The cab ride home was disappointing. As we waited for the cab, I had to go out of my way to to lean on him so he would take the hint and wrap his arm around me. It wasn’t that I cared about the cold–it was too cold for that to make any difference–it’s just that if we’re going to go home and fuck we should make some physical contact first and maybe even pretend that we’re interested. The actual cab ride was the same. He was virtually unresponsive to my hand groping, which tentatively progressed into leg groping, as he explained the virtues of Conan or the cons of Jay or the segments in Jimmy or whatever poignant and insightful things he had to say about whatever heady late-night shows he is an expert on (he was tactful or tactical enough to avoid the topic of Bill Maher entirely). He should have shut up and let me grope him, but I guess if I had already suffered through an hour or so of conversation, what was another fifteen minutes. On the way out, he got into some dispute with the cabdriver about how he wanted to pay with a credit card but the cabdriver switched it to the cash screen too quickly. I wanted to be like, “Shut up and let me pay with cash before I lose interest in fucking you,” but I refrained.
I straddled him on my lawn furniture–seriously, that’s what my apartment is furnished with–and, as I inhaled his face, I became cognizant of the fact that his cologne and cigarette fragrance now had undertones of mint! Top five signs of a d-bag: 1) cologne, 2) mint, 3) hair gel, 4) puffy jacket, 5) acid-washed, designer jeans. He was four for five. Oh Chaz, how it turns me on to run my hands through your plasticy hair, like I am groping a doll with whom I am playing. Well, the experience was a game of sorts; I was just going through the motions. The thing about going through the motions is, no matter how detestable the guy and no matter how slight your ability or motivation to take him seriously, once your bodies start rubbing, you will get turned on. It’s, um, science!
He suggests that we take it to my bedroom. Before I even get his clothes off, I realize that there is something weird about his body. His skin moves around with his clothes. It isn’t attached like most people’s skin is attached. It is like the first time you play with a penis, how you are weirded-out by how far you can pull the skin and that it isn’t affixed like arm skin or whatever. He was doughy, but not fat. Perhaps he had been fat in the past. I wasn’t sure how it would feel against my body. His face–his eyebrows, I mean–I could get over. All I had to do was close my eyes. But close my eyes and I could feel his weird, doughy, girl body rubbing up against me, stretching with the friction. I’m just being mean. But, seriously, I was confused by the detached-skin thing.
His cock is nice, the only thing I like about him, really, besides the fact that he is easy and willing to play along with my game. He believes that I am just a dumb slut and, therefore, I own him a little more. The sex is pretty good for drunken sex except it lasts too long, which is probably how all drunken sex goes. He is maybe even a little too big for me and it starts to hurt. I am plenty wet; he is just too big. I was ready to ask if I could finish him off with my mouth, but he gets up and says he has to pee and on his way to the bathroom he says something about disposing of his cummy condom. I didn’t think he had cum, but why would he make this up and then continue fucking me when he got back? I heard him pee and I was shocked at how immediately and solidly hard he was again upon reentering my room. At this point I was kind of done with the sex, but put the effort in a little longer. The thing about sex is, once you start losing interest, your vagina starts shrinking; his oversized cock was hurting me more and more as time went on. Since he had already gotten off, I figured he was mostly fucking me for my benefit, and why continue if it is becoming tortuous? Either way, it hurts and we need to change what we are doing, not just our positions. In situations like this I feel like half of the torture is perpetuated by lack of communication or lack of willingness to communicate with a partner you don’t really know. People are embarrassed and want to be seen as good and cooperative partners. Pluralistic ignorance is fostered and that is detrimental to everyone.
I’m still aroused enough so that the situation is salvageable. But I need help. I timidly ask him if it is okay if I use my vibrator while he fucks me. I make it sound like I am a little uncomfortable even asking. I am too drunk to be uncomfortable and care too little what he thinks about me. He says, yeah, whatever. Seems relatively unfazed, or maybe I just care too little about the situation to sense a reaction. I lean over, under my bed, to pull out my sex toy drawer and he does seem a little surprised that I am going through with it, even though why would I suffer the purported embarrassment of asking if I didn’t actually intend to play with my vibrator. The situation was only exacerbated with a drunken blooper–caused by lack-of-coordination in combination with night-vision–in which I had to dump out (“empty out” carries too graceful of a connotation to be descriptive of the action) the entire contents of my sex toy drawer, one-by-one, before locating my miniscule vibrator. He’s already seen me naked; he might as well see the things I put inside myself. I think it is the number of dildos more than the dildos themselves that is notable. Besides, his dick is big, too big, and my dildos are small.
