Antoinette Gets Deja Vu

Sooooo…….

I’m still not dead .

Trust me I’m as surprised as you. I don’t even know who exactly I’m talking to but hellooooo out there. I know I’ve been gone for quite some time now but you all have never left my mind. So many times I thought, “I should put this shit on Antoinettethinks” but I simply couldn’t. I could not get my fingers to move not one inch. Maybe because the self loathing had not reached blogging level just yet .

But stick a fork in me because I’m done, honey.

So many things have transpired since I accidentally ex-communicated myself from this gray blue world. Let me count the ways, I :

1. Had a baby

2. Snuck said baby into prison (actually sorta true)

3. Had the pleasure of tying myself to a Waspy just shy of wanting to Make America Great Again asshat for the next 20 years (see point #1)

And the hits just keep on a comin…

Good news for you. Bad news for the wine aisle and every ex in my iCloud….

Still online dating. More sure now than ever that there are definitely aliens amongst us. Ugh I don’t know, this post is garbage. Oh and the White Russian lives ! As in – my house – the White Russian lives in my house. Like right now. Like as we speak he is using every. Fucking . Utensil . I . Own. To make some bubbling concoction heavy with turmeric and like real live no shit garlic cloves. The kitchen will be trashed in the morning. I will be angry. Hijinks will ensueeeee.

Stay tuned for the shit show ladies and gents.

Xxx

-A

Antoinette Gets Pregnant

Sooooooo……

Hey guys.

 

We need to have a talk.

 

There comes a time in a woman’s life when shit hits the fan.

 

And of course when a man loves a woman very, very, much he completely breaks her heart and then she finds out she’s knocked up – or something like that. Look, I don’t know, I’m new to all of this……

 

So yeah. I had a pretty interesting line up of interesting things to write about. I literally still have them saved in drafts on here. Then, out of nowhere, it hit me :

 

Where the hell is my period????

 

This shit is unbelievable. To be honest I am still grappling with the news and I am almost three months pregnant. Yup, you read that right. I am already almost finished with my first trimester. When the hell did I get a trimester to call it “my first trimester“???

You see, with pregnancy you begin to own things you never knew you could have, for instance:

My Due Date  (April 8 2018)

My Birth plan (Try no to die whilst getting this thing out of me)

My Pregnancy Symptoms (Never fucking ending queasiness, heartburn that makes me want to punch someone, daily headaches like religion, and irritability that would rival the grumpiest of old men)

My Baby’s Heart Rate (at last check, 127)

All kinds of fun things that now belong to me that I never asked for. And oh yes, TroutMouth is handling all of this just as you’d expect him to. I mean what exactly can you ask of a man who threw you away like last night’s fish grease? Dealing with this man has been much like trying to get your drunk aunt to get in the car to go home after Thanksgiving.

A literal reenactment of my pregnancy announcement:

 

Me: * Sends a picture of the multiple positive tests*

TroutMouth: Is this serious?

Me: What the fuck do you think?

TroutMouth: If its about money I will pay for the abortion.

 

Yes, a chorus of excitement from the peanut gallery. I mean all in all, what did I expect I guess? Neither of us was actually trying to do this. We were both stupid and careless, (I mean some more than others as I was aware I may get pregnant but I truly believed this was the man I was going to marry, but I digress…) but we weren’t necessarily saying, “Yes we are trying to make a human with our naughty bits”. But, I was always upfront with him about my stance on abortion and how they were different for me versus what I believed should be true for all women. Truth is, I’ve known I couldn’t bear to have an abortion for as long as I’ve known what abortion was. I swear its true.

I’ve scoured the cold depths of my barren soul in the dark alone to make sure it isn’t just something I’m saying because you’re ‘supposed to say it’. It isn’t. Even with how wildly inconvenient this little nub is, and even though it will always be a reminder of the man who didn’t love me as much as I loved him, I can’t imagine letting someone take it from me. I earn a living, not a fantastic one, but a living all the same. I’m educated. I don’t know, I don’t see why I’d be any worse at this whole thing than anyone else….

