So instead of wasting my evenings getting to know someone the old fashion way, I can spend my nights discovering the one thing a man’s online profile doesn’t tell me: The size and taste of his dick.I’m not looking for “the one” online, just the one for the night. It doesn’t really bother me too much if the guy is shorter than he claims, or is dumb as doornail. As long as his cock works, I’m happy. Online dating has saved me a lot of time, but it’s also led me to some interesting people. Let me share of few of my stories with some real winners.
The Scottish Lad
This guy was even better looking in person than his sexy profile displayed. As soon as I saw him sitting down I was pleased, because he was ridiculously hot… until he stood up. I immediately noticed he was significantly shorter than he had stated on his profile. Usually, this isn’t a problem. After all, he’s still got the main prize dangling between his legs. That’s really all my pussy is interested in. That night however, I was wearing my five-inch heels, which made me tower over him. Men, the only time we want to be able to look over your head is when we’re on top of you, fucking. I quickly learned that anytime a guy claims to be 5’10,” he really means “I’m basically a midget, so wear your flats.”
We decided to meet for drinks to see if we liked each other. Translation: we were going to fuck and maybe head to dinner. When we got to the bar, he ordered me a drink and quickly asked me if I was going to want to eat. Wow, that was fast I thought. This guy may be shorter than I prefer, but he knew what he wanted. His dick and my vadge both had a one-track mind.
The only other problem with him is that he’s Scottish. It was incredibly difficult to understand his accent. Not exactly “ruggedly sexy” as he had described. Rugged yes, sexy not so much. My friends know I don’t like accents. I don’t like explaining what “go down on me” or “titty fuck me” means. You’re in America; if you want me to spread my legs and give you a proper welcome, learn the fuckin’ language. British accents don’t bother me too much, as long as they’re dignified.
As I was sitting there on our date, trying really hard to understand him, I couldn’t help but think about my own profile. Everything I say is absolutely correct. Okay, okay. Except for my boobs, which appear especially big and dapper in my picture. But dating profiles don’t ask for you to list your boob size. That night, I was wearing an amazing push-up bra, and I couldn’t help noticing that he was oogling them. Not that I blame him; he was, after all, eye level with my breasts.
I sat through the entire dinner wondering what the fuck this little person was saying to me. I kept nodding like a freakin’ bobble head doll, hoping that when he moaned through sex I’d at least understand it.
Needless to say, I worked for that fuck. His height made it perfect for banging me and sucking my nipples simultaneously. It was glorious. Maybe I should give shorter people a try?
Then again, this little man either spent entirely too much time watching porn or he had a serious case of ADD. He couldn’t make up his mind when it came to sex positions. He would spin me and flip me like I was a fuckin’ rubrics cube. I couldn’t help but wonder if it’s just easier for short people to move like that. Most gymnasts are smaller, right? They can flip around with ease. Whatever it was, I had to tell this Scottish lad to slow things down if he wanted this American girl to come all over his cock.
The Pussy Bragger
I went out with this guy one night. The conversation quickly turned to sex (as it pretty much always does on a date). He couldn’t stop talking about how good he was at eating pussy. If it was an Olympic sport, according to this guy his tongue would win the gold.
I knew he wasn’t.
I’ve learned that if you’re rich, you don’t have to tell people how much you make. If you have a big cock, usually you’re not bragging about it. This guy claiming to be a god at oral sex made me confident that he didn’t have a fucking clue. Though he claimed every pussy he had dated sang his praises, I was pretty sure this guy had experienced a lot of fakers. That or they were just trying to be nice. Two things my vadge isn’t: a liar and a fake.
“Not every girl is the same,” I tried explaining to him. “The technique you used on one girl isn’t necessarily going to work on all of them.”
He licked his lips and nodded his head. “It does if it’s the technique I use, baby.”
Obviously, I had to test his alleged skills. My curiosity was piqued. I prayed I was wrong and the vagina gods in the sky had smiled on me by sending him. If he was some Picasso and my pussy was his canvas, there was no way I wanted to pass up an opportunity to experience a masterpiece. However, I knew, more than likely, he was only a kindergartner fucking up the watercolors.
So I made a deal with him. We decided our next date he’d come over to eat me out, so I could experience his skills. If he did well then we’d have sex, if not then he’d have to leave. I wouldn’t give him any direction down there to how I liked it (normally I help a guy out because I believe communication is key when fucking and I want to get off).
A week later, he came over to my place. We had a few drinks and fooled around to give me lady wood. Then we headed to my bedroom. I laid down on the bed while he went to town on my pussy.
I tried to get into it as he tried all his moves… but nothing. Trust me, if it felt good and I was getting off. I’d have no problem cumming. After twenty minutes, I knew it was pointless.
Eventually he noticed it wasn’t working for me. That or his tongue was tired. He came up to have sex with me.
“No, no, no. That wasn’t the deal,” I told him. “You didn’t get me off.”
He looked stunned. “You’re serious?”
“Pleasing my pussy isn’t a joke.” If you can’t please me then I’m sure as hell not going to waste my time getting your jollies on.
I got up and put on my panties and bra. “It’s been fun, but it’s not working for me.” I walked his stunned face to the door and said goodbye. Guess the vagina expert had finally met his match.
The Wandering Eye
I met one date at a trendy bar in town. He was better looking in person than his photos online, so my beaver was instantly pleased. We were getting along fine, until I noticed that he had a wandering eye. The guy was looking at every girl in the bar, except the one sitting in front of him.
I’m very confident in myself. I know I have an amazing body, so I have no problem going to a trendy bar with other hot women. Hell, I love to look at other hotties, too. Eye candy gets me excited. But when you’re on a date, especially a first date, try to keep your eyes on me.
He faced the door, and I was looking at the wall while we’re talking. He had perfect access to every girl walking in the bar, and there are lots of them that night. The guy would have easy access to my pussy if he could’ve focused on me, but the more we talked, the more I realized he was absolutely not paying attention to me. I could’ve shown him my tits, and he’d still be staring across the room.
You’re with one of the hottest girls in here, and I’m still not enough for you? I wonder. What are you, gay?
I quickly decide to end this. I’ve got a million other guys interested in fucking me; I don’t need to waste any more of my time with this blind idiot. I expect my dates to treat me like I would treat them; if you’re not into me, pretend like you have something else to do and move the fuck on.
I whipped out my phone and texted a guy I had been dating for a while. He worked around the corner at another bar. There was still potential to have a good bang tonight. We’re in an open relationship so didn’t want to cock block him by just showing up. He might have had other plans, or was in the middle of hitting on someone else. (God damn, I’m so considerate.) So, I texted him first. He responded saying that he wanted me to stop by, and that’s he’ll stay the night at my place.
As soon as I get the okay from my lover, I tell my date that I’m going to go meet a girlfriend. He, once again, wasn’t even looking at me.
He walked me to the valet. I got in my car and as I drove off, I saw him head back inside the bar. Screw him, I thought. At least my night wasn’t completely ruined; my sexy bartender sure as hell didn’t mind looking at me.
– Sienna Sinclaire® – The Single Girl®: Your Naughty Lifestyle Guide