I reposition myself doggy style and thrust a few times to get back into the swing of things. When I turn my vibrator on, the volume alarms even me. Partially because I am drunk, so everything loud is a little louder (your reaction time is down, and when a stimulus kicks in, it really kicks in). Partially because I just put new batteries in it and I’m not sure what is up with these batteries, but they rattle around a lot inside it, while somehow failing to make it vibrate any more. Partially because I am too drunk or too lazy to take my clit ring out, despite the fact that it is impossible to do a good job with the combination, and vibrator+metal=noise, lots of it. That sounds like some kind of music formula. Chaz moves suddenly and lets out a vocal noise signaling distress, disapproval, or general disarray. I look back at him and to inquire about what is up, not letting up, as things are picking up for me again, and he blurts out, “I feel like I am fucking a cripple.” Who says that?!? I pull him out of me immediately, flip over, and stare straight at him. I am disgusted! Even more so then when we started. At this point I don’t even care. I am done with this shit. Unfortunately, I got reinterested during the few reintroduction thrusts. Whereas it would have only taken two minutes before, I’m now down to a minute and half.
I reason with him. I don’t waste time. I say, “If you really can’t handle the noise, you don’t have to be involved. This won’t take long.” Something to that effect. I think I am doing him a favor. And I continue getting myself off before the situations worsens. Too late. Thirty seconds in, he hems and haws then goes in for the kill; “Okay, well, you can keep doing that, you know, if you want, and finish yourself off, or whatever, I guess. But I feel like you are Michael J Fox hooked up to all of his machines.” Wtf!?! The situation is officially fucking over. I turn my vibrator off. Silence. Stare of death. Directness. “Look, this isn’t fun for me. I think I am just going to go to sleep.” Read: Please leave so I can get myself off. I hid under my covers and refused to look up at him. That, in combination with what I had said, was his cue to leave.
He got the point and got dressed, outerwear included, but it was taking too long and I was getting annoyed. He tried to make conversation about underwear. If you are going to be unhelpful about getting someone off, obviously the courteous thing to do is leave promptly. The underwear conversation would have been cute as foreplay, maybe even in the cab ride over, but he was using it to stall and I wanted him to fucking leave me alone so I could masturbate in peace. He asked why girls even bother with underwear, after all, “They have nothing down there.” Our fundamental difference in opinion, indicative of our fundamental incompatibility.
I acted dismissive and disgusted; I wasn’t acting. In his final, feeble attempt to make good, he lies in bed next to my naked-and-ready body and is like, “Genie, will you spoon me?” Ew, gross. I don’t want to cuddle with him; I want to get off! What part of this doesn’t he understand? Does he think that because I’m a girl I don’t know the difference? I do, and it lies in the difference between oxytocin and testosterone. Oxytocin is released during orgasm and makes you want to cuddle afterwards. Testosterone is released throughout sex and makes you want to fuck, fuck until you get off, or FUCKING PUNCH THINGS. His stalling was making me lean toward the latter. So I say, “No.” Instead of heeding my rejection and making a mental note that I fucking despise him, he ups it a notch and tries to be even cuter; “Why not? You can be big spoon.” Vomit. He was missing something with his pea-sized brain and deflated penis, and I was in no mood to play. I had no choice but to be abundantly clear; “Look, I really just want to get off and go to sleep and you aren’t being conducive to that.” INDEFENSEOFGETTINGOFF. It was the most impertinent and methodical way in which I could state the obvious. Moreover, it proved to be extremely effectual; it got rid of him–finally! I couldn’t have stood to spend a night with him.
On his way out, he said two things, one which left me confused. The first one was, “Great organizational skills,” which I’m pretty sure was in reference to my inability to use a hamper. The second one was, “Say hello to Hector for me.” Who is Hector? I don’t know anyone named Hector. We don’t know anyone named Hector. Is this a reference to some fratty and vile series of porn like Bang Bus?
Thank god the worst sexual experiences make the best stories. I was pleased to get a good line out of the night, a Genie classic, as in no other girl would have the gall to say that. And what could be more in the spirit of indefenseofgettingoff than, “Look, I really just want to get off and go to sleep and you aren’t being conducive to that.” I can’t say he didn’t deserve it. I hope I made him feel like a penis attached to a set of legs.