It’s been months since I’ve done an app date. I get out enough, have enough social interaction and a fairly limited desire to hook up, so what’s the point?
But last week, I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the fear of spending a 3-day weekend alone in Paris (which wasn’t the case after all), or maybe it was the desire to tell new stories.
All of a sudden, I downloaded 3 dating apps, so come on, this weekend I’m going on at least one date!
3 apps for 2 dates
Bumble, failure, at the same time, Bumble and I aren’t very compatible. I guess I’m not the “kind” of girl who matches and is talked to on Bumble.
Hinge, I’ll give it a try. I’d already tried it in Australia, and apart from some pretty torrid text messages, I didn’t get much out of it. I’m not convinced yet.
I’m talking to a guy. He seems nice at first, then very quickly becomes a bit clingy, weird even. Thanks but no thanks. No cowardice, no ghosting, I wrap things up but I say ciao.
Let’s go to my favorite app, Fruitz. So this one, before Australia, I sanded ! I’ve done dates, some good, some not so good… There was the Italian, the aviator, and so many others.
Here we go, two guys start chatting with me. I schedule one for Sunday, one for Monday. We’re good.
Monday’s is watermelon. Watermelon means booty call. He’s quite nice, but his photo doesn’t show his face. When we finally get on WhatsApp and he sends it to me, I have my doubts.
Mind you, he’s not ugly. But I don’t know, there’s something unhealthy about his photo. I’m getting cold feet.
One more biased question and I end up turning my attention back to Sunday’s question.
The one on Sunday evening, whom we’ll call B., appears in his photos to be everything I love. Tall, beefy, a bit of a teddy bear, with really nice eyes. He’s full of good-natured humor. His lumberjack looks are just the way I like them.
Our chats are fun, and I feel I can have a good time with him. What’s more, he lives two blocks from me, which is just perfect!
The big day arrives, and we meet 2 minutes from my house.
I can see him from a distance; he’s not as tall as I thought, but still a little taller than me. He’s wearing a khaki T-shirt, which shows off his tan, and a denim jacket over it.
He smiles and we kiss. I can’t quite fathom whether he’s disappointed or not. In any case, his look is faithful to the one in the photos, and he seems really nice and friendly.
The Paname Brewery is sold out, so we settle on the temporary terrace of the Kiez Canal, a German bar. He orders a slightly strong German beer (7 degrees), and I follow him.
We chat about us, our lives, the conversation is fluid. It lacks a bit of naturalness at times, or at least humor. Well, maybe that’s because it’s early days.
Alcohol takes its toll
A pint, two pints, a poor plate of French fries with two sausages and a third pint follow. We’re both getting a bit tipsy. The terrace closes and we head inside.
We find a quiet corner, with two corner benches. It’s easier to get close. I’m beginning to detect envy and desire in his eyes. He stares at me more and more intensely, and I’m not at all surprised when he finally leans in to kiss me.
The kiss is really cool. It’s pretty obvious at this point. Not December chemistry, but definitely not far off.
Mister’s hands get a bit wandering, he grabs me, devours my neck a bit. We’re forced to stop, a little hilarious, when the waiter comes to clear our glasses.
Like two surprised teenagers, we look at each other out of the corner of our eyes, a smile on our lips. He gets up to recommend a beer.
Do we really need this pint? Not at all, but it’s already too late.
What’s next ?
He comes back with his hands full, and we start kissing again. We’re so greedy for each other, we can hardly keep the volume of our pint down.
We force ourselves apart to take a few sips, and we’re off again. I could have done without this beer, every sip is an effort.
As for the woodcutter, he starts to grab me more and more suggestively. He marvels at my muscular belly, and seems to enjoy it.
As we finally reach the last quarter of our beer, he asks me curiously, “What do we do next?”.
“We go to your place or mine,” I reply with a smile.
“We’re spoilt for choice.”
Come on, we decide to go back to my place. As if I knew there would be a round two, I tell myself it’s better to start with the smallest apartment and we’ll go to his “big” one next time.
A few dozen meters on foot and we’re already climbing upstairs. I’m struggling with my key, while the handsome lumberjack is already biting the back of my neck, eager for more.
Jackets fly off and my suit is quickly unzipped too. I pull him towards the bed, his fingers already dancing on my belly, sneaking under my lacy panties.
We lie face to face and resume our kissing. I take off his T-shirt, and he discards his boxer shorts. Our bodies touch all over, he removes the last barriers to my modesty, his lips attack my breasts and move gently down my belly.
He looks at my body with eyes full of desire and surprise. I feel so beautiful between his fingers. It’s amazing how good it feels.
