Just One Old Dude's Perspective.
When I was eight, standardized tests said I was a genius and could read and solve at the collegiate level. When I was nine, my "girlfriend" broke up with me by the expedient of whispering in my ear that she was going to tell people she wasn't my girlfriend anymore so they would stop beating me up but she really still was. It took seeing her holding hands with and kissing another boy, the worst perpetrator, three months later for me to figure it out. Genius my ass.
A few decades ago, when I was just eighteen, my fiancée and on/off girlfriend of five years broke up with me because "you don't really love me". Not only had I not tried to have sex with her in all that time, but I had not touched her in any way that could be construed as sexual. I rarely kissed her.
Four months later my (new) girlfriend, took matters into her own hands, so to speak. We had been out on a date and, as we usually did, pulled up at a park to talk a bit. Only this time, she didn't say a word but leaned across and kissed me and started fumbling with my belt. I had, by that time, started to understand that girls, at least some girls, actually like sex. But, hadn't quite made the leap to understanding they might like to have sex with me. I was little more than a shocked, silent participant through my first handjob, blowjob (such as it was), and actual vaginal penetration once she clambered over the gearshift, somehow shimmying out of her panties under her skirt, and lowered herself onto me. I blame the shocked disbelief for not climaxing at all that first time as she rode me to her own.
That was the only time in the nineteen months we dated and then became engaged that she instigated. Honestly, because I never gave her the chance to even consider it after that. She broke off our engagement because she felt like all I wanted was sex. In the parlance of children the world over "she started it".
There was a young woman that I'd met in between those two that I had actually tried, in my own inept way, to touch her tits while we were kissing. She had stopped me. I didn't see her again during my second engagement. (She lived four hours away.) I saw her again not long after my second engagement failed. She greeted me with a hungry kiss, literally wrapping her legs around my waist. When she felt I didn't take the hint (I was content just to stand there, holding her up and kissing her), she put her feet down, took my hand, and slid it up under her shirt. As we were standing in a convenience store parking lot, to say I was more than a little shocked would be an understatement. "Take me home and take me to bed." She said, squeezing my hand full of her round breast. Well, of course I did. When I left her three hours later, we were both smiling.
I wasn't smiling anymore when I got an invitation to her wedding a week later. No, I didn't go. And no, I haven't spoken to her since.
I couldn't even begin to estimate the number of women that I am friends with who have told me (too late) that they had once been interested in me but had moved on because I didn't seem interested in them. The overwhelming majority of which I would have cheerfully killed or died to be with. Only, I didn't think they could possibly be interested in me. And can someone please explain to me just how in the fuck I was supposed to figure out that her playing with the ends of her hair was supposed to communicate to me that she wanted me to kiss her?!
A woman managed to track me down after I hadn't seen her in four years. Somehow, I had moved five hours away from home to take a job and her sister had moved three hours away from their home to take a job... and we ended up living in the same apartment complex although neither I nor her sister knew it until she cold called my mother, found out, and came around knocking on my door. After making sure that I was alone, and a kiss that curled my toes, she took off every stitch of clothing as she walked into my bedroom and laid down on my bed. I'm not sure I can fathom just how much raw nerve that took even now as she was still a virgin and had not even seen me in four years. As she was still in college, we only saw each other on weekends. She still lived several hours away. And each time she came to visit, she would do the same thing. Once she was certain I was alone, the clothes would come off and she would reach for mine.
Sadly, that third engagement failed because when we weren't fucking, we were fighting. And the only way we knew to stop fighting was to start fucking. I still love her, but there was no way I was going to voluntarily live my life like that.
Yet another woman, a co-worker of three months, came into my home and, when I sat in the chair instead of on the couch, sat in my lap with her arm around my neck and told me that she was past the point of caring if it made things strange at work but that she could not let one more second go by without finding out what my lips felt like against hers.
I was a fresh-minted thirty when a nineteen year-old girl that was on a pageant scholarship to a nearby college was winding up her freshman year. Somehow, and I'm still not certain I have the straight of it after all this time, it came out that she needed a place to stay for her last three days in town before she could get home to her parents two states away. With God as witness, I would never have even considered trying something. I considered myself "old" or maybe her "young". And frankly, I didn't relish being the butt of a "dirty old man" joking reference. Even if we had been closer in age, she was literally a beauty queen and I... well, I'm me. The second day, I walked in on her watching a video of a pair of lesbians eating each other. She looked over at me and said "I want you to do that to me."
Three hours later while we were both naked lying on the sweat drenched sheets, she laughed her pretty ass off at me for not "getting it" earlier. Apparently, the strawberries she brought me a few months earlier, the brownies she baked in my kitchen, and having me read over one of her final papers on the computer while she stood behind me with her hand on my shoulder were supposed to tell me something. According to her, she had considered just jumping in the shower with me but I was finished before she could work up her nerve, so the "caught me watching porn" was the only thing she could think of.
I could keep going, but that's probably enough to make the point. And besides, some of the rest are so fucking unbelievable even I have some difficulties thinking they were not just a plot to a badly written porno. The fascinating thing is that when I write one of my stories, the more I try to stick to actual memories, the more guff I get for making shit up.
But, I can honestly say that I've never been anything more than friends with a woman who did not make the first move the first time. After the first time, sure. But, that first time, it pretty much involved her putting my hands where she wanted them or slipping her (or their) own down my pants. My first response was usually shock. And once that I can recall, I gently but firmly took her hand away and put it back in her own lap. (She was my best friends wife and some things I just won't do.) But, generally speaking, once I got over the initial shock, pretty much the only complaint was that they had broken the dam.