When I was married to FutureX I wanted nothing more than to have a baby (what a fucking imbecile I was). We tried, and tried, and tried for almost 18 months with me charting, and meditating, and basal thermometer-ing away with no results, not even a scare. So in a way, I think, I kind of didn’t believe I could get pregnant. I knew removing my birth control with TroutMouth was technically a risk but I figured, well we have at least 18 months where nothing will happen. It was actually at his request that I take out my Mirena, I feel it important to say. My cycle would sometimes be – well, not exactly irregular – but, you know, – spotty – and that would limit the days of play for us. He mentioned me ‘just taking it out’ and me, the naïve, optimistic, dumb dumb that I am, thought this meant obviously he saw a future for us.

Lies.

I guess old TroutMouth thought I couldn’t get pregnant either considering his tantrum-esq reaction.

It is hard. All day, everyday it is hard. I am emotional and lonely most of the time. I switch back and forth between cursing the heavens and worrying obsessively about all the things that can go wrong with Lil Nub. On Aug 18th I went to my first ultrasound (which TroutMouth opted not to attend). I was a nervous wreck chugging water and PowerAde like it was my job to make SURRREEE we could see whatever there was to be seen.

I’d been absolutely torturing myself all week about chemical pregnancies, and ectopic pregnancies, missed miscarriages, likelihood of miscarriage for first pregnancies, the works. If it could devastate me, I looked it up. The second the first test turned positive I immediately switch into worry mode and hadn’t left it yet.

I laid on the table, heart in my throat, completely ready to be disappointed and within nanoseconds there it was.

“Here’s your baby,” the ultrasound-goo lady said.

There it was. The most beautiful flickering, smack dab in the middle of my uterus. Just chilling. I’ve never been so blown away in my life. Tears rolled one by one into my ears as I stared up at the screen. In a moment my thoughts went from “What did I do so wrong to deserve this?” to “What did I ever do so right to deserve this?”

A blurb inside of a dark black bulb now owns my ass. I am its slave. It want’s chili dogs with extra mustard in the middle of Insecure? I get my little butt on the road. It wants to stay in bed all morning? Well I guess that’s where I’ll be. I am so humbled by this baby.

I have to ask for help now. I have to let myself be vulnerable and weak sometimes because I have no other choice. This baby is proof I don’t got it all together, and I have to be okay with that, because if actually getting to meet this little life force is anything like that ultrasound I know the reward will be so worth it.

 

See you soon 😉

 

 

Antoinette Will Not Call It A Comeback

Soooooo……….

 

I have been gone for a minute, but I am back with the jump off.

 

What has happened since I’ve been gone :

  1. Fell in love with someone I am almost sure is a narcissist
  2. Forgot my life and all of my wants, goals, and dreams
  3. Got heart broken.
  4. Gained a lot of new content for Antoinettethinks!

 

Life has been quite strange the past year or so, but don’t think I have forgotten all of you. I saw every comment and well-wish sent and I appreciated every single one. The fact that anyone continued to read or check at all let me know on some unconscious level that we would indeed be together again one day (good news for me, bad news for him).

Truth is, it is excessively hard to write a dating/lifestyle blog when you are no longer dating and subsequently have no life. Did I still have some dirt for you all? Yes, I did. Did I feel comfortable sharing it ? No. But the chains are off and your girl is free and all is fair in love and war. Be prepared for posts to come from what I’m tentatively calling 12 Months a Live-In Girlfriend. All will be revealed about my time locked up abroad in Klan Kountry with my duplicitous ex.

Ah, yes good times will be had by all. I have so much to tell you, plenty of stories at my expense that will definitely make you cringe and send me the number of a very good therapist in your area.

 

Good to be back in the saddle 😉

Antoinette Gets Dumped

So…..

 

I wish there was some awesome, steamy sex in this for all of you but, alas, I have none to report this post. This post is just about a good old fashioned dumping.

 

Like, I got dumped.

 

I guess.

 

Looking back, I suppose this is the first time this has happened. Perhaps it is the reason I am so jarred by it. I had a date last night with a journalist. I was open to the idea, but not overly excited. He seemed pretty full of himself and kind of only interested in sex, but not nauseatingly so, so I gave him a try after many cancellations. I was finally on time for once in my God forsaken life, that should have been a red flag right there. He showed up, shorter than I imagined but not too bad. Dark hair like I like, good teeth. Doable.

Anyways, as we went along he had several questions for me, which was – new. I suppose he is a journalist, but it was just strange. I am used to being in the driver’s seat as most guys just tolerate conversation until they are allowed to touch me. Maybe that is where I’m wrong.

Maybe.

