60 Orgasms in 40 Minutes

My first noteworthy post-divorce dating adventure happens with an irresistibly sexy, very eloquent, and endlessly charming Brit named Andy. He happens to satisfy my three fetishes for the opposite sex: squarish, ultra-masculine fingers; soccer bow-legs; and a low, raspy, radio-worthy voice. We do, however, have a somewhat awkward start to our first date when I obnoxiously dare to order food and Andy proclaims in overt surprise: “I thought we said DRINKS!”. Well, we did, but I happen to have an exceptionally high metabolism, am hungry most of the time, and was too busy chasing my preschooler all day to sit down and have a meal – can’t a girl eat? Andy does put his card down when the bill arrives, but makes sure to immediately declare to me: “NEXT TIME IT’S ON YOU, BABY!”. Despite this anti-chivalrous (and, according to my generous father, whom I eagerly share my exciting LA dating life with on a regular basis, downright revolting) act, the chemistry from the very beginning of our encounter is through-the-roof, to the point where by the end of the date Andy practically rapes me in front of the whole restaurant (yes, I’ve discovered that this can be done in America with no arrest involved!). He then fingers me in the alley on the way to my car, and also performs incredible cunnilingus on me right there in the parking lot. Definitely my hottest date night so far. We both admit to each other that we do not normally do this sort of thing on a first date, but the attraction is just too unbearable to hold back. Sex with Andy is mind-blowing. He actually succeeds in giving me my first ever deep, soul-stretching, earth-shaking, exclusively vaginal orgasm (I have always up until this point needed clitoral involvement). This quickly skyrockets to as many as 60 orgasms within a 40-minute session (and I’m not kidding). We sext about 100 times a day, and for a week I feel euphoric.

But I just cannot get that “next time it’s on you” line out of my head. I always said I could never be with a stingy guy. This fear is confirmed when Andy unashamedly states that our future trips together will be limited to local destinations (unless, of course, I volunteer to pay for airplane tickets and hotels). He also makes sure to let me know that he believes in equality in romantic relationships. I do like that concept and do sincerely believe it is the healthiest thing for a relationship or marriage, but hey, we are not exactly “equal”, Andy. Not only am I seventeen years younger, but I am also a recently divorced single mom of a four-year-old (Andy has no children and a great, very high-paying job). Oh, and men also don’t have to bear the burden of pregnancy and childbirth. So no, Mister, WE are not exactly equal to begin with. When Andy lets me pay for his two beers the next time we go out, I am frankly a little disgusted (especially given that he happens to have a beer-belly). Andy also smokes, and when, on one of our sex dates, I cannot even bring myself to kiss him because I feel like I am suffocating in second-hand fumes, I give him an ultimatum to quit cold turkey, or else (and though he says he will do it, I have serious doubts). The final string is popped when I discover that Andy is three years older than the age he had specified on the dating site through which we had met. It’s certainly excruciating to voluntarily walk away from the best sex I have (thus far) had in my life, but something tells me I have to move on.