The Married Girl in the Singles Pool

I felt like Mellisa was gaming me as much as I was gaming her: on the surface she seemed like someone who I could go on sexual adventures with, develop with, and grow with. I was let down when I found out she wasn’t the one to do it with, she lacked a growth mindset and dedication to development. Maybe I felt like she was gaming me because I’d found myself in a slump the month prior to meeting her. Writing about a girl always make me feel like her chapter is completed, therefore, I can move on. I find myself thinking about the ones I don’t write about more than the ones I do.

To paraphrase a much iterated observation about writers, some people write because they have something to say, others because they like to put words together. I’d like to be the former far more than I’d like to be the latter. Do I really have something to say about this chick or was she just a bored housewife who gamed me into sliding between her legs as much as I’d gamed her into letting me?

I met her at the pool on Monday. Opened by asking what she thought about the character in the book I was reading. She responded in a polite way that critiqued the characters mindset that also let me know she read. Went on a date with her on Wednesday. My phone blew up with a series of sexy text messages on Thursday. I set a few ping texts on Friday. We cooked together on Saturday. Sunday I’d broken it off, because after enjoying the novelty of screwing her I didn’t enjoy her company enough to keep going.

I’d gone to the pool in my apartment to read after hitting the gym. It was a hot day. Mellisa was visiting one of my neighbors. After a bit at the pool, migrating between the hot tub and the cool water, they placed themselves near me, so I looked up from my book at began to chat with them. Proximity is as assertive women usually get. Mellisa, a black girl who’d just turned 30 and her 28-year-old white friend were looking to engage. They were both slightly overweight, Mellisa less out of shape than her friend, both liked to talk, both had big tits, and both didn’t mind when I inched closer to them in the pool.

I got Mellisa to open up about the books she read. She presented herself as someone who liked to read smart books though she confessed that the most recent book she’d finished was on “an archive of our own.” I laughed at the title when she said it. She told me it was werewolf smut, it’d been her fifth time reading it. I guessed that she must like men who act like dogs. As it turned out she did, but being called out on it, she justified her embarrassing obsession and said the writing was good too. Her friend went into defuse mode. I didn’t mind it much, though the way she did it made me wonder if she was protecting me or her. I minded it less when Melissa faithfully came back with her phone to get my number.

I set up a date with her for Wednesday. She was excited, so was I. It was quick, fun, it felt natural and probably easier with my post-workout endorphin high.

I took her to a bar that’s good for first dates. It’s close, nice, lived in. She seemed like the kind of girl who liked to go out and drink (and stay in and drink.) She probably enjoyed her highs too much and needed to develop an infatuation with natural highs.

She was fashionably late, so I warmed up my conversation skills with the bartenders Sitting face up on the bar was the book I’d brought her, because she wanted to exchange books. I appreciated the suggestion, though I felt like I should have made it. Mine was on psychedelics, hers was some boring adolescent love story. There were misplaced lines in the first few chapters. She had bad taste.

She mentioned casually that she didn’t need to worry about money much, that her family had always been well off. Was it true? The way she said it was unconvincing. What’s more was she didn’t have an upper crust vernacular, had a poor choice in grocery store, and being well off was incongruent with her job history, but she dismissed my subtle challenges by saying that it was different for African Americans. I’d met wealthy African Americans, and there were differences, but she didn’t embody them. I led the conversation with her, though she was calibrating herself to me. I wondered what the reason was and perhaps I’d found it when I got her to admit that she was married to a low-sex drive man. Maybe telling herself she was the benefactor of generational wealth was an escape. Maybe she’d overestimated her family’s status. Red flags at this stage are for girls to attend to, I hadn’t screwed her yet, and so calculations about how her ability to complement my life were for latter on.

Her husband, Hans, gave her a hall pass for these things like this. She identified as polyamorous. That turned me on, because it meant she liked to have lost of sex with lots of people. Maybe she would be down for a three way or could help open the door to swinging with another couple. Besides that it was practical, she had a complete family to pull her attention while I focused on my education and trying to fuck more sluts. Sex-positive leading was key here, since it’s what had gotten her to open up about her husband in the first place. She knew I was open to it. I got to demonstrate my value as a man by having talking with her about the virtues necessary to raise a kid (she had two.) She needed a high number of men to keep her happy and to meet that need she’d developed an adaptable style of girl game. It felt like she acted a bit like a low level salesman. These salesmen still make sales.