So as I’m struggling to answer each 100th question that I’m asked, I’m trying desperately to push down the defensive feelings. My immediate responses to his questions were “Why?”. Perhaps I have grown accustomed to the idea that all the guys that I meet want is to have sex, so I grow tired of pretending it’s anything different. I’m just trying to decide the likelihood of you being a serial killer and or carrying an STD. I typically have a two date rule at the very least that one will have to have non body contact dates with me before I will even entertain sex, because I think of it as a form of respect. I have accepted the general rule of what I am doing but I still would like to know something about the people I choose to spend time with.

Anyways, in my opinion things went well between me and Mr. Publius even ending with me at his house having coffee. I thought him a little off-beat and perhaps a touch OCD but overall more than tolerable. We kissed a few times and talked about second dates and then I was off. I forced myself not to think too much about him (perhaps intuition) and went to class the next morning. I felt everything was fine until I received this:
I had fun last night, but I don’t think I’m the right guy for you or that we are a total match

 

Total match. Are you fucking twelve?? When you meet your total match (puke.) please alert the media … Literally. It isn’t going to happen, and honestly 42 is a little too old to be fantasizing about total matches if you ask me.

….Ok?

 

I didn’t know what else to say. I mean I’m definitely not going to beg the guy. Way too hot. But I was just floored that I could be so wrong. I’m never that wrong. I might think you like me 78% and you like me 81% or vice versa but I’m never secretly planning a second date and you hit me with this “total match” bullshit. Of course I stewed over it for a few hours. Never hearing back from Publius. I decided to try and make light/ get closure:

 

Is it because I lost at Foosball? No it was the Mob Wives. Had to be.

Waiting, waiting, waiting…….

No, it was mostly because you didn’t like my questions.

 

WHAT THE EVER LOVING FUCK? Because I don’t like your fucking questions…. This guy is on one. Finding out it was because of that both relieved and disturbed me. If you can deny all of this lusciousness because your rapid-fire questions make a FIRST DATE uncomfortable then it probably would have never worked anyways. However it did leave some niggling doubt in my mind. Maybe if I would like something different I need to not only expect something different but require something different. In truth this guy spends way too much time in his own head and seemed borderline neurotic, but he was trying to know more about me than how big my boobs were. Granted what he was asking was too much too soon for a first date, but maybe I should further examine why it made me uncomfortable.

 

Or just eat a sandwich. You know, whichever comes first.

Antoinette Sees Eye to Eye

So…..

My dad was a military man. He was discharged long before I was born, but the rules lived on. Yes ma’am and yes sir were the only acceptable ways to respond to an elder, I was forced to memorize the spelling of the longest word in the dictionary at 8 years old which at the time was Antidisestablishmentarianism *still got it* and capital punishment was a given (hmmm maybe that’s where my penchant for spankings comes from. Thanks, Dad). Another thing that was drilled into my head:

“Look me in the eye,” he’d demand.

Always. You always look someone in the eye when you’re talking to them, when you’re listening to them, doing business with them …. but apparently maybe not when you’re fucking them -? I’ve had several partners mention the fact that I avoid eye contact with them. It all just seems freakishly intimate to me. I can undress and let them touch me, taste me, smell me without feeling the least bit uneasy, but looking them in the eye makes me feel, I don’t know, naked.

This was a particularly popular subject with The Russian who’s Euro style completely defied my American eye contact rules. Eating breakfast, making love, Hell even driving, his warm brown eyes were focused on me.

“You never look at me,” he’d say in his deep mastermind voice.

When we’d talk or eat dinner he’d crane his neck all around to force me to meet his gaze.

“Staring is not looking. Glance, dude, glance!” I’d laugh.

God, I miss him.

Anyways, on to the story. I was sitting at my brother’s house when a Facebook message popped up from a guy I haven’t spoken to in years.

What’s up?

No good. I don’t mind a tasteful booty call among fuck buddies, but what I don’t like is when random strangers pop up, likely for no other reason but to have sex, pretending it is anything but that. I used to work with the guy we’ll call Office Space. Me and office space had to work closely together in a home health aid type environment. We worked for the same clients and it kind of felt like we were the Mom and Dad of the household. Other than that, I never really knew he had any kind of attraction towards me. I thought he was cute and we liked the same music but I of course was married, and he was getting married. We talked about wedding shit from time to time as I was freshly off the taffeta buttercream wagon, but really that was it.

