Sex In The City (Basketball Player)

      Well, last night was a little bit fun, but it ended poorly.  It also re-confirmed something I’ve known about myself for many years: if I’m not intellectually attracted to a man, it’s a struggle for me to find him attractive, even if all I want to do is keep is company for a few hours and have sex with him.

      It was good for my ego, however.  I’ve been feeling fat and old (Tanita says 130.8 this morning, which is the heaviest I’ve been in years and close to the heaviest I’ve ever been in my life), but my friend and I had zero problem meeting men.  

      I spent an extra 40 minutes on my hair before leaving the Studio (I had a lucrative, but exceedingly strange 4-hour session yesterday, which I’ll get to in a moment) and pulled out all the special FX appearance-wise.  The other girls said that I looked good, and since we practice high-tech femininity for a living, I believed them.  I also finished my lecture notes for Tuesday so that I wouldn’t be worried about it.

     We went to the Minus 5 Ice Bar, which is a bar…well, made of ice.  Ice cups, ice bar, ice statues, ice everything.  It’s a gimmic, but it’s beautiful, and it’s an ideal meatmarket because there is absolutely no pressure to make conversation: everyone is talking about the novelty of it all.  

      The first guy I met was a dentist.  I had to shoot him in the knee because he tried to monopolize my attention.  I made small talk with him for ten minutes and then tried to politely disengage, but he followed me around and then glared at me when I started talking to another guy, which must set some sort of world-record for male territorialism: possessive after ten minutes’ talk at a meat market.  

       We met some sailors on leave.  The one I liked was Southern, and very young, but polite.  He gave me his stool (even the stools are ice!) and his mittens (I rented a coat, but it was cold in there!).  His name was Jim, and he was from Alabama.  Alabama is one of the worst States in the Union, but he had the good sense to get the hell out of it, so that’s something.  

     He’s only in town with his friends for two more days and he wants to get together this evening.  I dunno.  I’m thinking about doing it.

      After the ice bar, we went to Dos Caminos, which is always packed during happy hour (it wasn’t the one by the Flatiron building, which I went to with the Mathematician and as such is now shunned by me).  

       Finding the men was easy: my friend picked them out, and I just went over and started talking to them.  Nothing to it.  Men are easy to pick up, and they love being approached.  Even the good-looking ones.

        Remember when I said that my friend likes meatheads?  Well, we got meatheads.  Honest-to-God meatheads.

       Basketball players.  That’s how the two boys knew each other.  They were teammates at one of the local colleges.  

        I wanted to abandon ship the minute I found out they were jocks.  Jocks are my mortal enemies.  Athletes are fine, but if they’re into the big three–baseball, football, or basketball–I tend to consider them trouble.  I’ve had them as students, and almost every one that I’ve had has been a spoiled, intellectually lazy troublemaker.  

         Maybe I’ve been too judgmental, because these two were actually pretty nice.  My friend is attracted to African-American guys, so she took him, and I got the blonde.  

        The conversation was not sparkling, but I suppose it’s just as well, because it was so loud in there I could hardly hear myself talk.  The view was great, though.  The man was very, very handsome.  I typically distrust very handsome men, but since I knew exactly where the evening was going, I figured what the hell.  He had blue eyes and a crew cut and was wearing a Klassy tight UnderArmor t-shirt and very loud high-top sneakers.  Orange sneakers.  

        “You’re a teacher?  That’s so hot!  Will you grade my homework?” he asked.

          Oh my God, I thought.  He was old for an undergraduate–he said that he put off college for the military–but he still had to be eight years younger than me.  

          “What’s your favorite class?” I asked him.

         “You know, I had to take this art class and I thought I would hate it, but it’s actually pretty cool!  For tomorrow, I had to draw a pineapple, which is a lot harder than it looks.”

           I thought about it.  “Actually, I think a pineapple would be very difficult to draw.  With all the spines on it, and gradiations in the leaves.”

           “Totally!  You know, you’re really beautiful.  I like older women.  You are like a beautiful MILF.”

           “A what?” I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly.

            “A beautiful MILF!”

             I stared at him for a second while I made up my mind about whether or not I should be offended.  He seemed bright and sunny and he obviously meant it as a compliment.  But for the record, guys: do not refer to women by their pornographic archetypes. 

         “I’ve never had children,” I said.

         “Yeah, but you have that sophisticated, lady-like look to you!  You’re very calm!”

          Calm?  As opposed to who?  What sort of women is our young basketball player hanging out with?  

           “Want to order some more guacamole?” he asked.  

           Well, okay. 

            I will omit the rest of the evening’s conversation from the record.  It was pleasant but completely uninteresting.  

