The loneliness of the long-distance fucker

After a reasonably long IM conversation on Sunday night, Guy One decided to drive up from his regional city to have dinner with me last night. I protested, but he said it was no big deal, and it seemed like a good way of establishing whether we were really interested in each other before we'd built up unrealistic mental images. We met at the coffee house at which I conduct a lot of my first dates.

He wasn't as attractive as he appeared in his photos, but then who does? Overall he was nice, but perhaps a little odd. Over the course of a couple of hours of conversation, I found out about his body image issues, his dysfunctional relationship with his ex, his frankly bizarre phobia about a common food group, and the fact that he has so enough sugar in his coffee to send a normal person into hypoglycemic shock. But he was intelligent enough to hold a conversation, and not unattractive, so we segued from coffee into dinner, and then from dinner into a walk.

It's a nearly nine hour round trip from his regional city to my capital one, and after all of our flirtatious banter over the last few days it seemed churlish to just have dinner with him and then send him off to find a hotel. So I invited him to spend the night with me. After all, it's been five weeks or so since my last sexual encounter, and he seemed like a nice enough guy. He followed me back to my place and after a Diet Coke we got down to it.

His kissing, when tender and tentative, was quite good. When he got more ardent it wasn't. It didn't help that his stubble abraded my lips and nose worse than usual, such that I currently look like Rudolph the Red Nosed Drag Queen. He also sucked on my neck so hard that there's a huge purple bruise there now. If I were a woman I could cover all of these things up with cosmetics, but instead I had to go to work looking like I'd been sandpapered and then smacked with a broomstick.

The sex was okay, but he's versatile rather than a natural top and it showed. He was also married for several years, and it showed too. At one point in the proceedings, as he was humping away in a missionary position frottage act, I thought, "This would be awesome if I were a woman with a vagina."

Credit where it's due; he did make me come, which almost never happens. In fact he managed it twice. The downside of this was that I experienced first hand the hormone drain that turns a horny lover dismissive within the space of a few minutes. To be honest, it was a little overwhelming in its intensity. I went from "Well, this is all very nice" to "Ugh, I'm trapped in a bed with this guy for the next eight hours! How do I get out of this!?" For half an hour I felt absoltutely wretched, so much so that I wondered if I was experiencing the first flutters of a panic attack. I had to literally fight the urge to roll over and keep my back to him.

But it wasn't like that when I spent the night with Mr Singular. Perhaps because I didn't come? Or perhaps because I felt a sense of connection with him that I decidedly didn't feel with Guy One?

This morning Guy One got back in his car and drove back to his regional city. He's already texted me twice, and I've responded in a friendly but noncommital fashion. Frankly I don't care if I never communicate with him again, but he seemed enamoured. From what I understand, he has a lonely life in this distant little city, with no lover and few friends, and that sort of loneliness can do strange things to a man's sense of proportion.