I quit the job, and he went on to get married and have a kid and we never really crossed paths again. I noticed on Facebook it seemed like he was divorcing but I had not real reason to care. I always worry about seeming like a vulture circling the not-yet-dead carcass of a relationship, and besides, even if I were to ask, it would only be to commiserate with someone close to my age also going through a divorce.

We had a kind of awkward chat that I continued to redirect towards his child. After awhile though, we started talking about our old clients and it reminded me of the common ground we shared. Eventually he won me over and I agreed to coming over for movies on St. Patrick’s Day.

It was cute we had lots of junk food and beer. Soon it wasn’t really awkward at all. He slid in for the old massage trick and began kissing my neck. Ahhh whatever, it was St. Patricks Day, besides he had a memory foam bed. How could a girl say no? I wasn’t blown away (especially after all of the bragging he’d done) but he was bearable. Kind of a quick pumper,  moaned more than most, but I kind of liked it. Having sex with him felt more nurturing than the barbaric stuff I usually enjoy.

I was patiently waiting for him to come, eyes closed as always, when he huffed,

“Look at me”

Wait, what?

“Look at me” he panted “I need to see your eyes.”

Eww, why? Sounds gross to me. If that’s what he needed to get off, I guessed. I cracked opened my peepers to see a red-faced panting man staring down at me. See??? Why do we insist upon looking at each other? First of all no one looks good bearing down over you. Compound the fact that you are sweating, out of breath, currently ass naked and you have : the reason people close their eyes.

Or, I don’t know, to focus on the feeling or some bullshit like that. Dealer’s choice. Point is, why does it matter if I want my eyes closed? It doesn’t mean I don’t like you. Obviously I’ve allowed you in Antoinette’s Wonderworld. There are plenty soldiers that never lived to see the day. I looked at him in horror as he moaned and panted staring into my soul. And he literally came just like that. To be honest, I find that my willingness to look at you is actually inversely correlated to how much I like you. The reason I was able to witness such tragedy with Office Space was because I really didn’t care too much about him. I know he has a young son who takes up most of his time and he is way too much of a  “My dad is a lawyer” type for me to ever get down with long-term.

The Russian, however, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t look at him for more than two or three seconds at a time. He thought it was funny and would do it on purpose to unnerve me. My entire face would tingle and I’d get very antsy and embarrassed. The man who’s seen everything, even me crying, and I get embarrassed by that. I felt similarly with Dater #1 as well in the beginning, but sex between us was always so passionate he didn’t care where my eyes were. We were just trying to tear each other apart. I played around with Office Space a couple more times but all in all I’m glad to look elsewhere, eyes wide shut.

Antoinette Likes Chocolate

So…

Welcome back from Spring Break.

*Insert James Franco’s pervy spring break forever*

 

I have a confession to make: I’ve never slept with a black man before.

Like, ever.

Its not that I have any particular reason, it simply has just never happened. For as long as I can remember I have had crush after crush on white guy after white guy. The first boy I remember liking was a little weirdo named Joshua who had a pet snake and could flip his eyelids inside out and for fun he’d hold his breath until he literally turned blue.

Ahh kindergarten….

Anyways, I’ve never really thought too much about it. It has always felt, well I don’t know, natural. I wasn’t going around purposefully excluding black men, in fact I’ve always felt they kind of didn’t like me.Well anyways, fast forward past me dating, getting engaged to, and marrying a white man over the course of about nine years of my life and let’s just say there weren’t a whole lot of opportunities for African sausage in my life.

In general, other black women find this more distressing than I do. Most just looked at me like a martian,  but some felt very passionate about it, offering cousins and brothers and even boyfriends to break my vanilla curse. I never really knew why, overall aren’t there more black men left for them? I never cared too much, I figured if a black man came along that made me want to get naked, then I would, until then I was sticking to what I knew.

‘Twas the eve of Black History month… I shit you not.

I was invited to a party at a classmate’s house. I’d kind of always felt some tension between he and I in class, but I was married and he was a flirt so it never went anywhere. I really want to call him Black Magic – so I’m gonna. When I got there several of our other classmates were there also so it didn’t feel too awkward for me. Of course I knew going there carried its own risks, with our attraction and my new vagina license it was definitely possible for things to go down.

And go down they did.

