Southern Lovin’ & Going South

Tinder talks are great before you get together with a new match. Not just for vetting purposes – chatting a little beforehand adds an element of familiarity that makes the first meet-up less awkward. Well, that, and booze. Liquid courage is helpful too.

I met Southern Love in person a few days after moving from tinder to text – the fact that I say things like that still shocks me. (Just a few years ago I thought I was happily married and contemplating having another baby! My god; how things change.) After a few pointed get-to-know-you texts, decently insightful messages and a drunken late-night call – I felt confident he would be a good match for my four days down south.

Speaking of down south – we didn’t go there. Well, he didn’t at least.

I used to be weird about oral sex – not the GIVING part but the GETTING part. I think a lot of girls are self-conscience until they realize, guys aren’t lying when they say they like it.

When I was younger, I felt embarrassed about oral sex, so much so that I’d do pretty much anything to get out of it. Foolish girl! Now-a-days, I’ve been known to shove a guy’s head down there and tell him to drink whether he wants it or not. (Except they always do; I just no longer wait for them to offer!)

Little side-note/tip for your future preservation and pleasure: Just like when a guy tells you he doesn’t care about you –believe him (preservation); likewise, when a guy says he likes to eat pussy –believe him (pleasure).

He asked and I refused, which contradicts what I’ve been learning in my recent “sex files of the recently divorced.” Pleasure is fleeting; get it when you can. This is usually the best thing about one night stands. Being the aggressor when you want, the submissive when it suites – demanding and giving and receiving – essentially, fucking but not giving a fuck!

Maybe that was the thing about Southern Love …

I *could* give a fuck.

We talked a lot that first night. We laughed and talked but unlike most of my other lovers this year, there was something a little deeper – a little more interesting, a calming charm that drew me in, without being too intense.

Southern Love and I had that sort of chemistry that well into the third kiss, made it impossible to stop what would be coming next. There was little point in attempting to set boundaries (we actually did try but after one million drinks and Smashing Pumpkins Disarm on vinyl… it was inevitable)!

It was all… so good. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that kind of sex. It was the kind I could still feel the next day and not just because there were a few bruises and tender places but because it continued to wet me. It was that kind of sex that hurt just enough to force me to feel.

He took charge and it made me feel gloriously submissive to his every desire – he commanded my body without words. I felt safe and pushed and feminine and led and turned – it was rough and sweet. It was fucking hot.

It was vulnerable for me.

And in that way, for that reason, I had to turn down his request.

There is such a thing as too much of a good thing, especially when you’re in town for just a few days.

If I’ve learned anything about myself in this year of post-divorce dating (and fucking), it’s that good sex is powerful. Really deep and passionate orgasms can be sticky – physically, emotionally, spiritually even.

He touched me everywhere else. I intuitively knew, had he drank from me there, a fountain of feelings could be triggered that I’m certain I could not easily shut off.

Blessed self-protection.
Southern Lovin’.
Sometimes all you can do when the lights are dim and the charm is palpable is stay north of the wall that divides pleasure and pain.

And feelings.


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