I took her back to mine and we screwed. It was easy, I’d found a “yes girl.” True to form, she was down for seemingly everything and was especially interested in some of my dirtier suggestions. She made a lot of noise when she came and liked that the windows were open. Deeply concerned about her value, she wanted everyone to know she was desirable. Having a not-so-horny husband will do that to you, I guess.

I wanted let her know how attracted I was too without overdoing it, which might have made her feel objectified. To avoid this I mirrored her, directly talking about what turned her on about me into something to make her feel sexy.

After, we went to her friend’s place—my neighbor, who she'd visited on Monday. Her friend had some guy there, a sad beta orbiter, the three of them did coke. I said I had to wake up early tomorrow. Her friend got more talkative and the orbiter more ambitious. Having the lowest status job out of all of us I assume he felt pushed to save face. I kept conversation with them, enjoyed watching Mellisa get more observant and precise. Was this her? Was the coke letting out her intellect or was it creating it? Did she think smart men like girls they can feel superior to and was now unheated, it was unlikely.

She had a very high sex drive and the next day I got welcome reminders of that. I’d piqued her interest and she’d piqued mine. If she could hold onto that perceptive, capable, version of herself, she would have had me. I began to think that she saw me as someone who could keep her satisfied and explore with, most importantly she recognized that I could keep up with her in all the areas that mattered to her.

My intension with these texts were to make her feel sexy, desired, and important without sounding like a thirsty instagram creep or using cliches. Also note the salesman talk from her, all men want to feel powerful.

On Friday I sent her a ping text and she told me how turned on she was thinking about what we were going to do the next night. She wanted to cook together. I found some recipe that appealed to her, but with no simple carbs or sugar in them. She got her kid to sleep and then came over. Embarrassed and nervous about confessing it, she told me she smoked weed on the Uber over. She suspected that I might have a problem with it. I calmed her down by telling her that we would have to get more high together (I’d bought some CBD weed a few weeks ago.

I wanted to make her feel accepted. I didn’t want to inspire any paranoia or make her feel uncomfortable.

We cooked. Her capacity for those precise observations was gone. She looked a bit stockier than the last time I saw her, she'd been escaping into high calorie food and weed and alcohol and probably other things, in between our dates. Guilt? A lack of motivation now that she thought she had someone? She let a few things about her life slip. I knew she wasn’t a rich girl or even a clever girl, not at her core.

Just after screwing a girl is a good time to think about if she fits into your life. I thought that Mellisa might, she presented herself as smart, successful, and adventurous. She may have been adventures but the first two she was not. If I was going to let her into my life any further I needed to know she could keep up, work out or at latest diet with me, sharpen her mind, control herself from her vices effectively enough to screw other girls or couples together.

I fucked her that night knowing, because while high in sex drive I knew for certain she lacked the drive to grow, it would be the last time. I got her to climax a bunch with my fingers, slapped her ass until she was yelling, moved her around on my bed into various positions she’d said she’d never tried. The organisms made her pussy tight. I throughly enjoyed screwing her. She tried to fall asleep as I read her some pages from that book she gave me. By gently tickling her I woke her up, reminded her that her family needed her home in the morning, and she was off. I didn’t want her to stay.

Usually I like a girl sleeping next to me, but I felt a bit let down by her. I was flattered that she calibrated that way for me but after seeing the depths to which she’d adjusted I was concerned about her self esteem. Another sign from her that I ought to keep looking.

On Sunday I told her we were done and she thanked me for a thrill ride of emotions that week. She texted me many times after the fact.

Maybe that’s what girls skittish about guys who calibrate too heavily. That they’re low self esteem men who will become obsessed with the poor girl rather than looking for someone else. It’s unfortunate but likely that men just don’t act well enough, in every sense of the word. I’d calibrated to meet her at her level, she’d calibrated ineffectively to meet me at mine.

And thinking about screwing her with the windows open still makes me smile.