We shared hot glances across the smoky room, he purposely brushes against me as we pass each other in the kitchen. God, he has body for days. Easily a foot taller than me, his muscles meet my face as we hug our hellos. Oh yes, I was going to have him. As the night wound down I tried to think of some clever way to stay behind. I went to the bathroom as everyone was leaving; hoping not to be missed, but of course all of my classmates are social work students and they waited patiently so we could all walk to our cars together.

“Bye y’all,” he says, politely closing the door in all of their faces – with me still inside the house.

I stood frozen in the foyer, not knowing what to do next. Were we just going to do it, no words spoken, just the inevitable happening as sure as the sun rises every morning?

No. We actually talked for a long time; alcohol and what I’m sure was a contact buzz making me way too honest and giggly. He offered to cuddle on the couch and my mental record skipped.

Ummmm cuddle? Where’s the beef???

But I agreed, not wanting to seem too eager, even though I’d drank enough that fucking a person I  not only shared classes with but also shared an internship with seemed like a good idea.

He didn’t make a move.

I think he actually wanted to fucking cuddle.

*Wrong answer*

I turned around and started making out with him: afraid, but ready – and drunk. After enough of my lovely lips, he took me upstairs to his bedroom. I don’t know why I was so scared. Maybe because this would be the first person I’d slept with since my separation that I actually knew beforehand. Dater #1, The Russian, Dater #2, Turtle Neck (whom I haven’t slept with btw) were all met online. I’ve known Black Magic for three years. My clothes came off easily though and before I knew it, he was out. I guess that was the other thing: I didn’t want to be split in half. I’ve only heard myth and legend of the black man’s penis, never been formally introduced.

I’ve had some really great sex, and I’ve never been disappointed with size so far, so I could only imagine what kind of things lurked beneath his sweatpants.

I was….. underwhelmed.

Of course I know that it is indeed a myth and I have seen very impressive pink peen in my lifetime. I guess I was just wondering if it was maybe a little true.

So a little backstory: We’d been drinking and, in his case, smoking all night long. It was about three in the morning. He is also fifteen years older than me (nontraditional student). Somewhere seedy I’m sure, I heard that some guys are GROWers and some guys are SHOWers.

You see, typically by the time me and other guys are ready for The Great Reveal everyone is all perked up and ready to meet me. By this time we usually have had hours of coy foreplay and Antoinette’s Boobs have already done the opener. We usually haven’t been in a room full of people entertaining and drinking. Usually drinking. But usually alone. Point is, after we had some naked playtime, shit was pretty impressive. I decided to give some drunken oral because why not, ya know? I was so happy to see the little guy grow up.

He wasn’t done yet.

While I was trying not to fall over with a body part in my mouth I literally could feel his heart beat into his dick. The thing was still getting bigger. I was kind of scared to do anything else to it. It was like a water balloon that just wouldn’t pop. When he was ready for entrance I was actually scared it wouldn’t fit.

Ohhhh but it did.

Oh my God, this man was winding and winding. I could see pangs of light behind  my eyes as he rammed my poor, poor cervix (IUD newly inserted). It was amazing. Thank Jumping Jehoshaphat for the anesthetic properties of liquor. I walked funny for days afterwards.

Does it make work awkward?

Yes.

Does it make classes awkward?

Yes.

Do I walk funny out of is house at least 2-3 times a week?

Yes.  😉

Antoinette Gets Hurt

So….

*Trigger Warning*

This one will not be my favorite post, nor is it likely to be yours.

Please do know that I am truly fine, and that if I weren’t I swear to God I would be calling the cops and not writing a blog.

 

Some time ago I had a meet up with Dater #1. It seemed rather routine in the beginning, just a few hours to unwind together, nothing overly special. Looking back, I didn’t notice anything odd about his demeanor nor did the air feel tense or strange. I looked over some of his new photographs with him and he made dinner. We sat and talked by candlelight as we ate and I figured naturally sex would follow. I can’t quite put my finger on when things changed. It all is kind of blurry in my mind. We were lying on the bed talking and making out. He seemed like he was expecting me to go. I made some snarky remark about “Giving me what I’d come there for”.

Maybe that was what did it.

