“Why don’t you come over? I’ll leave the door unlocked, and if you come around the side of my house by my bedroom window, root around for a bit. Like you’re checking the meter, or you’re trying to find out whether or not I fell asleep.

Then let yourself in. I’ll be blindfolded with one of my wrists tied to the bedpost. Make as little noise as possible and then fasten my free wrist to the other side of the bed. Then…you know; do your thing.”

I met Frank a month before. I figured either of us would never call the other. We chatted briefly…minute long conversations that never went anywhere, really, but he seemed like a nice guy.

A couple weeks later he emailed me out of the blue, with the opening quote of this post. Kinky. I liked it. Something I could get into, even though I could barely remember his face. Taller than me. White guy. Brown hair…no, dirty blonde. Football player build.

I got to his place and walked around the perimeter. Small duplex. Walking distance from my house. Peered in through his window, and saw nothing but shadows. Coming back to the front, I slid through the front door. Nice place.

He lay in bed exactly as he said. I gently grabbed an ankle and caressed it to let him know I was there, that it was me. I tied his free wrist to the side of the bed then dashed into the kitchen for a bowl of ice cubes.

What followed was hot. Lots of teasing, touching, licking, nuzzling, making out…some cuddling. At one point, I lit a candle and let the melted wax drip onto his smooth chest and the instant it hit his skin, chased it with wet cube of ice—a study in contrasts: hot and cold, freed and bound, black and white.

This went on for nearly an hour with barely a word being spoken. No words, really, but certainly loud guttural, erotic groans of pleasure and ecstasy. It was hot. Very hot. For someone like me, who is relatively new to the world of BDSM, it turned my crank enough to know that this was something I’d dabble in again.

Things came to a climax, backs were arched, teeth were clinched, and sweat poured. Per our agreement, I untied the wrist I previously bound, and reluctantly and quickly dressed. I let myself out just as silently as I entered.

A couple days later he emailed me again, and an hour or so after that, I found myself creeping into his duplex again. The scene more or less repeated itself again. He left a bag of tricks near the foot of his bed, and nature took its course.

Over the course of a couple weeks this went on, and then I stopped responding to Frank’s emails. I like what we did. I would like to continue what we were doing, but under the premise of something more than just sexual (mind you very hot) sexual play. I like movies. I like getting out of the house, I like strolling through galleries and music and shows. I liked fucking Frank with a dildo, and grinding against each other while we made out, with him in his blindfold. I liked blowing him, and fucking his mouth and the ice cube thing and all that shit. But as much as I enjoy getting laid, I also very much like doing things on my own terms. So, if Frank didn’t want to grab a bite or stroll through Pottery Barn after some highly charged sexual cardio, I’m afraid that he’s going to have to find someone else for his hi-jinks, even as reluctant as I am to let go of our really hot and charged sexual exchanges. There’s more to me than my kink and my fetishes.

So I broke it off. I stopped the emails and let the phone go to voicemail, and even after that I’m not even sure I could pick him out at Trader Joe’s or the line at the ATM. Sadly, I can’t honestly remember what his face looked like.

But I’m convinced my other half is out there. And I wonder if he’s as curious about where in the world I might be, as I am about him. And what he sounds like right before he finishes, and what we’ll look like shopping at Crate and Barrel. Hot sex is one thing. A life together with someone with mutual compassion, love, and understanding is another.

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