Well, it's past 1AM and I have to be up for work in six hours. That's me being a smart cookie again.

I got home at 930, GV8 called and we made plans for the coming weekend: a short trip up the coast, to get out of Los Angeles for a bit. Grab some lunch, walk around. We talked about the progress I've been making, how much I've changed since moving here, how much I've grown, how proud he is of me.

He's proud of me.

Gods, do I love that man.

We talked about my fears that I'm going to be single for too long, partnerless. I'm in my mid-twenties and soon I'll be hitting my thirties and these are the years for roaming, for exploration, for youth and memories to be shared. I'm such a companion, such a lover.

I'm trying to hold out on the sex front, wait until I meet someone special, someone I would want to possibly have a relationship with, but that could take a couple years and I love sex so very much, love that physical contact, that enjoyment. I want a man or two in my bed, at my call, someone for late night fucking and early morning breakfasts at little cafes while we peoplewatch.

I'm torn.

GV8 says he's not going out of his way to have sex until the end of March, that he's too busy with the loft and with his business. I'm trying to imagine him not having sex for months on end and I'm sure he can do it, but he's just as sexual as I am, not to mention he has a large pool of booty calls to choose from, and that call him.

But I want to write about my date last night.

We met at a Persian restaurant I had enjoyed before. Good food, fun atmosphere, good peoplewatching.

He was... well, close enough to my type in some ways, not in others.

In dress, all black. But not that crappy, unpaid goth way. Black slacks, good boots, soft black shirt with a gray design, black scarf, black coat. All good quality, nothing faded, nothing mismatched in shading.

Shaved head, multiple ear piercings with those tribal-looking plugs.

Tattoos on his biceps, forearms, top of his hands, knuckles.

I'm not actually one for knuckle tattoos, but the story behind it was... historical. Was facsinating.

That little patch of pointed hair beneath the lower lip.

Cat-eyes, brown and tilted upwards. Beautiful.

My kind of guy, if I had one particular kind that I favored over others, would actually be like I am. Which is funny, as I've taken my starting point (blonde, tan, casual) and turned it into the type of male I prize: black hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and a well-dressed, but casual appearance, always in dark colors.

But, really, anything alternative, anything aggressive and unique with good coloring and I'm sold.

Unfortunately, this man, while well dressed, while alternative, while fun... was more overweight than I enjoy. Not horrifically so, but definitely beyond what I consider attractive. This is unfortunate because he used to be beautiful, used to be chiseled, has amazing facial bone structure, but suffered a nasty back injury a few years ago and is finally getting to the point where he can start exercising again. He. Was. So. Goddamned. Gorgeous.

He stood when I came in, took in my body, my dress, hugged me hello. Waited until I sat down to seat himself.

And what did I do?

Oh, I fucked with him. I couldn't help it. I had wanted to try a few different things, a few different tactics so different than my usual and he was there and I wanted to get his unknowing feedback on them.

After about twenty minutes of frying his brain, having some false leads that were quickly recovered, I apologized for messing with him, explained what I had been doing, why I had been doing it, and was incredibly blunt about the entire thing.

Why?

Because I realized a two things:

1. This is the way I am, this is the way I interact with men because I am so frustrated with the amount of them that can't step up. I was taking out that frustration on him, even though I was being nice, even though I was being polite, even though he had no idea what I was doing, it still was not kind, and as soon as I realized he was too nervous to keep up, I should have stopped.

2. This is the way I am, this is the way I interact with men. Period. I need someone who will do this with me. I need someone who I fit with, which means I can't continue to hide my nature like so many do. I want someone to recognize what I am doing and smack me down, play the games, then stop the games and take control. To own me. Like GV8 did.

I need to be challenged, I need to challenge, because I need the man I am interacting with to prove that he's it. That he's worth submitting to. That he is strong enough for me, smart enough for me, controlled enough for me, that I can relax with him. That I can respect him.

My date had his moments though, once I apologized, once I started calming him down. He hadn't expected me to clean up so well, I believe. And I was turning heads.

Bits would surface in him.

And he did a line I haven't had directed at me yet, though I've heard it before:

"I have no intention of kissing you tonight."

I had wondered, for a time, how I would respond to that. If I would do the usual female-response qualifier, or if I would be able to smile, shrug, and tell him I was relieved, just to fire it back at him.

I did the usual. Oh, gods, did I. As soon as he said it, I stopped and told him that I could not believe he just fucked with my head like that, that he would use that line, that I had forgotten about that one.

I spent the next hour in a mental uproar, trying to shrug it off, trying to not qualify myself to him, trying not to probe into the questioning of why not, trying to let it go.

I finally did, with some grousing.

