Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I had meals out with three men yesterday. Two of them picked up the check. The third one I slept with. What's wrong with this picture?



First meeting - Client for lunch. He wears a blue sweater that brings out his eyes, he's sweet and a little nervous and laughs at my jokes. I eat half a salad (fortunately, as it turns out) and we plan a hot-tub appointment for next week. Later that day, he sends me an email-

Subject line: WOW
That about says it all, wow...

Hey thanks for lunch. It was an absolute pleasure meeting you. The only downside is that now I have to wait until Tuesday to see you again. Well at least that allows the anticipation to build. As I hugged you goodbye, I could only imagine the sensation of holding you close, lightly kissing and caressing your neck, you turning your head and the first kiss....

Okay so I'm not a writer, but you get my drift.

Slightly cheesy in phrasing, yes. But the man is a FINANCIAL PLANNER. He made some EFFORT writing that. He risked making a fool of himself because I talked about being a writer and he thought words would please me, and he tried to do something I would like.

Second meeting - at the Shooting Range. Client, a self-described 'Geezer', reminds me of my Grampa before he got a little angry with dementia. He's got that spry, chipper, wry sense of humor, where he says outrageous things just to see what I'll do. We suit up with safety glasses and special earmuffs that electronically muffle noise when shots happen but let us hear each other's voices the rest of the time. Geezer teaches me how to load, aim and fire a .22, a .38 and a Glock 9mm. I am most accurate with the 38, but darn pleased that in fact I hit the main part of the target most of the time. At the end of our shooting session, he shows me what appears to be a fanny pack but is actually a quick-draw holster for a small handgun. I find it suddenly terrifying that people with permits can walk around wearing something like this.

Geezer then wants to take me to dinner - it's only 4:30, and my first thought is, well it is Early Bird Special time and he's probably AARP as well as NRA...he tells me about his foster kids (!?!), we eat 2-for-1 steak dinners and I am impressed that he tips the waitress $10 on a $22 check. He wants to take me snowmobiling and book me for a weekend.

Third meeting - I go see Big City Lover, complete with hour drive to his hotel from where I am, which is already an hour from home. We go get food - he needs it, I have soup and another half a salad - and I'm dreading the arrival of the check. See, BCL and I have had a couple of conversations about his position on chivalry, which is officially 'men and women should both be nice to each other', but which seems to translate as not holding doors or coats or picking up checks. Not that he doesn't do these things at all, but that he doesn't do them consistently one way or the other.

When the check arrives at Meals #1 and 2, both Clients not-so-subtly lunge for it, their body language indicating that the waitress has made a crucial tactical error by setting the folder squarely in the Gender-Neutral location on the table. With BCL, however, the check sits there, mocking me for driving, for the intention of head. But eventually, I reach over and say, "Well, I think it works out about the same, shall we just go halves?"



I hate going Dutch. I hate it with the burning heat of a thousand suns. I would rather pick up the check myself than work out who had the second glass of wine and did it cost more than half a shared dessert. With Husband, I usually carry the (joint) cash, he gets doors and coats. Lover feels strongly enough about 'man pays' that the last time I went to see him he put gas in my car. (When he was married, we went halves by me booking the hotel in advance while he paid for meals and on-the-spot expenses. Now, when I occasionally demur at a dinner or treat, he reminds me I am less expensive than was the marital mortgage.)

Here is the thing. I understand if the existing societal conventions, so useful to most men in providing simple, easily recognizable signals that say "I Value You," are not BCL's cup of tea. But I don't find that he's replaced those conventions with any other method of telling me that I'm worth more than as a non-complicated romp. After many years of Good Sport Sex, I have finally met a string of guys (personally and professionally) who treat me like my pussy is the Publisher's Clearinghouse Prize, and they are willing to subscribe to Sewing Circle, Cooking Lite and Teen Vogue to increase their chances of winning. It does not sit well with me to be with the guy who gives his kid the stickers and tosses the entry form saying, "Nobody ever wins that shit anyway."

Back at the hotel, we check our respective emails, he admires my bra (whore-wear), and we get into bed. For a while, we gently touch. His eyes are closed, and I think, ok, maybe we'll just go to sleep. I roll into his body and his hand wraps around my pussy like lightning. I watch his hand in my panties as an observer. The fingering starts to turn me on, and I roll over, kneel between his legs and suck. His eyes are still closed. His cock is very smooth, the head very dark. I straddle him, pull my panties (also whore-wear) aside, and lick my fingers to help him in. I had forgotten why I fuck him, and the answer suddenly comes back - the way he moves his hips, an incredible circular motion that fills me and rubs me and hurts just enough. He comes. I come. We stay there until I need to turn the heat down in the room, and when I go to the thermostat his come slides out of me, pools in my panties. I debate mailing them to Lover but think it will probably take too long, the smell will be gone.

We sleep. In the morning, he gets up earliest, sends email, gets dressed. He leaves a little before I do, for the job that brought him to town. I miss the part about being held as I wake up.



In the car today, after meeting yet another client, I finally get the balls to call BCL and tell him that I need to know he values me. Somehow, the conversation ends up with him sounding perfectly reasonable and me feeling whiny.

But I'm home tonight...