Your First Date As A Single Mom

Transcript

It's not worth crying about. You tell yourself that, sitting in the hotel bar, overdressed, your hair as clean and styled as it's been in months, if not years, your nails freshly painted. You're not going to cry.

This is just a learning experience. That's all. It's not the end of anything.

It's a disappointment, for sure. You were so looking forward to tonight. You didn't even know the man that well.

You just needed to get out. And here you are. You're out.

You got your hair done. You bought this dress. You're in a friskier mood than normal.

Honestly, if your date had shown up, only the most egregious words or actions would have dissuaded you from a kiss, or a touch, or more. It's been a long time. A very long time.

And you are. .. You don't want to say feral.

That makes you sound desperate. Okay, maybe you are a little desperate, but the more accurate word would be yearning. It's been a solid 18 months of you feeling like an overworked, overweight, underslept cow.

And tonight was supposed to be a brief visit to grown-up land. This year has been a whirlwind of love and surprises and joy and silliness, but also pain and exhaustion and loneliness. It took nearly all that time for your friends to convince you they could watch the child.

It took months of pushing and pulling and finally shoving to get you to make a dating profile. It took a frustrating series of weeks to connect with a guy who wasn't a creep. It took time and a frank conversation with the mirror to finally buy a dress with your new measurements.

You haven't done badly for yourself. Almost as soon as the kid was born, you were pulling on your leggings and tying up your hair and jogging out there with the stroller. But everything still feels different.

You feel different, inside and out. Hormones are amazing things, but they're a real bitch of a houseguest. And there's no denying you feel like a house that's been badly mistreated, windows smashed and drapes stained and ragged.

But before you really start to fall apart, you remind yourself this house is cozy, not condemned. The foundations are good, you reassure yourself. Yes, your tits and your waist have refashioned your figure.

Your nipples occasionally spring a leak. Your back and your feet seem to be permanently sore, but at least your hair stopped falling out. Yeah, the house isn't in the best shape, but if the creeps online are any indication, there are still buyers on the market.

And tonight, you thought you'd found a decent one. You gaze at the drink in front of you, frowning to keep from weeping. Did you ever enjoy alcohol? It's hard to remember now.

The cocktail sits, ice peeking above its festive shade of red, and you sigh. Well, what do you know? After all this internal misery, you've realized you're too tired to cry.

And then you laugh. You can't help it. It comes out loud and stupid.

When has that ever been true? Too tired to cry? No.

You have a feeling it's going to be you and the baby rocking in the dark again, trading sniffles and wails like God intended. God? Now there's someone you'd like a word with.

Was it all part of the plan, leaving you a single mother at this age, with an aching back and a chip on your shoulder? Where's your guardian angel? That cocktail must have one hell of a tight five.

You look up, startled by my voice. I smile at you, and nod at your drink. You have the saddest look on your face, and then, ha ha ha ha ha.

You feel your skin flush, and for a moment your self-pity is washed away by utter embarrassment. You've been inside your house watching the baby for so long that sometimes you forget when you're in public, where other people dwell. You shake your head and open your mouth to make an excuse, but nothing comes out.

What do you say? What the hell do you say to me? And who the hell am I? Ben, I say, pointing to myself.

I slide an empty drink over the bar and indicate to the bartender I'd like another. I was coming up here to drown my sorrows and saw a lady in a pretty dress with a sad face. Seemed like a good opening, but then you laughed.

So either you've got a Bluetooth in your ear, or you hear voices, or there's a one-in-a-million chance you're like me and sometimes you just laugh because the world is a beautiful place and why not? You ask me if I really think the world is a beautiful place. The bartender hands me my drink and I give you, your face, and your body a slightly exaggerated once over.

I see proof of it every day. You roll your eyes. You tell me that just because you're alone at a bar, that doesn't make you easy prey.

