My first date with Patrick started off frustrating. We were meeting at a trendy bar in Santa Monica that I’ve never heard of before. It was small and hard to find (kinda like the dick of the first guy I ever fucked). I ended up circling the block about four times: trying to find the damn place, discovering the parking lot was closed for renovations, and looking for the valet. Apparently this was the only place in all of L.A. without a valet.
Eventually I parked in a garage two blocks away, which meant I had to walk. I was in heels, and looking hot (as always) and wasn’t in the mood to make such a long trek…I didn’t want to break a sweat for my date (though I would later) before he even had a chance to see my hair looking good. I made a promise to my aching feet and to my gorgeous new Jimmy Choo shoes to always make sure the place has valet.
On the walk over, my phone buzzed. Patrick asked if he could order me a drink. What a nice guy, I thought. I finished reading the text, however, and realized there was only five minutes left for happy hour. What a cheap ass. Guess it makes sense now why Patrick changed our meeting from 8 pm to 7:30 pm. I’m definitely not a happy hour kind of girl, unless you’re talking about exciting my beaver for an hour… then I’m on board. I like knowing my date spent some money on me, makes me feel better about giving it up so easily.
I finally get to my date forty minutes later, surprised he was even still there. But was glad he decided to wait it out because not only was he very good looking but a great conversationalist which has been hard to find with some of the dates I’ve been on lately. The more I looked at him the more I realized he looked exactly like Dexter from the TV show, except hotter.
He was even wearing Dexter’s Kill Shirt but in grey. The color complemented his BEAUTIFUL dark hair. I began to fanaticize about Patrick whipping his knife out to kill me. The thought of fucking the look alike of a serial killer gave me serious lady wood. I was ready to take this killer back to my place so he could slay me with his penis.
Once I had made the decision that I was going to fuck my Dexter, I asked him back to my place for “drinks.” We soon got down to business. I ripped his kill shirt off, and waited for him to stick me good.
I was having a great time fucking this guy until his sweat glands suddenly kicked it into overdrive. Nothing is worse than a guy who drips buckets all over you. I had to move my face to avoid being dripped on. “God, my hair is gonna look like shit tomorrow,” I thought. “He might as well jizz in my hair. It’d basically have the same effect.”
Thinking fast, I put a pillow in between us to act as the sweat catcher. Drowning by sweat wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I fanaticized about getting killed by the gorgeous Dexter look alike.
I quickly decided to doggie style it up. It was the perfect position, the only thing that he needed to touch were the body parts that counted. My solution worked great, until he wanted to get back on top of me. I don’t really blame him for wanting a better view of my boobs, but Christ was he sweaty! I began to pray to the vagina gods in the sky that they would end this wet (and not in a good way) business, and let him come.
Poor kid, he tried to experiment. He tried using his arms to lift off of me, but that just made his sweat drip even more. Then he tried lying on top of my body. I was pressed up against his moist body, slipping and sliding against him.
I definitely took one for the team that night. I’ve never been so happy to have someone come. Cuddling was out of the question and so was morning sex unless it was in the shower.
That night I made a major mental note. Next time, I need to gauge my date’s liquids so his glands won’t have as much ammo to attack me with. And I obviously need to make my room freezing cold to prevent this guy from getting as sweaty as Tim Gunn watching Brokeback Mountain.
- Sienna Sinclaire® - The Single Girl®: Your Naughty Lifestyle Guide