Diary of a s*x Addict

December 9-4

The place smells like bleach. Though I imagine hair bleach is different from getting-the-sheets white Clorox bleach, the scent takes me for a split second to my mother, doing laundry on a hot summer day, lugging those heavy damp sheets from the washer to our clothes line in the back yard. I used to lie on the lawn and watch her hoisting yards of wet cotton, looking all sturdy and determined, both fierce and sad.

I’m not really off to a sexy start.

I think his name is Claude, not ‘F’ which is what he told me on Grindr. ‘Claude’s’ is stenciled on the door of this chic little East Village hair salon. He said that he owned the place in his final text, so I step in and say “Hi Claude” and he looks at me like I just shoved a steak knife up his ass.

I wonder if I should have said ‘Yo fuckah’ since there are no clients. That’s when the tiny dog starts yapping. I’m several feet away but I think Claude is sweating. His mouth is tight in anger and he reels on the dog, an Italian Miniature Greyhound I think. With his back to me Claude grabs the dog off of the ground by the collar and literally throws him into a back room.

This actually turns me on, this man-handling of the dog. Claude may have promise as a total asshole capable of really mean, hot, mindless s*x. I begin to get aroused. As Claude draws close I notice a line of tiny ant tattoos crawling up his right arm. Behind him, two huge photos of a 1970s Jane Fonda hang on the wall near three chrome hair dryers and a really nice high-tech black sink with a funky looking pink hose.

Claude comes straight up to me and puts his hands on my chest and smiles. His teeth are grey which is an absolute turn-off. If I’m going to give this a thumbs down, I have to do it now. I can mutter, “not a match man”, or “sorry dude” or something. But as is very often the case, I feel myself slipping toward an irritating depression thinking this was a waste of time and how can I get through the work day and another awful women’s group without getting off? So I roughly grab his crotch and feel his erection and it’s large. I shut my eyes and go to kiss him but he’s turned his head so I kiss air, and taste bleach. The dog is yapping loudly.

Claude steps away to turn up the music, Kelly Clarkson, who I like but not for s*x. He takes his pants and underwear off and waves me over. I get on my knees, but am a few feet away, so have to awkwardly crawl to his c**k, realizing he has a silver ring piercing the skin below his head which makes me gag. But again, I’m so far into it I shut my eyes and start to suck this thing, and very, very quickly, as the dog yaps louder, I jack myself off to orgasm.

I’ve become pretty good at the super quick jack off, for collapsing cases like this. The orgasm momentarily softens the sting of a dreary hook-up.

Claude has barely begun his pleasure build. He steps back, frowning in disbelief, staring at my pool of c*m on the shiny tile floor. The dog keeps barking.

“Why didn’t you give me a heads up you were ready, dude?”

I stand and zip up and turn away, thinking Claude is too old to use the term dude.

“It’s been a really long time. Sorry. You’re hot man,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, which is little.

I don’t turn back, just move swiftly toward the salon’s front door as Claude screams brutal threats at the dog. As I shut the door behind me, I hear the sound of a fist slapping dog ass. Walking back to work, I imagine myself f*****g a Great Dane with wild abandon. I find this too kinky even for me.

Back at my desk, I block Claude’s profile on my Grindr account.