        After a few hours, the guys excused themselves to make telephone calls (ostensibly).  I could see them talking frantically with each other outside the door, doubtlessly scheming on how to close the deal. 

         When they came back in, I saved him the trouble:

        “Why don’t you show me your pineapple?”

         He chocked on his margarita.  I know that I’m frank, but honestly, why fuck around?  We’d been talking for hours and he’d been touching my back, and I was sending him all the positive signs, so it shouldn’t have been that big of a surprise.  

        “SEE YA!” said his friend, who then practically shoved us out the door.

        He had a typically Young Dude apartment, which is to say that it had absolutely no decoration whatesoever aside from (get this) a poster of an Italian sports car.  The windows had blinds, not curtains.  There was no houseplants.  The walls were white, and he had a big TV and all this stuff on the floor for video games.  It was clean, though, and he had open books and binders on the kitchen table, which suggested to me that he bothered to study,  and I found that quite attractive. 

        He was nice, and he was trying to use good manners, which I appreciated.  He was big enough to kill me, but I didn’t feel the slightest bit afraid of him in any way.  I felt like I could control him. 

          The pineapple was actually pretty good.  Much better than I could draw it.  I took a photo of it with my cell phone and I’d post it, but the picture is blurry.

       He had an absolutely bangin body.  His body was so hard that it was actually uncomfortable to rest my head on it.  I think he’s the tallest man I’ve ever been with.  He was even taller than the Mathematician.  

       Because he was so young, and a jock, I was on guard for awful porn-sick behavior in his lovemaking skills.  Porn has ruined sensuality for many a young dood.  Most of it is predicated on hurting and humiliating the woman.  As an enthusiastic submissive, you’d think I’d get off on that, but I absolutely hate it when a man I’m not in a relationship with treats me with disrespect sexually. 

        Happily, he pulled almost no porn-sick moves.  If anything, he handled me a little too delicately.  He was so big and strong that I was trying to get excited by picturing him going all Conan.

        “You can go harder,” I said.  “I won’t break.”

         “Uh, are you sure?”

         I thought of Abduction Weekend and bit the insides of my mouth to keep from laughing.  Because if there’s one thing you never want to do in bed, laugh at your partner, unless you’ve done something silly like fall off the bed.  

         It was fun, I guess.  The first time you have sex with a person, it’s usually not great, in my experience.  The first time is “getting-to-know-you” sex, where you’re feeling the other person out and trying to get a feel for what they’re like.  And God knows you don’t want to offend them or hurt their feelings, so everyone’s on their best behavior and inhibited.  

        I would have asked him to tie me up, but I just met the guy and didn’t want to skeeve him out.  It’s also not to smart to do that with a guy you don’t know well enough to trust.  

         I think the best part was looking at him.  God, what a handsome man.  I haven’t been with a man in his early 20s in years.  His body was almost too hard, though.  I mean, his chest was like a frozen pot roast.  I bet he can hit pretty hard, but I was too shy to ask him.  

       That’s it.  There’s really not much to report.  It’s, you know, regular sex.  I think of regular sex like roasted chicken or Slim-Fast shakes: it’s nutritious, but boring.   

       The four-hour session I had earlier in the day was more fascinating.  Oh God, the man was a lunatic.  I’ll tell you about it next time.  Now, I have to teach. 
  
        Should I hit up the sailor?  I was actually more attracted to him.  It would also be kinda patriotic.  


3 thoughts on “Sex In The City (Basketball Player)”

  1. Hit up the sailor? Yes; obviously, because it’s not the people you fuck that you regret, it’s the people you don’t. (Okay, sometimes it’s the people you fuck too, but at least you’ve been fucked.)

    Can’t wait to hear about the long session!

    Me? I watched the entire Giant game last night — it’s own special brand of torture.

  2. “It would also be kinda patriotic.”

    Yes, but as Dr Johnson pointed out, patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.

    And in the light of recent history, ain’t that the truth.

    1. Oh, I assure you, I haven’t had an authentically patriotic thought in my head since I was 12 years old. About the time I became an atheist–the age of reason.

      When right-wingers accuse us of treachery, there is something to it, if we are honest with ourselves.

      But almost every man in my family has served, so it’s hard for me to dislike soldiers. Hell, in my home state, the Army is practically the only paying gig in town. I came close to joining myself, but that was just before 9/11, back when foreign policy was super boring.

      I’ve had a few soldiers as students (working on their degrees, so that they could become officers). They weren’t half bad. Very obedient and didn’t shirk the work. One of them had a big crush on me (when I started, I was only 2 years older than my students). He came to my office hours so frequently that I had to start meeting him in the faculty lounge. He had a scar on his forehead that he’d picked up in Afghanistan.

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