I thought it would be too soon to meet up with someone from Tinder. I mean, I’m only just starting to pack up the condo I shared with Eleven. He even still has some food in the fridge that hasn’t even gone bad yet.
But, not to put too fine a point on it, I haven’t had a partnered orgasm this year.
I haven’t had someone excited by my body for significantly longer.
My friend Anastasia suggested we try Tinder Social with a friend of hers, which sounds awful, but I am a glutton for punishment (inasmuch as someone with my domme tendencies can be). I start swiping for all of us, and it’s… dire. Groups ranging in age from 21 to 45 or groups with one member who is 2165 kilometers away. I shut it down pretty quickly, but my swiping finger got itchy…
So I swiped for myself. I was picky as heck. I specifically wanted someone I’d probably never see again, because I had no idea how this would go. I live in high-tourist area, so my matches quickly filled with profiles that read “Here for a week!”
Then Rocky super-liked me. I am so torn about super-likes. They didn’t exist two years ago, which was the last time I really swiped for men, and I take them as a compliment but they aren’t going to sway me towards swiping back if I’m not feeling it. This guy, though? I was feeling it hard. Something about his huge brown eyes and stubble were extremely compelling for me. There was a bit of a BTSK vibe, which meant there was a bit of a Michael Weatherly vibe. He even had “In Toronto until Thursday for a conference” in his profile.
We arranged to grab a beer on Tuesday night, at a dark little pub walking distance from condo I shared with Eleven a fortnight ago. Prepared for the worst, I confessed via text that I had just been through a rough breakup so this could be weird. He said, “We’ll just take it as it happens.”
Rocky showed up in a slender navy suit and didn’t touch his phone all night. The conversation moved quickly. We almost immediately went for the fucked-up family TMI stories, and he shared stories of working up in northern BC (where he lives). After two hours, I invited him back to the condo. Any guilt I felt about bringing a person back to the white box I tried to make a home quickly dissipated when Rocky confessed that he has submissive tendencies.
I made him praise my body, which had only been touched reluctantly for the past year, and not at all in 2017. I made him beg me to touch him. I made him call me Ms. with a “Z” sound. I ran my fingernails so hard down his back he had raised marks the next day. I used him in a way that facilitated three orgasms for me. I was unprepared and out of domme practice, but we immediately made plans to meet up again the next night after the conference.
I washed some of my favourite toys, put on my boots and strappiest Agent Provocateur set and lounged around the condo feeling very glamourous and powerful. By 9:30, though, I hadn’t heard from him. I sent him a stern “Tell me where you are” text, and it was after 10:00 before he got back to me.
I sent him a snapchat of my outfit, but was not going to try to convince him. He was effusive in his praise, but chose a good night’s sleep over our booty call.
I was a little peeved at the time, so I asked a few girlfriends if I could send them the picture too, and their praise and affirmation was more important than his would have been.
I don’t know if there’s a lesson here. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. It was something to get out of my system, and now I can focus on things like my move and the 5k race I’m running this week. I’ll likely never see him again, though he has texted me a fair bit since he arrived home.
I just need to keep myself further and further away from Eleven.