Suzanne Portnoy

I’m not a psychic but one of the repercussions of sleeping and knowing many men is the ability to read types. Tonight I went for a drink with a guy that I would classify as an online player. He was recognisable by his suave appearance and by the fact that within five minutes of sitting down with me he tried to get his tongue down my throat. Being the demure type, I quickly removed it, informing him that such behaviour should be best saved for the end of the evening if at all. He was not insistent but persistent, said very little, letting me drive the conversation. Online players are good at listening. They pretend to listen but really are checking the clock, wondering how long it will be before they get to shove their penis in a nice, warm place. It’s all an act really but being that I’m more open and honest than most it never takes them long to open up to me. Within ten minutes I had worked out that Mr. Commitment was in reality Mr. Commitment-phobe.

In my date’s case, within fifteen minutes I had ascertained that he had met a woman on Thursday and bonked her that night. ‘In fact,’ he announced, ‘I usually bonk women on the first date.’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘That won’t be happening tonight. I have two kids at home and they don’t really like it when I bring home one night stands.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘How disappointing,’ and then proceeded to try and shove his tongue down my throat again.

‘In fact,’ I said. ‘If you’re looking for a one night stand, you’ve got the wrong girl. I have enough fuck buddies to keep me quite satisfied. The current vacancy is for a companion and boyfriend-type whom might want to hang out at my house from time to time and do a bit of travelling.’

He seemed deflated, as if he had come out on a Tuesday night for a bonk and now realised that his victim was looking for a boyfriend or, at the very least, a boyfriend type. Wanting neither, I was surprised that he didn’t stay the standard 60 minutes and go, but then again I can be remarkably good entertainment, especially when there’s nothing on the telly.

Despite all of this, I did let him kiss me at the end of the night for a few seconds before pointing him to the nearest tube station. I laughed all the way home at the obviousness and silliness of it all. Then I thought about my kids who have the ability to see through people almost better than I do myself, vocalising aspects of my friends and lovers’ behaviour that I often don’t see myself. At times this gift of intuition feels more like a curse than a gift. My date sounded quite nice on the phone. Oh well. Guess I won’t be seeing him again. Next.

I’ll be performing at ‘In the Flesh’ tonight, a monthly erotic reading series at the Happy Ending Lounge, Broome Street, NYC. It’s a packed bill tonight and starts at 7.30pm so get there early to guarantee entrance and a good view of my fabulous long, black leather gloves.

Hope to see you there.

X

Someday he’ll come along, The man I love
And he’ll be big and strong, The man I love
And when he comes my way
I’ll do my best to make him stay
Billie Holiday

Despite finding myself single once again on Valentine’s Day, I’m feeling remarkably optimistic about finding true love. I know my guy is out there, he just hasn’t tracked me down yet.

I’m not a box ticker but I often like to imagine the mystery man who is going to sweep me off my feet even though I know he isn’t really the sweep me off my feet type. I reckon my guy may even be someone I already know but may have overlooked or maybe just isn’t available at the moment.

I know for sure that my guy is going to be more reserved than I am, possibly quite discrete but will view my indiscretions as amusing as opposed to threatening. He’s the type of man who won’t mind me going to a swinging club or seeing a few of my fuck buddies because he knows I enjoy that type of thing but frankly would prefer to read a book rather than take his cock out in front of a load of strangers.

In my head my guy is older than me, maybe ten years older, although that would make him almost sixty and that sounds very old to me. But in my head he’s older and much wiser than me and thinks of me as fun and a bit fluffy. I’m the light to his dark, not that he’s gloomy or pessimistic. No, he’s funny and kind, warm and generous and we can talk for hours.

My guy is full of surprises. He has enough money to turn up with a present from time to time or to book a trip away when I am least expecting it. In my head I imagine someone like Paul Arden, an ex-advertising man (from back in the day when advertising was still art), collector and off-the-wall creative who said things like ‘It’s not how good you are, it’s how good you want to be’ and wrote a book trying to explain life in 125 pages. If my guy were a celebrity, he would be Ed Harris.

It’s an absolute certainly that my guy will be creative and probably an entrepreneur although in my head he no longer has to work too hard. I’ve never been good with the 9-5 types. It’s hard for me to know what to say to a salaryman. I’m convinced that self-employed people must have a different brain chemistry to those people who have a pay cheque put into their account every month on the same day.

And he’s passionate. My guy is definitely passionate. When we make love it’s all consuming and deep. My guy would almost certainly take me over the kitchen worktop without a word with his big cock (obviously), thrust his fingers inside me and make me gush, kiss me tenderly.

At the moment my guy has no nationality. I like to think he might be English but based on my track record in the UK, it’s highly probable he might be from somewhere else. I love English men because they’re kinky as hell but why do they have to drink so much?

And he would dress well. My guy would have taste. A sharply tailored suit would be his usual attire just because he liked looking smart. I once had a boyfriend who always wore the same blue/white pin stripe suit and white shirt and I liked that about him.  I imagine my guy as tall and slim and with grey closely cropped hair. Yesterday I went to Rio’s for a few hours and there was such a man sitting in the jacuzzi opposite me. We talked in the steam room and he had the most beautiful voice. I thought he could have been an actor and he said he was 55. Perhaps he was my guy. In any case, we didn’t swap numbers and didn’t speak much.

It doesn’t really matter because I know for certain my guy exists. He just has to find me.