4 min read

TS/CD seeks Suburban DILF

This was originally published on October 8, 2022 back when this newsletter was on Tinyletter. It's quick, rough, and perhaps in need of an edit. I hope you enjoy it in its full, messy glory.

I announced to my boyfriend a couple weeks ago that I was through with one-night stands. Dick-on-demand was not cutting it anymore. I’d had so many dud encounters – things that left me wanting more and feeling hungry and sad. I told my tour mates on Sister Spit that horniness was like a hunger that didn’t go away when you fed it. In fact, it got worse. But now I'm wondering if that’s actually true. When I think about sex with eli, it’s always been satisfying – whether it’s one of our 20 minute affairs or one of our longer encounters. I never leave those moments with him hungry or desperate for more.

Maybe it’s just that these one-night stands have gotten boring. When I was younger there was a thrill with every encounter. Probably because I snuck away to all of them. They had this element of fantasy, trope, and excitement built in. There was the dad who invited me over to suck his cock in the combination play room-computer room when his girlfriend was at work and his daughter at day care. I’m quite sure it was not one of those ethical non-monogamous encounters we like to have these days, but look I was really not in any position to question the morality of all that. I was especially feral, unpartnered, and maybe a little bit of a sex addict. I cut class from the community college just to touch his dick, driving in the opposite direction to a completely different neighborhood from school just to fuck him. I lied about where I was, when I’d be home. I understood his morally questionable sex drive.

There was the pilot who flew a private jet for some anonymous millionaire and stayed at the West Gate right off the Strip when he had a layover in the city and his patron wanted to gamble. He’d invite me over so he could penetrate me on all fours while I looked at the skyline through the large window by his hotel bed.

There was also the cyclist-obsessed solar panel salesman I’d meet up with at public bathrooms around the outdoor mall by my house so we could have silent, feral intercourse in the stall.

I loved having these secret rendezvous with these arch characters in seedy locales. All of the encounters had this max-volume hyper-reality texture of porn. It wasn’t like I was just sleeping with some rando I found on Tinder or Grindr, but something with like, narrative! I got to be someone important in some important situation and not only that but I got to be fucked at some point during the story!

Maybe this is why people used to take other people on dates before they came over for their NSA sex . It makes things feel cinematic or literary or something when your night starts out inside someone’s shiny black sedan or when you're wined and dined at a beautiful restaurant and you feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman or at the very least like a beautiful pig getting stuffed on acorns before getting slaughtered. I’m talking about a full body experience here – something mind and soul. All of these dudes were decent in the sack, but what I remember most was that they’d enthralled all of my senses. The sexwould start before I even met them, with a story on Craigslist. Something like “I’m a single horny dad in the suburbs and I’m looking for a twink or a crossdresser to satisfy my urge while the wife’s away.” It’s fun to play a character – who doesn’t want to be the slutty crossdressing twink next door when it’s a freaking sexy dilf on the line?

I’m a slightly more experienced sex-haver now who doesn’t have to sneak away from my dad or cut class to sneak a fuck in. Maybe that's why the regular hook ups don’t feel as fun as they used to. Like, where are all the easily accessible horny pilves (parents I’d like to fuck)? I want to cruise at a park and try to guess which men in little running shorts are into me and which of them are just corny dads in tiny running shorts. I want to feel the way I did the first time I felt the pang, the phantom of gender-affirmation when a man calls me "baby" while he’s in me. I want to sit pretty in a luxurious bar and be approached by a beautiful woman in a suit and courted gentlemanly like a lady in an Austen novel then get slammed in her bedroom like an episode of Bridgerton.

Is it so much to find someone to establish a sex-first relationship with but move beyond the calendar coordinating and dry direct messages? I want to live in that obsession of mutual desire, affection where the psychic storm between two minds is creating a lusty fantasy and every conversation drips with seduction.

Sex doesn’t have to begin and end with a kiss and a cum. It can begin at first glance at hello! Its not over when your insides are flooded or when someone screams with pleasure. It can continue into the laughter after the orgasm into the conversation that you have once your brains are temporarily clear of that hedonistic fog of lust, to dinner and breakfast and lunch. So many people give up before I’m satisfied. Leave it at the couch, in the condom. Always the foreplay never the after care. It’s like these people have never thought about the narrative structure of a good story. I can’t truly be a sex addict under these dire conditions. Just because I want more more more more more more more and I don’t want it all to end right in the middle, right when it’s getting exciting.