So what kind of prey are you? You bite your lip. I'm wearing a tailored suit and you can smell cedar in my cologne, but that doesn't mean you're obligated to tell me anything about your situation, but you have been in your head for a while.

If you tell me your date ghosted you, it's an excuse to keep talking and stay out of that swirling void. I look genuinely surprised at your admission. Well, then we're in the same boat, I say.

I'm here on business and was supposed to meet an old friend here, but she's MIA. An old friend, you ask? I take a sip of my drink and wince.

We hooked up a few times in college. Tonight might have been a chance to catch up or two lonely people doing what lonely people do. What do lonely people do, you ask? What you don't say, and what I can see in your eyes, is that you've been lonely so long you may have forgotten how to do it.

At last, I slide into the seat beside you. Well, lonely people have a tendency to leave their reservations at the door. Not necessarily standards, mind you.

Just the little niggling voice that says, there's a reason you don't sleep with this person as a full-time gig. You ask me if I'm an expert on loneliness. God, I hope not.

But I hope you'll forgive me if I overshare. Single dad over here to a great kid. But as it turns out, trying to be a great parent to match and keeping one foot in adult world is not an easy balancing act.

You can fall off real quick. Then you're left staring up at that tightrope and watching everyone running past. For the first time in a long time, you take a sip of your drink, and it doesn't taste too bad.

You tell me about your baby and that you've been sitting in the sand staring up at that wire for a significant amount of time. I reach over and lightly, so lightly, curl my finger under your chin. You're in the shit right now, kid, but it gets easier, I promise.

We share pictures. My boy is seven, in school, and a friend to all animals. Yours is babbling like a little witch, casting unintelligible spells at all hours.

I don't ask about her father, I just want to know about you. Who are you, really, and what were you before? What did you do, and what did you think, huh? You roll your eyes.

You can quote Casablanca, too. Please do, I encourage you, at least until the end. I don't fancy putting you on a plane with another man.

Another pair of drinks, and a swing of hands around the clock face, and we are seated closer, my fingers lightly sliding over yours as I tell you something utterly forgettable. You're not really listening to the words anymore, just the tone of my voice, warm and teasing and friendly. Just looking into my eyes, sparkling and knowing.

Looking at my mouth, my lips, and wondering if I kiss as well as I talk. Unfortunately no, I tell you. Did you say that out loud? I curl my fingers around your ear and lean in for a light investigative kiss.

Please don't be weird, you think, as you return your lips to mine, or at least be weird in a sexy way. That part you don't say out loud, but the big, reassuring hand on your hip pulls you closer and doesn't feel weird, it feels right. You really like the dress, you ask me.

I like the way you look in it, I reply. Your body isn't the same, you tell me, looks the same as it did a minute ago, I say. You know what I mean, you warn me.

I'm not in the habit of hitting on bodies I don't like to look at, I explain. And you don't go too far on first dates, you tell me, usually. Lucky me, I say, I checked the weather before I got here and it's an unusual night.

I pay the tab and our hands entwine as we slip out of the bar and I walk you to the lobby. It's late, you have someone to watch the baby, but. ..

My hand slides down your bare arm and the tip of my every finger zaps your skin like electricity. Your hair stands on end and the pressure in your belly pops free in a nervous giggle. Smiling, I guide you near some decorative fronds into a little grotto beside the golden elevator doors.

That's where I kiss your throat and your breath catches there like I've stolen it through your skin. I like you a lot, I murmur, and I don't want to jeopardize my chance to see you again, but what if we skip over the part where you worry about whether it's okay to do what you want to do? Our fingers lace together and my free hand slides down to cup your buttocks.

My teeth bite into your earlobe. What if I take you back to my room right now and just fuck you like we left prom early? That pulsates down the center of your body, still not as hot as the breath in your ear.

What if we don't make it complicated? What if I just take advantage of a single mom who's put herself back on the market, pick you up, and just pound you into a hotel bed? What I'm saying is, I would like to make love to you tomorrow, in a week, after this second date, or the third, when you're comfortable.

