Girl on the Net

This week’s guest blogger has a happy story. One of those stories which makes me want to hug myself because a stranger found their joy. I’m really delighted to welcome Eddie to the blog, as he tells you how a Twitter crush taught him that – despite the bollocks he’s been fed by society about what might count as ‘desirable’ – he isn’t lust-proof after all.

It turns out I’m not lust-proof

I’ve been in one relationship since university. Before that, I knew about the existence of girls, but they didn’t know about me. When you’re the awkward, shy fat kid at school, this is not surprising. University comes around, and I happily agree to go out with the first girl that showed me any romantic attention. Over many years of being with her, I’d thoroughly convinced myself that she was the only woman that would ever show any interest in me. So when she lost interest in sex, I assumed I was pretty much done.

I thought I was lust-proof.

Either I was being professional, or I was known to be attached and therefore off limits, or I didn’t notice flirting because I didn’t believe anyone would do that in my direction, plus I’m pretty careful about not being creepy towards women. We’re talking here about someone who, despite having spent a considerable number of Friday and Saturday nights in Soho with work colleagues, only ever got cruised once by a guy, and never got flirted at by a woman (or so I thought). I had no idea what I’d do about it if I did end up with anyone else, having only slept with two people, so I figured I’d be a hopelessly inexperienced disappointment, and I’d wrongly assumed that middle-aged balding fat guys are not on anyone’s radar anyway.

What actually changed my view, the proverbial smack upside the head, was a friend from Twitter. At one point I let on that I have a bit of a Twitter crush on her. For me, this is about as suggestive as I ever got, and has only happened once. It was not mentioned again. This friend is relatively local, so when one of us suggested meeting up for coffee on a day neither of us was working, it seemed like a good idea and we did exactly that. Had coffee, chatted about various stuff, then went our platonic ways, no flirting whatsoever that I could detect. We did that again some weeks later. Great, a new friend, someone who’s happy to spend time drinking coffee and eating cake. I’m good with that! No subtext, no expectations, just coffee with a friend: I get coffee and people time, I’m happy.

After a third meet up, we arranged a road trip. I had a workplace to visit not far from where she had a date, so we agreed I’d drive up and she could have a lift. The date got cancelled while we were on the way, so we ended up in a shared hotel room, waiting for the next morning where I could finish off my work and then we could drive back. We were well-behaved, wearing pyjamas, and chatting away happily at about midnight. She asked if I’d wondered what might happen, since we had ended up spending the night together – had I decided on what I’d do or not do? My answer was that I didn’t really know, and thought I’d find out if it happened.

Her response to me was to flat out tell me she’d fancied the arse off me since that first coffee, and ask if it would be OK if she sucked my cock.

It seems that my flirt-obliviousness was pretty serious, having missed that. I agreed, and my friend started a very enthusiastic blowjob. I can still recall that moment of realisation that not only was she doing that, but getting off on doing it and was getting what she wanted from it. It didn’t really fit into my head that someone actually wanted to give me a blowjob, but it’s very hard to have doubts when someone is trying to cram your entire dick into their mouth at once. With those doubts dispelled by the massive wave of horn, I embraced the opportunity in front of me, and the rest of the night was the most intense, messy, lust-fuelled fucking I’ve ever had a part in, including new things like being begged to fuck her, and me eventually begging her to stop because I had work in a few hours and needed sleep.

What I’m going through now is the emotional rush of having someone that likes me not just as a friend for the first time in 25 years. It’s very, very powerful, and makes my last 25 years feel like a shadow of what sex can be. Like when you change out the two broken light bulbs in the same room, find the switch for the other lights you’d assumed were broken, and then realise just how dim it was in there.

This new light has illuminated places in me I had never known, never explored. It means I make certain people feel good just by me existing near them. Long-dormant kinks may get revisited, especially when I know somebody else will like them more because it’s me doing it. A small and shrinking part of me still finds it odd, but I am not going to break the spell by listening to it.

I’m told that being objectified for a bit might do me some good. It certainly makes me smile knowing that I can actually be sexy. It’s fair to say that being fancied has changed me from being flirt-oblivious too: I may not be good at flirting, but I’m seeing it more. Now that I can believe it happens to me, I can even see that it’s directed at me on occasion.

Little things like noticing eye contact from someone so often I briefly wonder if I’ve got something on my face, or seeing someone smiling and copying my body language when we’re talking. I’m not dressing differently, but I’m behaving a little differently. From social media engagement to having the confidence to be photographed less than fully clothed, there are a dozen small, incremental changes. I’m still not going to be anything other than a tubby middle-aged guy, but now I know that can be an intensely sexy thing for some people, I’m learning to appreciate it as much as they do.