He was kind of kissing me roughly then. I was getting prepared for a fun romp, completely unaware of any kind of shift. Out of nowhere, he got up and retrieved some bag and then blindfolded me. He’d done this before so I wasn’t really afraid, but he’d stopped responding to me, like he was in a world of his own. Then the sound of velcro and chains echoed around my head. Something was placed around my neck and then somehow my wrists and ankles were cuffed to it. He adjusted the straps so it was more comfortable I guess, but I was still rendered pretty helpless. I think this is when I started to worry some. I remember my palms sweating in the restraints. I still went along with it. Then what felt like a collar was placed around my neck and cold chains fell against my chest. I still went along with it even though panic was kind of growing in my throat. I could still breathe, but then he affixed clamps to my nipples which I later found out were attached to the chains.

“Ow that hurts,”

I complained still, for some reason, trying to be a good sport.

Its supposed to hurt.

To my surprise, not only didn’t he remove the offensive things, but he screwed them tighter. What might have been pleasurable was now a searing pain literally shooting through my chest. My legs were tied to my wrists which were attached to my neck. I was completely vulnerable and honestly scared. Once again, didn’t say a goddamned thing. I didn’t have much of a chance to anyways, because after everything was in place he was on me like a wild animal, shoving himself and other things inside of me, forcing, pushing, slapping me, yanking at those burning clamps. Every nerve ending screamed it was wrong; wanted me to stop it, but I didn’t. At that point, I was just praying for him to finish. Trying to survive it. Crazy wouldn’t be crazy without a trip to anal-ville, and even though I never really liked it, being tied up like that, not being able to see anything, collar around my neck, it felt worse than it ever had.

When he was finally done it took him  literally five minutes to get me out of all of his fucked up contraptions, blindfold last. I was thankful for that last part as tears were rolling from my eyes.

“I shouldn’t feel like this. It should never feel like this,” was all I could think as I tried to hide my tears in the pillow, once again still trying to spare his fucking feelings even though I was the one being mistreated.

Maybe we should think of a safe word next time.

Yeah fucking right. I cleaned up as fast as I could and slipped out of there as quick as my feet would carry me. I feel I may cry even as I type this because it was just such a bizarre situation. It has taken me awhile to process the whole thing and I wouldn’t say I’m done with it even now. The biggest things I think about are:

Why would I allow him to do that to me?

and

Why, out of all the things he could have done, was that what he wanted to do to me?

I felt humiliated and disrespected, but I think most of all I felt betrayed – by myself. I let this happen to me, I thought. Why didn’t I stand up for myself? Why, even down to the last minute, was his feelings more important than mine?

I don’t have the answers to all of these questions. Some of them may take a lifetime for me to completely understand, but I have definitely resolved to leave Dater #1 the fuck alone indiscriminately.

Let me be clear, I was not raped.

He used a lot of poor fucking judgement, no doubt, but I accept the role I played in the mess. I think there are some serious issues inside of that man, but looking back I think there were some red flags that I flagrantly ignored. I started not to write about this, Hell I started not to write anymore at all after this, but I wanted to make sure that if anyone reading this ever feels something is off, acknowledge that. Your gut is not wrong.

And lastly if you are uncomfortable even one percent, it the fucking thread count on the sheets is too low, SAY SOMETHING. You deserve to enjoy the experience just as much as he is and if you aren’t STOP HIM. If he actually cares about you he will want to make you comfortable, and if he doesn’t, you shouldn’t be sleeping with him anyways. Every man I’ve ever been with besides him has touched my body with love and adoration and that is how it should feel Every. Damned. Time. No excuses.

Dater #1 was my first experience outside of my marriage and I will always have fond memories of our time together, but reevaluation is in order.

 

 

Antoinette Has a Taste

So……..

 

Happy New Year, y’all!

 

I started 2016 the way that everyone should: naked and deeply embroiled in orgasm with a crazy person.

 

I know.

 

Do not adjust your screens, as I can assure you you are reading correctly. But let’s rewind a bit, shall we?

 

So, the previous fact is not to insinuate that my “situationship” with The Russian is quite over, because I don’t think it is, but I guess it does mean I am at least slightly trying to move on. You see, I am still in the process of clawing my way out of a stagnant relationship that I was bound to more by sentiment than anything else, and I would be remiss to climb right back into another one.

I really like The Russian. I would even venture to say I have grown to love him, but he is very far away and has a life of his own (complete with kids and ex-wives….) and he has already lived a crazy and storied life of his own. I don’t want, nor does he want me to, give mine up at this early juncture. We continue to be in contact most everyday and once he shows back up on the East Coast, that ass is mine, but until then, we both continue to do our own things.

