Conquest

Fist bumps all around, please. Like the Mounties, I got my man. I'd just gotten to the 'Fuck it' stage about will-we-won't-we-EVER. Et voila, penetration.

Seven weeks I'd been seeing this guy, on again and off again given our health and schedules. Seven weeks I'd been attentive to grooming, conscious of my morning underwear choices. After the Talk and a casual date which had me shaking my head, I'd cast aside pre-coital grooming and got busy with other stuff and didn't make any effort to see or talk to him.

So of course he has to jump my bones when I least expect it. The ambush occurs when I'm post-workout, unshowered, sporting several days' stubble in all the usual places, muff unkempt in preparation for an oncoming wax session. Wearing sensible but decidedly ugly underwear, socks unmatched, hair in a state of torpor. Obliviously earthy and resigned to probably not gettin' any for a while... Shazzam! He pounces! (Lesson: indifference is a powerful aphrodisiac.)

Some of you may be thinking, well, you should have put him off and gotten yourself cleaned up. Furthermore, delay on my part would have taught him a lesson, not to be temporarily neutered by his assumptions that I'd click into Girlfriend mode once we did the deed. I can hear the traditional among you coach me: play the game, maintain your pride, keep your eye on the good long-term strategy, etc. Yeah, I get it. But once again, fuck it.

Truth is I'm not looking for the long-term smart play with this one. My focus has been on the immediate conquest. Granted the opportunity, I was happy to ignore the rules of romance, didn't give more than even a passing nod to civility. Nope. This guy had pissed me off with all his paralysed anxiety on what might happen with sex, ooooh, scary...

Given the chance, I was determined to nail him, and I didn't really care if it was good or awkward or a miraculous explosion of emotion and ejaculate. I was going to get this sucker done. Let the chips fall where they may.

It was good, actually, given the circumstances. Though it is likely I joked too much throughout. I was amused by my state of unreadiness, and conscious of his roommates trying to sleep amidst the stop and start of a creaky bed; also we were almost interrupted by a tipsy buddy who saw the light on and staggered into the house before twigging to the fact that my Date wasn't alone. Furthermore, I was still a little irked by his assuming I'd been scheming to Land Him using sex as emotional blackmail. Male entitlement is irksome.

Whatever the pathology, mischief led me to joke right at the point of entry. “Armageddon is nigh,” I whispered in his ear. “And I can't believe I'm hammered.”

This last was a nod to his “confusion” regarding my alcohol and sex rule, where the "cut-off" was. Jesus. Over-think much? To his credit, he took my rapier wit in stride.

Determined to keep it casual, in follow-ups I've been keeping post-coital loungeabouts short to ensure I don't overstay. A 15-minute conversational interval and pop off home seems the appropriate action.

Mind you, now that the deed is done we are relaxing. I'm quite enjoying this casual sex thing. We're middle aged enough to be practical, young enough to be dirty. I'm not sure where it lies on the romance gradient when you blow someone and follow it up with a discussion on kitchen renovations. It does amuse me.

I don't feel like any significant change has taken place between us, other than feeling more comfortable now that It is out of the way. Once again, this statement lies at the far end of the romance gradient. It is nice to relax into a friendly non-attachment.

That said, I'm not sure what I owe him in terms of disclosure, seeing how my lover just emailed me yesterday to say he will be visiting in a few days, or maybe a few weeks. (Seems I only attract those incapable of advance-planning.)

Disclosure is a point of discussion with my beloved friends. The opinions so far include scepticism that I could sleep with two men and not feel conflicted about it. “How would you feel if he was doing that to you?” asked my dear friend.

I gave it a moment's thought. “Frankly, I wouldn't really care,” I said. And I mean it. As long as he wasn't being a skank about it, he was entitled to seeing other women.

Other friends are incredulous that I'd consider reviving the Talk just to ensure I wasn't hurting anyone's little feelings, that may or may not exist. In their minds, I've erred on the side of directness enough, and am not obliged to baby-sit.

I haven't decided yet. On the one hand, I feel I've been explicit enough with the Date. I was clear on the limits of what I had to offer. I went so far as to express not even expecting monogamy, as who was I to demand exclusivity when it was likely I was leaving in a few months?

Of course, I recognize this is not the same thing as saying “Oh, myself, I'd like to screw other people so no worries on the relationship thing.” No, it's not the same, but close enough. The main distinction between dating and being in a relationship is the expectation of exclusive rights. In my books, you can't demand monogamy and still call it mere dating. It's something.

Ultimately, the only reason I may resurrect Talking is a curious fastidiousness on my lover's behalf. Although he has several other lovers scattered across three continents, he sees a distinction in our situations. As a traveller, he is governed by the rules of “Just passing through, ma'am”, versus my inhabiting this town. For me, once again this seems like splitting hairs, as I'm determined to leave as soon as my house sale permits.

However, I've concluded that men have a peculiar distaste to even the hint of encroaching on another bro's territory. A primate instinct, translated in modern times to a swirl of incoherent yet firm discomfort.

I can deny being territory till I'm blue in the face, gripe at the double standard, point out they don't even know each other and that there's the little matter of my own free will as agency in the matter. But I suspect it doesn't matter. Men are delicate creatures. Nothing short of an explicit conversation may be good enough to let all parties plow ahead with confidence, or withdraw as they see fit.

In the meantime, tomorrow I get my Brazilian. If Armageddon is nigh, I intend to go to Dante's inferno with a slickety-smooth beave.

Amen, G.