What I want to do to you, right now, is fuck you, dangerously, unapologetically, fuck you. Fuck your brains out. I want you to come so hard that you think about not calling me tomorrow, because you don't know what you said to me, or sounded like, or smelled like when you had me inside you.

That's what I want. I want to fuck you so good that you hate me a little bit after. The next few minutes don't exist.

Your brain deletes the data because it's worthless. It doesn't absorb any moment between your tacit consent and the slam of my hotel door. It only boots up again when your lips are wet with my saliva, my strong hands gathering the soft parts of you up and throwing you on the bed.

Your dress is hiked up, my pants hit the floor, and then a man's cock is gliding up your bare thigh. A cock, a real cock, not a toy, not your fingers, a man's genitals, hairy balls and hot, pulsating skin. God, when was the last time you had something that hard and a lie of oozing on your skin? That's pre-cum, you think.

Just talking to you has made me excited. But you understand that, don't you? My fingers find your pussy.

You apologize for being so wet, and I laugh, laugh into your cheek, your hair. How else am I going to get my cock in there, I ask you, teasing. Wait, why, you ask.

Is it big? Is it, like, really big? I laugh again.

I don't think it's too big, I say, but I'm not small. Oh, your shaking fingers reach down, try to measure, start shaking harder. My fingers move inside you, and you let out a sound between a shriek and a moan.

That's it. I growl. Remember, we're in a hotel.

You can be as loud as you want, mama. The fingers inside you graze that spot, and your knees slam together. You make a very loud, very rude remark.

Good girl, I growl, and the hot cock in your hand grows even larger. You start mumbling something about your nipples and the milk, and I shush you, biting you, sliding my fingers deeper to drive the point home. I know, I whisper reassuringly, I know, baby, I'll be gentle with them, I promise.

I slide another finger inside you and probe, gently, is there any pain here, any spots I should avoid? No, you tell me, you don't think so, it's just been, it's been a while, you're not sure, and then my whole hand grips you down there, thumb knowing exactly where your clit is hiding, and your mind goes, blessedly, blank, I'm sure. Do you trust daddy? Your eyes get very big, and you nod, nod, nod fiercely.

And if you have to cry, that's okay too, I whisper, as I slide the dress up higher and my head disappears beneath your belly. Please let me know if they're good or bad tears, I think I'm pretty good at this, but I'm open to feedback. Despite my little speech downstairs, you're still self-conscious, still, that is, until my tongue makes contact with your bare pussy, and then, finally, you remember why people still fuck at this age.

When your legs are up in the air, the volume on everything else goes down, and daddy, you discover, is quite good at going way, way down. Colors fly behind your eyelids like flags rippling in the wind, my hot breath sweeps over your neglected skin like an ocean's sigh over desert sands, fingers clutch at you and you scream for me, scream to scream, scream because you haven't been able to scream in ages, scream because no man has given you reason to scream, scream because the baby has done enough of that for you both, scream because the nervous, shivering energy inside you needs out, you press your palms into my ears and wail like a banshee, you order me to fuck you like a bad little bitch. I hesitate, only long enough to roll on the condom, and then you're getting it, the latex head pierces your hungry cunt and you're getting it, your manicured nails are tearing into my tailored shirt and you are being stretched, pounded, penetrated, fucked, good and properly fucked.

I am holding your sweaty body and you are, finally, being fucked. Oh, that's a tip-top pussy, baby, I moan for you, that is exactly what daddy needs. This isn't a sacred act between two married partners, it isn't for love or procreation, you've been there, you've done that, this is a dirty, carnal act in a stranger's hotel room, and you don't care what the neighbors think, because I am hard and thick, thrusting into you with wild, lewd abandon, and I am in no danger of tiring out, other men would be done already, pouring this manic energy into your hungry cunt, but I am going the distance.

My fingers stroke the back of your neck.