He doesn’t stick out his tongue, just uses his phalanges to take my desire up another notch.
The lumberjack’s axe is stuck
His body is really that of a lumberjack, stocky, with broad shoulders and a bull neck. He’s not too hairy, and has a nice bun, but well-defined pectorals, so I play with my fingers too.
His slender fingers, on the other hand, get busy. A little too hard…all cuddly! I arch my back to instruct him to take it easy. He seems to understand and resumes more gently.
What stirs my desire the most are his kisses, powerful and intense, his lips eating mine and then tasting the hollow of my neck. I shiver, I want more. I want him inside me.
But… hehe… When I say it was one pint too many… Pom pom pom… It seems the beer is having an effect on him too.
To sleep or not to sleep
Under normal circumstances, I’d have given anything to get rid of his axe and make it sharper than a razor… But now the alcohol’s attacking me too. I feel nauseous and dizzy, and I can’t find the energy to move my lips down to her intimacy.
Too bad, we kiss, again and again, without trying anything more. Tomorrow may be more energetic.
He wraps his strong arms around me and continues kissing.
Whispering, he warns me: “You’d better go to sleep before I do, because I snore”… Oh, how nice of you to warn me. Except that my nausea redoubles, and I can feel the room spinning every time I try to close my eyes.
I pull myself away from his arm and head for the bathroom. Damn, vomiting from alcohol at 33? Again? Again? Really? A few tens of minutes, two trips back and forth, and I’m back in the warmth of the bed.
Okay, okay… What reassures me is that he’s asleep and I’d rather he hadn’t heard me. On the other hand, he hadn’t lied. He snores – well, snore is a mild word in comparison. He makes an infernal noise.
I feel like I can’t sleep a wink all night.
So when, at 5:30 in the morning, he thinks he’s waking me up, with his desire raised to the sky, he’s just kidding himself. He pulls me to him, and our caresses begin again.
Even though our breath isn’t the freshest, we kiss, and in the end, it doesn’t matter, because I love his kisses.
His caresses are as pleasurable as ever, and once again I feel beautiful between my sheets.
His gaze details every mount and hollow of my body, and flatters me with its intensity.
Our fingers warm up, and at last the moment comes when we attempt an “entrée en matière”. Unfortunately, putting on the condom takes its toll on her arousal and the energy of her forbidden fruit sinks once again.
We try anyway, we try, he comes on top of me, but it’s no use.
One more cuddle between his arms, and the big lumberjack goes back to sleep… And I can tell you, he saws a lot of wood in his sleep.
Three hours later, we wake up again. This time, we take our time. Tenderness is the order of the day, and the petting is soft and gentle. We look at each other, observe each other and brush against each other.
It takes us several dozen minutes to move from tenderness to desire, and from desire to sensual longing. Then our phalanges stop grazing and start gripping, grasping and clawing. Our soft mouths, which had been delicately kissing the skin, come out to nibble lips, napes and nipples.
Neither of us goes down to taste the other’s fruit, and only our fingers hasten to raise the temperature a little more. We want each other, we’re almost in position, so a half-turn to the magic drawer and it’s time to pull out the latex square.
Immediately, the woodcutter’s axe shrinks, as if afraid to attack my log. Come on, handsome lumberjack…
This time, I wouldn’t give up, and neither would he. We redouble our kissing, biting and fingering, and the axe comes back to life.
Hallelujah, he’s on top of me and the dance of pleasure begins. At last… I feel complete.
Goodbye, handsome Lumberjack
It doesn’t last long, and eventually the axe loses its sharpness. But then…
Then we collapse into each other’s arms. He apologizes good-humoredly. We’re not 20 anymore, and we’ve lost our sense of modesty about what happens to us. Yes, it happens, and more often than we care to admit. Come on, you’re forgiven, I settle back into his arms and we go back to sleep. He hardly snores…
10h30. We’re both wide awake. All in all, a very pleasant morning chat. We talk for a while, and it’s not that I don’t feel good in his arms. But I’ve got a stomachache, I’m exhausted from a bad night’s sleep… And I want him to leave.
Maybe I’ve gone wild too. I like him, but I haven’t had that spark that would make me want time to stand still. No, all I want is for him to get out of my bed and leave me alone to do my brunch, my nap and my solo day.
I do offer him a cup of coffee or tea, but he politely declines. Could it be that he sensed the half-coldness, that his mind was elsewhere? He finally gets up with me around 11:30 and leaves, begging for a few last kisses.
See you soon, Monsieur le Bûcheron.