This Sporting Life

So Moby Dick has been the source of a couple of unexpected and pretty mind-blowing adventures. But overall, the past few months have been decidedly lacklustre, filled with disappointment and timewasters. In fact the whole challenge of finding interesting people to have fun and hang out with is becoming more of a chore than an enjoyable pastime and I’m keen to hang up my keyboard and focus on something less emotionally draining.

But it turns out that when stuck in bed recovering from flu, the lure of online chatting is too much to resist and I’m soon back on the horse, surfing yet another wave of interest. I had briefly reactivated an old account on a regular dating site and started talking to a few prospective guys, one of whom was just my type and extremely promising. At 53 years old, he still plays football and has a stocky, muscly, tattooed physique along with a wicked sense of humour and a devious sexual imagination.

He tells me in great detail how he views women’s bodies as playgrounds to be explored and I offer to let him delve into my many hillocks and ravines any time he wants. I am regaining my cheekiness and am determined not to fall into the trap of taking any of the game seriously in any way again after The Heartbreak Kid. This guy wants to use me as a plaything and the whole scenario seems like it could be a lot of fun.

We meet at a pub near me one sunny afternoon on his way back from a footy match. There is immediate chemistry as we hug, laugh, and launch into taking the piss out of each other. I’m a bit put off by his bizarre, patchwork, age-inappropriate jeans, but find that if I focus above the waist, that I quite like him. We have plenty in common and chat comfortably, even sticking around to have something to eat together. When he goes to find a menu, he’s quite taken by the daily special which seems particularly serendipitous: A Trio of Native Sausages.

Proud of his gentlemanly manners, he walks me to my car. It’s getting dark and we’re in a quiet side street as he backs me against the car and starts snogging me and feeling me up. Our online chatting has been based on his dominance and he had instructed me not to wear knickers during our meeting. While I don’t know him, I agree to go along with the suggestion, figuring ‘in for a penny in for a pound’. Or as The Husband says… ‘in for a pounding’.

The footy player has me up against the car and is putting his hand up my dress to check on my underwear status as a couple walks past and car drives slowly up the road looking for a parking space. I’m really not comfortable with exhibitionism and I extricate myself from him to get into my car. He leans in to kiss me and makes one more awkward lunge at my crotch before I drive away.

In my experience, there’s a fine line between being a dom and being a dick. Often, resorting to dom talk is a tactic to disguise a person’s inability to communicate or connect on other levels, and can be a geeky, contrived act. I have a small inkling of doubt as I leave this guy, suspecting that his display of confidence and sexual inventiveness will not stand up to scrutiny. It’s an incredibly difficult balance to achieve a sense of dominance with any authenticity, particularly as the best subs are often the most self-assured and strong characters in the ways that they approach and deal with their everyday life. The key lies in having the confidence to respect and remain unintimidated by such strength, while avoiding the pitfalls of arrogance.

For me, humour is a huge part of it. It might sound bizarre, but the ability not to take it all too seriously adds to the experience, avoiding the contrived clichés of cheesy roleplay. The messaging with this guy has been fun so far, but after our meeting there are a few jokey comments that veer towards mean and I can’t help feeling that he’s a bit intimidated by me. He seems the kind of guy who’s used to having the upper hand with simpering younger women.

One of the many issues of dating single guys in their 40s and 50s is availability. My house is way too busy for me to host, but while my kids still live at home, they’re all grown up and do their own thing. Most of the people I’m meeting at the moment seem to have younger kids and shared parenting responsibilities so it takes a while to match up schedules. There’s a considerable delay with the footy player, complicated by two additional delays – a migraine (his) and a period (mine).

The overall messaging had been incredibly hot, with plenty of talk about him using all of my holes. But the big build up is combined with gaps in communication, and my enthusiasm is waning as I drive the considerable distance to my date. While I had made an effort, wearing my favourite fuck-dress, he greets me at the front door in his vest and shorts looking like he’s just woken up. In the kitchen, he pours me wine into a beer glass and ushers me straight into the bedroom – smooth.

We sit on the bed chatting and again, I get a faint whiff of arrogance as he boasts about his knowledge and skills. But I’ve made the trip and quickly relax into it as he focuses his attention on my pussy. His dick is reassuringly thick and hard as we fool around and his muscly firm thighs are impressive as he straddles me. But then just as he lifts my legs in the air and starts to enter me, he goes soft…

This is becoming a theme, and I’m developing a complex!

I’m on my back and he’s on his knees, leaning over me. He shouts [yes, shouts] that something’s wrong. He looks so shocked and mortified that I’m anxious for a brief moment, not knowing where his anger is heading. He rolls over onto his side holding his head in his hands and stating the age old ‘this never happens’ [yeah, right]. I’ve been through this scenario a few times now and am far less surprised and put out than he is, knowing that if we chill out a bit together that we could be fucking like crazy in just a short time. But he seems immune to my reassurances and I offer to leave. He asks me to stay and we lie naked, joking, exploring each other’s tattoos, and finishing our drinks. It’s pleasant and comfortable, and by the time I realise that it’s time for me to head home, he’s hard again and I figure I’ll give him a farewell blowey. It’s effective and he cums in my mouth while straddled over my face.

As I get ready to leave, he apologises profusely for his performance issues continuing to be hideously embarrassed. I on the other hand, reassure him that I have had a good time and honestly think that we have pretty promising potential. I get in to my car and we agree to talk again soon. But I never hear from him again. No ‘hope you got home ok’, or ‘thanks for coming all that way’, or ‘I really enjoyed your company’. Of course, I toy with the idea of making the first move, but then again, if his ego is so fragile that he can’t stretch to a polite message then I’m not going play the counsellor yet again.

Three months after the encounter, I am gobsmacked when he pops up again on the message app –  unbelievable!


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