kittyfireball

The last blow job I gave was in early February 2020. He was the one and only worthwhile match I had on the Hinge app in the four months for which I paid for premium membership. Hinge, for me, sucked big donkey balls. Lots of Likes, most of whom weren’t even remotely my type but not a whole lot of tempting choices. Of course, I tend to be shallow and use the Hookup Loophole to “date” out of my league. But that’s another story.

Although Hinge is supposedly more of a ‘relationship’ app and apparently I felt perhaps I was looking for more than my usual serial BJ adventures, it may have been more the fact that I just wasn’t feeling very sexual at that time. In any case, this Hinge match was very much my type AND he could host AND I was going to be clubbing not too far from his location so what the heck. I think I offered up only a blow job because I really didn’t feel like fucking. I only mention this stellar, all-encompassing episode of oral sex because I wish I’d known, then, that would be THE LAST TIME I WOULD TOUCH ANYTHING MALE FOR THE NEXT FIVE MONTHS.

Funny thing...as soon as the pandemic/lockdown/quarantine hit, my sex drive rapidly went from zero to sixty. I officially isolated myself from social situations on March 1. My job closed down and switched to remote-work on March 13 at which point I had way too much time on my hands. I could now wake up at noon and go to bed in the wee hours of the morning after reading smut, watching porn, and turning masturbation into an art form. Like everyone else single, I was going slowly out of my mind with horniness.

Around mid-April, a few of my regular BJ buddies hit me up but I was holding strong and meeting up was completely out of the question. In May, I began to hear from guys I’d hooked up with once or twice but with whom I hadn’t had any contact in years. Some I couldn’t quite remember. All along I’m getting Tinder matches and lemme tell ya, these guys were/are Thirsty. I don’t flatter myself to think all these dudes suddenly missed me. They missed IT. Toward the end of June, I was convinced that the pandemic had to be winding down. Things were starting to re-open; clubs seemed to think it wouldn’t be long before they too, would be back. As we all know, things instead got worse, and the numbers skyrocketed. July came, and my mind went. I could tell I was slipping.

Being the Queen of Loopholes, I decided that a strip-club-rules (I can touch you, you can’t touch me) BJ whereas he wears a mask throughout, would be a relatively safe sexual activity. Until my therapist kindly pointed out that the penis will have been touched by his hands before it went into my mouth. Well, rats. So I had to somehow come to terms with the fact that I really couldn’t get naughty until a vaccine was available. My slutty self didn’t like that one bit. She’s very rebellious and has a big problem with authority. Pandemic? Covid-19? Elderly parents? Oh, that’s Buzzkill-self’s prob.

I stopped answering my texts. I mean, I knew what they wanted and I knew I had to say No, which I have a problem doing under the best of circumstances. I had a couple of near-misses where I either pussied out at the last minute (called it off; I don’t flake) or made it so logistically challenging as to be virtually impossible to pull off.

But then he texted. Aaron. And I broke.