But that line did remind me of another that one of my guy friends uses on dates, which is to casually drop in a version of, "Every girl I've ever kissed I've slept with."

Immediate mental linkage. Immediate acknowledgement. Immediate sexuality.

And, when she does let you kiss her, you know you're in. You know you're in her head. It's golden, in my opinion.

After dinner, we walked. I love walking, love exploring places. So we wandered residental streets, looking at various architecture, ooohing at different things people with way too much money had done to their homes.

On the way back to our cars, we found a construction site with wide stairs I had to climb.

My lack (was it a lack?) of planning led me to climb these stairs, then realize because I cannot see in 3D (long, boring story) and the light was so low, I would need him to assist me in getting back to ground level.

Mmm physical contact.

Mmm making out on the stairs, being held off-balance so I had to cling to him.

Mmm him shrugging off his jacket, hiking my skirt up over my waist, and running his hands over my ass, moaning beautiful complimentary curses.

I decided to cancel my clubbing plans, he decided to cancel his party plans, and I took him back to my apartment.

We were going to go walking, seeing the city nightlife, leave my car at my place and go from there.

Unsurprisingly, once we stopped into my apartment, we did not leave.

Lit up the candles in the fireplace, put on my triphop station, and, sometime later, found myself with my ankles locked around his waist, his face buried in my breasts, being shoved up against side fireplace.

It was an odd ebb and flow of talking, cuddling, and sudden sexual activity that, per my set boundaries, never led to sex. I never went down on him, never actually touched his cock. Per my instructions, he left his pants on the entire night.

However, I was naked.

Which meant a lot of oral for me, a lot of digital penetration. And, like any good man who has had a lot of sexual experience, rimming. Delightful rimming. I find it hysterical that so many people are so disgusted by this.

It was weird, really. I'm always the pleaser, always the one serving, the one begging, whimpering, pleading, whining, watching everything I do for those perfect movements, the ones that look so natural, so desperate for whomever I'm with.

And I have not been pleasing lately. I've been being pleased. I've been the responder. I have been the one laid out in the bed while a man works over me, trying to unlock me.

Spooning, he slid two fingers into me, and I let my hips roll, acting as though it was him sheathed inside me, grinding my ass into his crotch, him rasping, "Oh god, that's right, baby, fuck my hand, fuck it, yessssss."

Cute. Fun.

I don't really like being called "baby". So generic.

"Kitten" will make me melt, though.

In the morning, I pressed against his side, slide my thigh on top of his to grind into him, wet, wanting, licking his earlobe, kissing his neck, biting his shoulder, until he finally couldn't take it, finally violated the boundaries I had placed, took off his pants and masturbated while I stroked his body, lightly moaning into his ear, running my fingernails over the inside of his thighs, the backs of his knees.

When he came, it was the build up of hours. I had not seen that much semen since the first time GV8 and I slept together, and he had an orgasm that lasted at least ten seconds (which blew my mind... it doesn't sound like a lot, but when a man is pulsing and unloading down your throat for ten seconds, it's surprising).

I wanted to flip around, swing a leg over him, grind into his mouth while I licked him clean.

But I, of course, obeyed my own boundaries.

We showered, I dropped him back at his car. Texted him to thank him for a fun evening. He called me once he got home.

It's weird, the body thing. Seeing his muscles move under the fat that he developed through years of being unable to exercise. Seeing the bones in his face, knowing what was there, what has the potential to be there. Realizing, suddenly, that in the last year all of the men I have slept with (or have sexually interacted with) have been in the range of above attractive to oh-my-god attractive.

Trying out the idea that a woman is attracted to status over looks, pushing my own mind to view things in certain ways to see how I will respond.

I know I am base. I know, and am aware, that status turns me on. I know that a man with a partner count over 200 is something that I prize, something that I look for and, of late, have found.

This doesn't bother me.

I know it probably... maybe... might... should? It's just the way things are, just the way I have learned to be, that the things I value in men tend to mesh with certain characteristics that one finds in men that sleep around a good deal.

I do not know what I am going to do with this one. Usually I know almost immediately what roll a man available to me will fill in my life. He provides many things I've been looking for, and somethings I do not want. He's not alpha enough to shove away my lack of attraction to his body, but he is sexually experienced enough to meet some qualifications, though his technique is nowhere near GV8's. He's very socially active, which is good companion material, and he writes, which is a good prompt and reminder for me to work on my own projects.

But I'm still not certain if I want a casual partner, or if I want to be celibate for awhile.

And since I'm still sitting here on the fence about it, he hasn't charmed me enough to bring me into his court, which is not a good sign for him. I don't desire him enough, and I don't want to settle for a man who I do not sexually desire simply so I can have the companionship I do desire.

215 in the morning. I think I'll sleep on this, though I'm already answering my own question.