Making the Cut

This from Meriam Webster:

Stable

1: a building in which domestic animals are sheltered and fed; especially such a building having stalls or compartments. 2: a group of people under one management. 3: the subjects of one owner 4: a group; collection.

My friend Christa calls the men I fuck more than once my "stable". The conceit is funny...I picture myself entering a small building where there are gated stalls in which a group of naked men are chained to wooden stakes. I walk up and down the aisle in front of the stalls, examining each one closely: their height and weight, the size of their cocks, the color of their eyes and length of their hair. I try to decide which one I will allow to service me. Hmmm...what am I in the mood for today? Finally, I choose. I open the stall of my victim, unchain him and lead him into my bedroom, where he fucks me until I have cum a sufficient number of times (determined by me, of course).

Nice fantasy, right? The truth is, however, that the number of men in my stable is probably not as many as you'd think. It's not their choice; it's mine. Usually after I fuck a guy once, I will let him know before he leaves if I want to fuck him again. There are certain deal breakers...

Everyone has them. They can be physical traits; mannerisms; behaviors; the way someone communicates (or doesn't). And so on. Deal breakers rule out a potential fuckbuddy. Some deal breakers are readily apparent: an annoying laugh, a propensity for frequent jerk-off camming. Others aren't. They're the tricky ones.

For me, kissing is a total, absolute, without-a-doubt deal breaker. And it's perhaps the trickiest of the tricky, because you actually have to meet with the hypothetical kissee. In person. And you have to interact a bit, because you don't just start snogging after saying hi. You have to make an investment. Of time. You have to shower, pick out clothes, make sure you have condoms, clean up a bit. Then spend a little time chatting with the person to see whether or not there is any chemistry. Then...the moment of reckoning...

I have been extremely lucky, I think, in that the majority of men I have met in my life have been amazing kissers (you know who you are). Of course, defining what makes a kiss amazing is totally subjective. For me, amazing kisses are warm and soft, hot and juicy, passionate and teeth knocking and a hundred other undefinable things. The are also NOT certain things.

One guy I dated passed the Tango Test (meets my physical requirements; can converse somewhat intelligently and with whom I either have chemistry, or feel the potential for having chemistry) and was allowed into my lair after some OK preliminary get-to-know-you kissing. I climbed on top of him and planted one on...and almost gagged. He stuck his tongue in my mouth...and...just...left it there. Like a cold dead fish. A disgusting cold dead fish in my mouth. He was out the door before he could take out a condom. Poor fellow, he had driven an hour to my house to get laid. See what I mean about tricky?

More recently, I met a guy who wasn't a terrible kisser...but his kisses were all the same: mouth closed and polite. And that's OK; some guys are nervous upon first meeting someone. I just figured once we started fucking, he'd mix things up a bit. Well, guess what? Didn't happen. It totally threw me off; his fucking was passionate but his kissing was totally tame. And all I could think about was why he would put his cock in my pussy but not his tongue in my mouth? I mean, what the hell was up with that?

So, not many make the cut. There are not a lot of repeaters. "How about the ones that you don't want to see again but want to see you?" asked my fuckbuddy the Professor. "The ones that don't take no for an answer. I would imagine that there are men four deep in your yard on Saturday night, bearing flowers, wine, chocolate and sex toys!"

Actually, it's only three deep. But, unlike Rapunzel, I don't throw down my hair for everyone. There has been many a night where I'm alone with a book and a glass of wine, although by my choice. I usually have at least 2 volunteers to keep me company on any given night, but there comes a point when quality starts to matter more than quantity (it's those damn deal breakers!). I would certainly rather have a couple of guys who really know how to fuck me good and hard than a plethora who are simply...OK.

"Well," said the Professor, "I'm glad I made the cut." "And how do you know you made the cut" I asked. "For one thing" answered the Professor, "you haven't asked me to call you back only on your 900 number at $3.99 a minute. And you haven't corrected my spelling or written any phonetically spelled messages in ALL CAPS...and...hmmm...now I'm glad I didn't write you the following line, which I had initially thought of: Wud luv to slobber on u 2nite while I watch NASCAR and rest my Bud Light on yer hed!"

See why I keep the Professor around? But my point is that just because I allow someone from my stable into my bed doesn't mean he has a free lifetime pass to Tango-La. He has to continue to earn it: to kiss me until I swoon, to touch me until I shake, to lick me until I scream, and to fuck me until I cum...each and every time.

Sound hard ass? Maybe so...but believe me...I'm worth it.