Let me just start by saying Pete is a categorically unsexy name, so when he messaged me on snapchat I wasn’t exactly optimistic that he would be hot. I have never been more happy to be wrong in my life. Pete snapped a few pictures of himself to me and I was almost positive he was fake–that’s how hot he was. He said he’d seen me on bumble and wanted to know more and I was happy to tell him anything he wanted to know. Here’s the thing about dating in Los Angeles: people are hot. Beautiful women and men are everywhere, and I am very much aware of where I fall on the LA hotness scale.
Spoiler alert: it’s not high.
You see, back in Texas, I’d say I could be considered a solid 8. It never really occurred to me when I moved out here that number rating would not transfer. Here, in the land of beautiful people, I’m pushing a hard 6 on a good day. I don’t have a flat stomach or fake tits or an ass you can bounce a quarter off of. I probably outweigh all of my female friends here by a good 20 pounds. So when an insanely gorgeous guy with chiseled abs and the face of a slightly fairer skinned 28 year old John Stamos says he wants to go out with me, I’m naturally skeptical he is a. real, and b. into me. But Pete was both.
I first met Pete at a dark lounge bar around the corner from his place in Hollywood. Convenient. Within 5 minutes of meeting this guy I thought “yep, I’m fucking him tonight.” Clearly, Pete thought the same thing. We barely made it through two or three drinks before we had to get out of there. As we’re walking, his hands are all over me and we keep stopping to make out and grope each other. He was aggressive and dominant and it turned me on like crazy as he would push me up against a telephone pole to kiss me while he had a firm fistful of my hair. Pete and I wanted each other so bad and before I knew it I was bent over the hood of a car with my skirt pushed up, one of his hands full of my hair and the other on my waist, right there along the street where he lived. After a couple of cars drove by we decided to head into his building, where we couldn’t help ourselves and we started going at it in the elevator on the way up to his apartment. Once inside, Pete threw me on his bed and wore me out. It was so hot, so animalistic and rough, and after we were done he laid with me and asked me about my life, my family, and genuinely seemed to want to get to know me.
We were both clear with each other that neither of us were looking for anything serious, and I think that’s why this thing with Pete and I worked so well. We could talk about things, and genuinely be friends, but we knew that sex was just sex and that it didn’t mean anything more than that. I saw Pete maybe 5 or 6 more times, stopping by his place for a lunch time quickie when I was in the neighborhood, heading over when I was leaving a bar at 2am, or just for a low key night in, involving lots and lots of rough, sweaty, hot sex. I even stopped by Pete’s place one time on my way to a date with another guy. I felt a little guilty about that one, but when the sex is that good how can I pass it up?
Things cooled off with Pete, and I’m not really even sure why. Our schedules just got busy and it became less logistically easy to meet up, so we just kind of drifted. We’ve matched again on bumble and tinder since then and always make jokes about it, but nothing really ever materializes. Maybe I’ll text Pete tonight and see what he’s up to…