When I was eight, standardized tests said I was a genius and could read and solve at the collegiate level. When I was nine, my "girlfriend" broke up with me by the expedient of whispering in my ear that she was going to tell people she wasn't my girlfriend anymore so they would stop beating me up but she really still was. It took seeing her holding hands with and kissing another boy, the worst perpetrator, three months later for me to figure it out. Genius my ass.
A few decades ago, when I was just eighteen, my fiancée and on/off girlfriend of five years broke up with me because "you don't really love me". Not only had I not tried to have sex with her in all that time, but I had not touched her in any way that could be construed as sexual. I rarely kissed her.
Four months later my (new) girlfriend, took matters into her own hands, so to speak. We had been out on a date and, as we usually did, pulled up at a park to talk a bit. Only this time, she didn't say a word but leaned across and kissed me and started fumbling with my belt. I had, by that time, started to understand that girls, at least some girls, actually like sex. But, hadn't quite made the leap to understanding they might like to have sex with me. I was little more than a shocked, silent participant through my first handjob, blowjob (such as it was), and actual vaginal penetration once she clambered over the gearshift, somehow shimmying out of her panties under her skirt, and lowered herself onto me. I blame the shocked disbelief for not climaxing at all that first time as she rode me to her own.
That was the only time in the nineteen months we dated and then became engaged that she instigated. Honestly, because I never gave her the chance to even consider it after that. She broke off our engagement because she felt like all I wanted was sex. In the parlance of children the world over "she started it".
There was a young woman that I'd met in between those two that I had actually tried, in my own inept way, to touch her tits while we were kissing. She had stopped me. I didn't see her again during my second engagement. (She lived four hours away.) I saw her again not long after my second engagement failed. She greeted me with a hungry kiss, literally wrapping her legs around my waist. When she felt I didn't take the hint (I was content just to stand there, holding her up and kissing her), she put her feet down, took my hand, and slid it up under her shirt. As we were standing in a convenience store parking lot, to say I was more than a little shocked would be an understatement. "Take me home and take me to bed." She said, squeezing my hand full of her round breast. Well, of course I did. When I left her three hours later, we were both smiling.
I wasn't smiling anymore when I got an invitation to her wedding a week later. No, I didn't go. And no, I haven't spoken to her since.
I couldn't even begin to estimate the number of women that I am friends with who have told me (too late) that they had once been interested in me but had moved on because I didn't seem interested in them. The overwhelming majority of which I would have cheerfully killed or died to be with. Only, I didn't think they could possibly be interested in me. And can someone please explain to me just how in the fuck I was supposed to figure out that her playing with the ends of her hair was supposed to communicate to me that she wanted me to kiss her?!
A woman managed to track me down after I hadn't seen her in four years. Somehow, I had moved five hours away from home to take a job and her sister had moved three hours away from their home to take a job... and we ended up living in the same apartment complex although neither I nor her sister knew it until she cold called my mother, found out, and came around knocking on my door. After making sure that I was alone, and a kiss that curled my toes, she took off every stitch of clothing as she walked into my bedroom and laid down on my bed. I'm not sure I can fathom just how much raw nerve that took even now as she was still a virgin and had not even seen me in four years. As she was still in college, we only saw each other on weekends. She still lived several hours away. And each time she came to visit, she would do the same thing. Once she was certain I was alone, the clothes would come off and she would reach for mine.
Sadly, that third engagement failed because when we weren't fucking, we were fighting. And the only way we knew to stop fighting was to start fucking. I still love her, but there was no way I was going to voluntarily live my life like that.
Yet another woman, a co-worker of three months, came into my home and, when I sat in the chair instead of on the couch, sat in my lap with her arm around my neck and told me that she was past the point of caring if it made things strange at work but that she could not let one more second go by without finding out what my lips felt like against hers.
I was a fresh-minted thirty when a nineteen year-old girl that was on a pageant scholarship to a nearby college was winding up her freshman year. Somehow, and I'm still not certain I have the straight of it after all this time, it came out that she needed a place to stay for her last three days in town before she could get home to her parents two states away. With God as witness, I would never have even considered trying something. I considered myself "old" or maybe her "young". And frankly, I didn't relish being the butt of a "dirty old man" joking reference. Even if we had been closer in age, she was literally a beauty queen and I... well, I'm me. The second day, I walked in on her watching a video of a pair of lesbians eating each other. She looked over at me and said "I want you to do that to me."
Three hours later while we were both naked lying on the sweat drenched sheets, she laughed her pretty ass off at me for not "getting it" earlier. Apparently, the strawberries she brought me a few months earlier, the brownies she baked in my kitchen, and having me read over one of her final papers on the computer while she stood behind me with her hand on my shoulder were supposed to tell me something. According to her, she had considered just jumping in the shower with me but I was finished before she could work up her nerve, so the "caught me watching porn" was the only thing she could think of.
I could keep going, but that's probably enough to make the point. And besides, some of the rest are so fucking unbelievable even I have some difficulties thinking they were not just a plot to a badly written porno. The fascinating thing is that when I write one of my stories, the more I try to stick to actual memories, the more guff I get for making shit up.
But, I can honestly say that I've never been anything more than friends with a woman who did not make the first move the first time. After the first time, sure. But, that first time, it pretty much involved her putting my hands where she wanted them or slipping her (or their) own down my pants. My first response was usually shock. And once that I can recall, I gently but firmly took her hand away and put it back in her own lap. (She was my best friends wife and some things I just won't do.) But, generally speaking, once I got over the initial shock, pretty much the only complaint was that they had broken the dam.
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