Anywaaaaays….

So I’ve mentioned in Antoinette Gets Into the Swing of Things that I have jumped back into the dating scene both feet first and made an OkCupid profile.

This guy was not from there.

OkCupid is far from my favorite thing. I hate the set up and even though I’m looking at the same age range of guys, in the same city on both Tinder and OkCupid, for some reason the guys on Tinder just seem to look – cleaner. I don’t quite know how this is possible, but its like everyone on OKC kind of has a dingy film of sorts over them. Its like OKC is the un-airbrushed version of Tinder. It is a concerning phenomenon.

Because of OKC’s questionable tactics, I had no intention of deleting my tried and true Tinder account. I got a match with a guy we’ll call The Flavor Saver.

Hint: It has nothing to do with a mustache.

Even though he is thirteen years older than me, he is the youngest of all my – suitors. Very similar resume to all the others; comfortable lifestyle, too much stuff for one man, successful career, well-traveled etc… After a couple days of conversation, The Flavor Saver wanted to come visit for a date. I was on break, not too much going on, so I said ok. We were going to meet at a coffee shop late afternoon.

The Flavor Saver was good looking, not exactly tall, but definitely dark and handsome, and was born in India which was – new. I thought it would make for good conversation, and boy did it. He was very quick-witted and sarcastic …. and I loved it! I don’t think there was a silent moment the entire evening. We ended up leaving the shop and going to a bookstore for a couple hours, and then to grab dinner, playing verbal ping pong.  The back and forth never seemed to end, and I was truly enjoying myself and the infinite banter……

That is until we got back to the car.

Something saucy was halfway from my lips when his mouth came down over mine. He seemed very excited which was flattering. I was definitely turned on by his intelligence and ability to keep up with my sass so I let the making out go pretty far, I ain’t gone lie. The still in the steamed car his fingers slipped down the front of my leggings where I was pretty aroused. Like all the guys he was kind of blown away by the volume of it..

**Shit’s about to get gross**

I want to taste you.

Haha, what? Without ceremony he placed his glazed digits into his mouth and then started kissing me again. Now I must admit, this isn’t necessarily uncommon in sex and depending on your overall ick-tolerance it might be pretty normal.

And if you have a low gross out factor, how the Hell are you here you little monsters???

I personally have no issue with my own, um, essence. In fact, I kind of think its  great. I’ve just never had someone so forward and direct about it, but I was fine with it.

Now taste me.

What?! Not to my surprise, he was very erect, but to my surprise he was shiny with his own – broth (yikes, sorry lol). Apparently he manufactures quite a lot of pre cum and wanted to give me a …. sample.

So much fluid.

I was skeptical to say the least as he licked his own fingers first (i guess to reassure me???) and then offered a candy-coated thumb to me. I have eaten worse things, I told myself, (like McDonalds for instance…) and took the bait. Tasted like cum to me.

Why aren’t you sharing, baby?

And then he started kissing me again! There was nothing particularly special to me about it, but his reaction was priceless, like I’d just done the sexiest thing ever. He was biting and kissing me all over. Soon he was trying to make an Us Cocktail between our lips, two parts me to one part him, fingered not stirred.

It was kind of hot. I think I feed off of my partner’s enjoyment (ha, feed). When they get excited, it makes me excited. There are few things I like so much that I don’t care if he’s enjoying it or not, but there are several things I will do almost exclusively because it turns my partner on, things that I have absolutely no interest in without their participation and enjoyment. We agreed to a second date on the first day of the year, sex still dancing on our tongues, and I brushed my teeth for half an hour that night. Washed it all down with a Sprite.

 

Quench the thirst, indeed.

Antoinette Gets Into the Swing of Things

So………

 

In my damned-near deafening boredom, I have decided to make another dating profile. Maybe I’ve drank from the dingy well of Tinder too many times. Perhaps I have simply gotten all there is to get from it. After all, can one be angry at my gains?

Tinder Stats:

40+ matches

Several god-awful messages

A Russian

An Italian

Surprise Anal Night 2015 (and Part I and Deux)

 

I mean the list goes on and on! Who could complain about such a thing?That would be plain greedy. So I figured I would check out another giant on the app-dating scene: OkCupid. In my mind OkCupid has always been the grown-up version of Tinder. You know, feelin’s and shit. I must admit I was a little discouraged by this exchange with Turtle Neck:

 

Antoinette: Ugh, I get soooooo many crazy msgs on Tinder. It is the worst

Turtle Neck: I’ve never gotten as many inappropriate messages as I get on Ok Cupid though

Antoinette: Really????

