I don’t know why, but it sounds shallow to say that I didn’t sleep with someone because she didn’t know what the term
Libertine meant. I feel it's snobbish, somehow, to set your standard on a single word. However, looking back on the situation... yeah that’s totally why we didn’t bang.
See, I met her through a mutual friend. Now he had some specific things to say about her, because he was kind of a tight-assed misogynist who I think was probably struggling with some issues regarding his own sexuality. That’s neither here nor there, but it’s important to understand that he said she was a slut who’d fuck boys or girls because she didn’t care and she was a slut. Yes, he started and ended the sentence with the slut declaration. Now, if you know me, you know where this is going. I had to meet this person. If this guy I knew was going into full granny pearl clutching mode, I had to meet the person who was causing those pearls to be clutched.
And she was... really good looking. I mean, really cute and had the sort of body that makes a guy in his mid-twenties sit up and take notice. And she had... a habit. She would laugh and lean against whoever was nearest and press herself against them and press her cheek next to theirs and laugh and it was MUTHAFUCKIN’ enticing. She had a certain sexual aggression, which I like, and a confidence of self which I’m also a fan of. Her stated preferences, sexual and otherwise, put check marks in a lot of boxes for me. I'm way into sluts is what I'm saying.
One of the first conversations we had, she was driving and either I mentioned that he had told me about her or she had asked if he had. I can’t remember and I don’t intend to go into the fine details of the memory palace to find out. I could, but what the fuck is the point? The important part of this story is that I admitted he had indeed mentioned her to me.
“He said you were something of a modern day libertine.” I said, she said she studied poetry and literature, so I figured that little softball would be good.
“What does that mean?” She asked, which I judged to be a decent question, because that statement could go multiple ways.
“Well, I’ll admit, those weren’t his exact words. I’m not sure he knows what a libertine is.”
“Well, I don’t know what that is.” she admitted, and I kind of deflated a little.
“He intimated that you were a sexually free individual.” I said, because I had all these two cent words, I’d already paid for them, fuck if they were going to rest on the goddamn shelf!
“Did he call me a slut?” She asked.
“Yeah, that was closer to his terminology.” I said. “And he said you didn’t make distinctions between genders.”
“I’m bi if that’s what he means.”
And that was the first problem, there were others, but that was a problem. I mean... I mean... I mean I’m sitting here on the bench, I’m sitting here on the not getting
Altoid blowjobs bench, because she doesn’t know what a libertine is. And do not think for one moment that was her idea, because telling me she had Altoids and mentioning how amazing they made her blowjobs was very much her idea. Her ideas had to do with me getting peppermint blowjobs as a starter. Then we’d go over to a friend and she would show me exactly how bi she could be.
Looking back as I am now, I should have been all over that. She was hot, into me, and while trying to court me explained that she had absolutely zero limits if only I would make suggestions. She enjoyed the sort of music I liked, she enjoyed the kind of sexual shenanigans I enjoy. And there was no good reason to avoid this, besides having a slight, niggling feeling that to bang her would be a violation of
Rule #2, which I knew better than to ignore. Her habit of sliding her hand down the front of my shirt to run her fingers through my chest hair could have overcome that though, I’m pretty sure.
But she didn’t know what was meant by the term “libertine” and a apparently, that’s my
Rubicon. Or my
Durin’s Bridge if you are of a geekier mindset. Instead, we did nothing. There is more than the one word, she had a certain level of incuriosity about the world. She just wasn't someone I could stoop down to mentally and she wasn't up to climbing my mental tree. As a result, I never laid an indecent hand on her (my right, if you're keeping track) , or even kissed her, because she missed out on basic terms. Had she known what the term meant, I could have been – it’s unsavory to say what (or where) I
could have been, frankly.
So the moral of this story, and there is one, is that frogs should never give rides to scorpions. Or something. I don't know, do what you want.
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