hamish

footstool

I recently went on a first name with a guy called Hamish.

He was brunette and a bit chubby, but he had a bit of a handsome jolly dad-bod vibe about him, that I didn’t hate.

He worked in IT, but not the boring kind, the kind where they’re creating new systems for multi billion dollar companies and travelling the world to work on them. I liked the whole, I work for myself and I’m my own boss, but i don’t wear a suit, or say pretentious things, causal kinda attitude he seemed to have.

We met up at this cool gin bar in the city and we have a taste testing tray of different types of gin. I didn’t really taste the difference. They all just kind of tasted like poison without a mixer. But I sipped them politely and nodded along as he talked about ‘really being able to taste the woody elements’. Blargh.

But such a great first date.

He was charming and nice and friendly.

Eventually I decided after about six tastes of this nail-polish-like gin, that I was going to have sex with him.

Sometimes you just get that urge, where you feel confident, you’re not looking for validation, you just want to screw someone and have fun.  We went back to his apartment. Very minimal, ugly glass Ikea kind of stuff. All put together one weekend three years ago and never changed.

He offered me another drink. Gin. Oh joy!

He handed me my drink and then, this is no joke, got down on his hands and knees in front of me and asked me to ‘use him as a foot rest’. FOR REAL.

It turns out that Hamish was really into inanimate object sexual gratification.

It stems, allegedly, from sexual submission. But he enjoys the aspect of being in the room and the only contact to be that of what you would do to a piece of furniture.

He actually didn’t want to have sex. He just wanted me to use him as a footstool; with full pressure might I add. It made it ‘more realistic’.

Apparently the guy also dabbled in being a table or actually having his sexual partners use him as a bed. To lay on top of him. Zero thrusting, not bits touching. Just the weight of another person on top of him.

I don’t know what kind of gratification you can get from having someone rest their feel on you, or lay on you, or pop their drink on you. He said it was especially arousing when the drink was very or or very cold as he could feel it on his back. So no coffee ring stains on his furniture, they’re all on his shirts.

Although his offer was very kind, I politely declined and left really fast. Seriously fast. I kind ran skipped to the lift and pushed the button around 95 times.

The only consolation I could give myself, was that he hadn’t asked me to be a piece of furniture.

Another one bites the dust.

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