexy with my swollen lips. I could tell that he was enthralled, he would want more of me. I could tell he might want to be a couple.

These things don't really coexist well with me. A start like this? It's not really me. I'm playing a part that pleases me, probably because I have to be in charge of every other area of my life. This is the one thing that lets me enjoy not thinking, simply doing what is expected.

He offered me a drink of his wine. I accepted and thanked him. We both sort of grinned at each other for a few moments. I got up and got dressed. We chatted for a few moments, and I left.

He wanted to see me many times after that meeting, usually with terms that were inconvenient for me. I didn't really want to, but I did once more, perhaps a tale for another confession. Eventually I left the area and broke contact for good.

On a scale of 1 to 10 for regrets, I'll give this a 5.

I felt a little dirty about it, but I did secretly smile a few times when I remembered it. My sexual knowledge and sense of adventure was only slightly increased by this encounter, since I've had other experiences with strangers, but none quite like this, with a silent acquiescence.

Introduction

For a long time now, I've considered the idea of a true confession. A diary is so concrete; someday when I die, someone would inevitably go through it (or even worse, not!) and know my secrets. This is more comfortable, and sharing it somewhere compels me to be as honest as possible. If I ever actually had readers, I'd want them to know that their interest in my thoughts deserves the naked truth.

I'm a single woman in my late 30's. I've lived in lots of places and worked lots of jobs. I grew up in the Midwest among good people with wholesome values. I make a decent income and therefore have enjoyed independence, living the way I choose. I've lived alone the majority of adulthood. Many times I was living alone in a new city with a new job -- I think that fed my desire for some of the things I may now regret.

Some names and places I may change for anonymity's sake. Some of my friends are very literate and spend lots of time poking around the web. I would hate for someone to stumble upon my true identity.

Oh, and one more thing. Don't ask me if it's really true or if it really happened. If I put it here, it happened. I'm nervous even committing all this to "paper". However, some of these incidents I've grappled with over and over again. On my best days, I admire my own sense of adventure. On the worst days, I feel dirty and ashamed, and wonder what dark lies within me.

Who knows, I may not be that interesting. Nevertheless, I'll try my first confession.