I Wanted to F*ck Some Hot Young Queers. I Ended Up Having Sex With an Old, Straight Dom Instead.

It’s embarrassing to admit, but damn, it was incredible.

Illustration by Spunk Rock

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It’s a week after our umpteenth wedding anniversary, and my hubby has sanctioned a return to the world of online dating. He’s a tasty vanilla malt, but I’m thirsty for some young kinksters again, with spicy ideas and different anatomy. My app game may be rusty, but I’m no stranger: I spent much of my 20s and 30s attending BDSM conventions, wrapping lips and pussy around flesh and silicone, and negotiating hot, giggly, terrifying scenes with gorgeous specimens of all sorts. I sucked and served and sexted like mad, and then I birthed two humans and moved thousands of miles away. Now, home is a Southwestern city whose “scene” is a bunch of creeps going bowling. So online it is.

A single mom friend, fellow 40-something slut and NYC transplant, shares a kinky dating app, where the sexual honesty and depth of profiles is a welcome surprise. I think about how to portray myself as the wacky, busy, horny being I’ve become, and how to appeal to the freewheeling Zennials. I’m working out these days, feeling MILFy, a decent-looking nerd seeking sexy conversation and creative daytime hookups. Do you want to co-design a nooner involving breath play? Hold rope practice in your Jeep in a windy parking lot? Scare me with sharps and a tentacle dildo before school pickup? Yes, please; I’ll bring the Hitachi.

I whip up a profile and salivate at the menu of eclectic, many-gendered humans, imagining the weird fun we could plan in this desert. I start to touch myself while perusing these energetic bios, dancers and artists, and grad students with clever handles and rainbow armpit hair. But unearthing this part of myself also stirs up an old fear: am I “queer enough” for this wondrous array of young folk? Despite my fascination with their varying pronouns and playful confidence and juicy bods, I can’t bring myself to give anyone a “heart.”

So I gaze longingly, then linger instead on these same-aged, cis, het, white dudes with graying, unkempt beards. They are scaling canyons and tumbling around with their pit bulls, soaking in hot springs and calling themselves “pleasure doms.” For all my years of wild experience and forced vibrator orgasms, no one has ever made me come with their mouth or fingers. I find accepting pleasure to be far more vulnerable than being called a worthless cunt while someone spits in my face and shoves their strap-on in my holes. I’m oddly attracted to the idea that some childless milquetoast bro wants to take charge simply by making me moan.

J is one of the first men I message, and we are immediately and desperately forward. We both shoot pool and share a love of violent blow jobs. Neither of us can host, but the sexts are sizzling. J tells me he jerks off at least twice a day looking at videos of old lovers; I confess that I make and consume hours of Tumblr audio porn. He requests “classic tit pics,” I oblige. I receive back shots of a huge, stick-straight dick that mushrooms gorgeously and blooms from a nest of gray curls. It lies all the way across his left hip when straining inside boxer briefs. “Fuck, I want that in my mouth,” I say.

J is down. We keep up our fast-paced overshare, finally meeting at a sketchy pool hall where he carries his own cues and creams me every game. Eyeing someone from behind while they bend and caress that green felt is pure voyeurism; I’m wet with ball-in-hand innuendoes and watching him slide the cue between the tight circle of his thumb and forefinger. I give him eyes and bra lace over every shot, and he squeezes my thigh as we drink beer on high stools, the backdrop of clicking and cursing a sexy ASMR. “Do you want to head out?” I ask coyly. I don’t know why I’m being coy. We have already planned to fuck around in his car before our curfews.

He’s parked in a far corner of the lot, and we start in the front seat, kissing and pretending we’re not about to be pantsless on the dog blanket back there. When we relocate, I straddle him and he pulls my hair until my eyes water. I lick his ears and neck while he moans over and over, “Oh, fuck, baby,” like I’m the high school girlfriend he still jerks to after 35 years, who wouldn’t touch his dick but gave him goosebumps with her tongue at his jaw. I strip off my loose black v-neck, he pulls the lace aside to suck on my nipples, and lord, he knows what he’s doing. I swear I could come with no contact if someone had the patience to slurp at my tits long enough.