Last time was emblematic of why we are sexually perfect for each other despite not being attracted to each other: We are co-conspirators.
I called him late at night and he got the point. It was mutually understood that we would pull an Andy Greustein and not talk before we fucked. After all, I had been waiting around for him all night, distracting myself from getting off. We made out and it was hot as per our dynamic where he holds me down but I’m not scared because I trust him, because we are both sexual absurdities—sexual narcissists engaging in a balancing act between vanity and pragmatism. Our fucks are proof that we are mature—mature enough to let our bodies prevail in the battle against enormous egos.
I bent under my bed to reach for a condom and he stopped me abruptly: “Can we try something new?” Why, of course. He reached for a bag and it hadn’t occurred to me that something new could involve an object—a prop. As he unsheathed it he began a story, the kind of story that starts with “My friend…” and ends with something he is secretly into, except it was really about a friend and the surprise was just another box of condoms.
They are the new Skyn non-latex condoms. They are made out of polyisoprene. I happen to know all about them because I am a huge sexual health dork and just printed out a spreadsheet with all the different condom materials approved in various countries that are way more politically advanced than the US. I figure we must have a latex lobby and that is why we are so behind. I ponder what latex lobbyists would wear to a meeting with Congress. I suppose they dissuade the FDA from approving of new materials with their power of sexiness. No wonder the government has its summer recess: The latex lobbyists could never survive the heat.
I interrupted him to clarify that we were, in fact, having storytime as a prelude to sex. A nice interlude like taking out a guitar and breaking into song by a campfire. Our sexual encounters were pretty clumsy and routine anyway, so storytime was a welcome distraction. His story ended in “My friend swears by these.”
Okay, so condoms that you can actually feel the other person through. What a novel invention. I was skeptical but it seemed at least as good as our other option. I made a mental note to smell them. But then I forgot. I’m not sure if it was just the placebo effect, but he came substantially quicker. Which is good because normally our sex is boring and is exciting for a minute or two but gets old quickly when I realize it is uncoordinated and we aren’t attracted to each other enough to care. He apologized for coming quickly but I shrugged it off and we worked on me. Anyway, hot to see someone in such fervor.
I finished for the night and had already gotten off once before he came over, but as the night winded down and we ended up in bed to go to sleep together, he started groping me again. That’s why I like him: Because I like being groped, and he likes groping, and we have no problem admitting that this is what we like. We’re not above it. And that’s what makes us superhuman. Because we actually act like people and aren’t too good to acknowledge that we are animals and just want to be touched and like naked bodies and rubbing up against them even if we don’t particularly like them. So awesome.
It was a spoony finger and fuck, and it was almost as romantic and clumsy as relationship sex where you can fumble with each other’s bodies mindlessly as if they are your own. I remembered how much I miss having an entreating cock pressed up against my back, rubbing my asshole, parting my lips.
I was turned on again, although tired. We fucked and it became boring and I realized that I was half asleep and wanted to go to sleep, if only I hadn’t ruined my state of being good for sleep. We had a pristine communication where I offered myself unambiguously: “How do you want me?” And he replied incisively: “You want me to wrap this up?”
If you want to put it that way. So he held me down with that crazed, feverish look in his eyes, which is why I love him, and in less than a minute he collapsed into a limp heap of man musk. The expedient way to put it would be: And with a few emphatic thrusts, he was done. A sexual narcissist, he smugly connoted his victory by pronouncing: “I know myself so well.” Confirmed.
The directness was too much for me to handle. I throbbed for more. His self-satisfaction was met with my sheepish announcement that I didn’t know if I would be able to go to sleep without getting off. Fuck, he got me where he wanted me. In that awful place where I was too horny to go to sleep but too tired to get off. I was dependant on him, a slave to my own body.
In a joint-effort extravaganza, we—I, he, and my box full of sex toys—tried to get me off. Exhausted and depleted, after a few minutes I threatened resignation: “I don’t know if I can. I might just be making myself sorer and sorer. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get off. Now is the time when you talk me down.”
I hate defeat and he knows this. He whispered devilishly, seductively: “But you’ll have trouble falling asleep.” Fuck you, temptress. Bad influence. SEXUAL ENABLER. Plotting my scheming, ego-laden self against my best instinct—the impulse to pass out and cut my loses.
It took two vibrators at once, and it was a success if you could call it that. I knocked myself out.