It's time for the last Week of Debauchery date.
Let us start with an analogy.
Have you ever been to a wedding-cake tasting?
A wedding-cake tasting is when you go to a bakery that makes wedding cakes and they try to persuade you to choose them for all your wedding cake needs.
They bring out all kinds of cake and give you binders full of pictures to look at.
The saleslady says things like "marzipan" and "fondant" and talks about how different frostings will hold up in the heat of an outdoor June wedding.
You get to sample flavors of cake. For free!
It is very exciting.
Vanilla. German chocolate. Limonciello. Pistachio, red velvet, raspberry, dutch cocoa, orange liqueur. Coconut cake! Strawberry n' cream cake! All for you!
Why yes, I am the bride-to-be.
Anyway! After a few flavors of cake, you start to lose track. You think "Mmm, that was good" every time you try a new piece.
You go "Huh. Well, this piece is delicious, too. You know what? I love cake."
They don't know you just barfed.
You play it cool. Act like you were just peeing.
But there's one thing you're now certain of: You never want to see a piece of cake again.
Not ever. No more. You hate cake. You'll never touch it again.
And then...the bakery brings out the piece de resistance.
A kind of cake you've never had before - a caramel-brandy extravaganza, with edible flowers made of butterscotch candy floss.
And even though, five seconds ago, you were sure you didn't want to eat cake ever again...
well, you've never had caramel-brandy cake.
AND WHAT IF IT'S AWESOME?
What if it's your favorite kind of cake ever, and you never know, because you missed tasting it because you pussed out when it really counted?
That's what Date #5 was for me.
By Friday, I was cured of women.
Never wanted to fuck again.
[via conversations about]
I was sore and tired and as limp as a noodle.
I had weird bruises. There was carpet burn.
I had had my cake. I never wanted to see cake again.
And the only reason I didn't just say "fuckit" and cancel my date for Friday night was because it was the piece de resistance...
I was meeting a couple.
This is the email they sent me:
So you want to have lots and lots of sex huh?
I got what you're looking for. Me and my lady will fuck you into next week.
We are an open dyke couple; she is more "femme" while I am more "butch". We are both drug and disease-free, non-smokers and up for anything.
She is a tall beautiful blonde; I am tall, dark-haired and pixie-like. She is 35, in-shape, and SMOKIN' (if I say so myself).
I am 32, HWP, and pretty darn cute.
Would send a pic, but don't have a good one of both of us.
A couple! A dyke couple!
Ten minutes later, I got an email back. All the email said was, "Ha. We're women. If you'd like to voice-verify, we'd be happy to speak with you."
There were two pictures attached.
And...they looked good! The femme was tall and pretty! The butch really was pixie-like!
There was also a phone number.
These dykes were not new to the Craigslist game.
So...I called them. What the heck.
I talked to both of them - their names were Cerise and Ryan.
Cerise was the femme and she had a deep voice. Very throaty. Ryan was the butch and she cleared her throat a lot.
We had kind of an awkward conversation.
Me: Hello? Hello?
Voices: (overlapping voices) Hello? Hi! Hey. Krista?
Me: Uh...am I on speakerphone?
You know how sometimes you can't get the rhythm of a phone conversation going? You keep interrupting each other without meaning to? That was what was going on.
However - they were both nice and cute-sounding and not men.
Ryan teasingly commended me on my level of caution.
Cerise kept laughing with that whiskey voice.
Suddenly I wasn't so sore anymore.
We agreed to meet at The Stumbling Monk at 8 pm to "see if we all hit it off."
I got there early, actually got a parking space within the same block as the bar (did I rescue a baby in another life?) and managed to secure a table.
I was wearing my best red "seduction" dress and, in honor of the occasion (Baby's 1st All-Female Threesome!) was wearing high-heeled boots.
Obviously worth it.
I could not. wait.
But...20 minutes later, I was still waiting.
Dum de dum de dum...
Ryan and Cerise were late.
I started to get really nervous. Wouldn't it be a terrible way to end the Week of Debauchery if I got stood up?
I suddenly wasn't so sure about any of this.
I fidgeted. I peeled the fresh red polish off my fingernails. I examined my hair for split ends and went to the bathroom twice, just to make sure I looked ok.
I played with my phone in that desperate way you do when you're trying to look busy.
By 8:35, I was ready to leave.
Why did I want to sleep with two strangers, anyway? What was I thinking? Was I a just huge slut, but not in a positive way like I'd always thought?
Was this all just so I could check off "threesome with two women" on my list of experiences?
What was I doing there?
Once I start in with the deep questions I sometimes can't stop.
I had worked myself into a good lather. I grabbed my bag and paid my tab.
And then I got a text.
"Hey, we're late" it said. "U cool? Be ther 1/2 hr" .
No apology. Not "Hey, I'm really sorry, but we're running late, totally understand if you're pissed, sorry sorry sorry" but "Be ther 1/2 hr".
And you know what?
I didn't want my first all-layday threesome to happen like this.
In my head, my perfect threesome involved me meeting two elfin boi-dykes who were British and first made out with each other for hours while I watched and then ravaged me in a very cool London apartment that smelled like cloves.
They worshipped my body, were best friends, and couldn't believe their luck.
As I pictured this, I realized something: I was willing to negotiate on the cloves and the locale (other acceptable locations were Tokyo, Taipei, Paris, Sao Paulo, Milan, or Buenos Aires)...but not much else.
I've heard that sexual fantasies are often disappointing in real life.
Well, here was my big chance to have a threesome with two other lesbians.
They would "be ther 1/2 hr".
Hmph. Nothin' doin'.
I decided to hold out for my dream.
Outside The Stumbling Monk, I took deep, head-clearing breaths.
It was still fucking raining.
I got in my car and drove home.
Kelly was waiting for me.
So was a re-run of America's Next Top Model.
We had a great night.
Now, don't worry. The perfect first all-woman threesome still lives on in my mind, lezzies. I'll get there someday.
Someday I'll walk into a club in London where M.I.A. is playing and there they'll be: Adorable best-friend bois with British accents and tattoos. They'll make out for hours on the dance floor, call their cigarettes "fags", and then they'll take me home, where we will fuck all night and I'll make jokes about sandwiches.
I just don't think I can settle.
As my Week of Debauchery drew to a close, I reflected on the many lessons I had learned.
Listen to your intuition.
Don't let curiosity lead you down a path filled with lizards.
Only fuck people who ask about and respect your limits.
A little danger can be exciting. Try the whip.
There really are sex clubs in America. You can easily go to them, but you have to know someone and be on your best behavior, like when you meet the Queen.
If something is important to you...you have to be willing to wait for it.
Day 72 (by John .)
Hoo! We made it! Week of Debauchery!
We'll hafta do this again sometime, eh?