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Even though he was outside of my comfort zone in several key ways, I decided to meet him for coffee. Stretch yourself, I thought before the date. Nothing ventured nothing gained. Try it, you might like it!
In what ways did he differ from my usual potential partner? First of all, he was slightly older. It’s silly I know, but I tend to worry that once they bump up against some arbitrary number, they will lack the required stamina. The arbitrary number varies based on my mood and a host of other intangibles. It makes no sense. Don’t lecture me.
Also, the tone of his skin was several shades darker than my own goth-girl ghostliness. I’d never before so much as gone for coffee with someone whose skin was that vastly different from mine. I have no reasonable explanation for this, and dammit, it seemed like high time to start thinking outside of that particular box of crayons.
But when I shook his hand across the table at my usual coffee dating location, I noted another small detail that was outside of my comfort zone. His teeth. They were just dreadful. It looked as though he’d not had them cleaned for years — or perhaps he’d never had them cleaned. They lurched this way and that like a row of filthy, decrepit houses.
But I soldiered on. We danced over the topics of children and work; eventually old relationships and political affiliations came under discussion. In each and every way, his answers pushed the envelope of what I’d normally find acceptable.
Finally we moved on to more adult topics. He was kinky, nicely kinky. We tentatively poked around in some of our experiences. He seemed right keen on the idea that I enjoyed playing with women.
Given the kinkiness which he’d already disclosed, I asked what to my mind was the next logical question. “Are you a little bit bi too?” I queried.
“Only when I’m high,” he answered. “I tend to fuck trannies in the ass when I’m high. I’m not bi any other time. Just when I’m stoned.”
In light of the many and extensive differences between this man and myself, I declined his very kind invitation to meet with him a second time in a more private location. I hate to feel like I’m stuck within my own little comfort zone, but I have to draw the line somewhere.
So unless someone can show me that there exists a secret society where stoned transsexual assfuckery is the norm — and compelling evidence that I should embrace such society — I’m not going to feel too terrible about turning him down.