Turtle Neck: Yeah like within the first or second messages

Antoinette: I always thought that Ok Cupid was like the mature version of Tinder. More grown up.

Turtle Neck: Hahaha ….. no.

 

Anyways, I decided to take the plunge and create the account. I was immediately overwhelmed by the amount of questions and steps it took, but I figured that was a good sign. Thorough and whatnot. After what felt like hours of talking about myself (my specialty !), the account was more-or-less ready. I was pretty turned off when I figured out that even after all the talking about preferences and interests, anyone in the world can just send you a message. Spoiled by the methods of Tinder, I was mildly annoyed when Mark, 19 messaged “Sup”, especially since he was followed by a parade of other practical infants.

I’m not a mean person and I really hate making people feel bad, but I feel like OkCupid forces my hand. At least with Tinder the people who are able to message you are people you have shown interest in. If you ignore them its kind of on you.With OkCupid, people that have no reason whatsoever to think I like them slather on compliments in my inbox and I don’t know how to respond.

Finally a 48 year old guy messaged me and it went okay. After a couple days he said he has something to tell me and he thought it might scare me off.

Shit.

Was he married? Was he gay? Was he a secret puppy skinner?

“I like to swing.”

…….Okay? Up until that moment I thought swingers were married people that occasionally liked to hook up with their golf buddy’s spouse. Oh but Mr.48 enlightened me.

“I  want to share.”

How are you already trying to share me when you don’t even have me yourself?! He explained what sounded more like what you would call a threesome (or foursome) to me. Could be two guys and a girl, or two girls and a guy, or two guys and two girls, you get it. After six million Antoinette-esque questions, each one patiently answered, bless his heart, I only had one thing to say:

 

There would be So. Many. Hands. 

 

It just sounded so distracting! Mr.48 informed me there was a website and everything for couples looking for other couples and that we could make a profile together while getting to know one another, as these things take time before you get a match. Mind you, he wasn’t actually asking me to be a couple, simply to market ourselves as one so that we could participate in his pastime. Why buy the cow, eh? I declined Mr.48’s request, even though all-in-all it wasn’t something I wouldn’t consider if I were in an actual relationship. Our conversation just re-affirmed my motto:

 

One cock at a time.

 

 

Antoinette Goes Back to the Future(X)

Hey!

Hey!

 

Calm down, and read on. It’s not what you think…… It’s worse.

 

Soooooooooo, as Christmastime quickly approached, I found myself with my starting lineup scattered about the world. This, coupled with the fact that I was contractually obligated to play happy family with FutureX  for weeks on end as his family is still blissfully unaware of our impending divorce (per his request), made for the perfect storm.

 

I was caged in ! What do you want from me????

 

I tried to talk myself out of it, like how one tries to talk oneself out of taking a tablespoon and jar of frosting to bed. It will only be heartache (and diabetes) for you, but I was so bored – and horny.

To be honest, it felt bad from the start. Months of passionate, sweat-drenched, teeth-grinding sex has made me allergic to the awkward, and oftentimes lackluster, copulation that occurs between FutureX and I. Don’t get me wrong, I knew this probably would be the case, as I’d already grown bored with sex with him before I’d even experienced anything else. Not to mention I understand that I’ve been spending most of my nights with men who have been fucking longer than FutureX has been alive.  But alas, I still let my baser instincts get the best of me. I guess I hoped that six months of deprivation might at least result in increased adrenaline that one could pretend was something akin to passion.

 

Nope.

 

Shit was borderline weird. Like I was having sex with a relative…… a boring relative. He did seem kind of excited to be there, I guess; jumping around from position to position, wholly unprepared for each, and therefore adequate at none. I’m aware he was likely trying to compete with all of the sex he imagined I was having, but stick to what you’re good at, ya know? About thirteen seconds in, I was praying for him to finish so I could jump in the shower and begin the process of forgetting. Funny thing is, even with all of the forced acrobatics, neither of us came, and I allowed him a self pitying jerk onto my boobs as an act of good faith .

 

“I guess I was just too overzealous,” he said with a sigh as he handed me a wad of toilet paper.

 

Me too, me too.