“Lazy” and “useless” would be massive understatements in describing Hipster Dave during our long-awaited, second encounter. He was, more aptly, “stagnant” and “sedentary.” Stoic. Stale. Dead.
Allister unintentionally taught me a winning technique for ensuring the repetition of sex. After the first time we fucked, he ensconced the encounter with a sex follow-up phone call: “I just wanted to tell you I had a greaaat time tonight. Get home safe.”
I thought it was damage control, the implicit way to plead, “We’re cool, right?” The sex had been mediocre at best. But, indeed, we were cool.
Except he followed every encounter with a call just like the first one. Eventually I heeded his lead, realizing it was a foolproof way to link one encounter to the next, to plant continuity before time was punctuated.
Frequently in sexual situations time or hearsay engender the great divide. One-night stands are assumed to be just that and after not calling someone for a while it becomes awkward, insulting, to hit them up out of what could only be assumed to be desperation. That’s why the day after you have to eliminate any ambiguity, let the person know that even if you don’t get back to them right away you are considering them for continued contact. It can be simple and sweet: “I had a great time last night; let’s get together again soon.” more than suffices.
The genesis of the problem is in how people think of sex for sex’s sake. Not to mention the fact that there exists no adequate language to describe nuanced situations. Everyone grasps “one-night stand,” but “two-night stand” is not a popular idiom. Some assume that after a one-night stand their partner doesn’t want to be contacted, doesn’t want to be reminded of their “mistake.” If fucking attractive people casually were a mistake, then I would be a very poorly adjusted person.
Sometimes guys need to be reminded that you are in it for the same thing that they are, that you got what you wanted and want more. There is no universally prescribed limit to the amount of times you can have good sex. Sure, in theory it could be difficult to get back “in the moment,” but being attracted to an attractive person is not a difficult moment to recreate. All it takes is a little social planning and making sure that they are your end-of-the-night so you aren’t stuck with them for the whole night. That and a little pre-booty-call seed planting so when you call them late at night it seems pre-planned, not like round two of mistaken sex.
Also, calling someone late at night without any forewarning is a mistake within itself. Not only does it not secure you sex for the evening, if sex is procured it is likely to be low quality. I like to start contacting potential partners at approximately 9-10 pm if I expect to get fucked. That way it is likely that someone I have contacted will get back to me and whoever gets back to me knows that he is ending up in my bed, which means he can plan his activities accordingly (i.e., won’t drink to the point where sex will be sloppy). I figure people like having a destination set for the end of the night, anyway. A homebase, so to speak.
The first time Dave contacted me after my sex follow-up text message, I thought, “Score!” We texted back and forth every so often for a few months and ultimately we were both too lazy to make much of an effort to see each other. (Okay, so maybe I was too good to travel to Bushwick to get laid). Until one weekend he was persistent and texted me every night. The next weekend I made it happen.
It was Halloween. I made certain to get home before he got to my place so I had ample time to fix myself up, and by fix myself up I mean cleanse myself of my fairy princess costume and get undressed. I answered the door in magenta tights and a turquoise, lacy tank top. There is something so exquisitely exciting about a reunion with a one-night stand. It’s like once you point to a guy in a corner of a bar and take him home with you, he’s yours forever. Because it’s just so much easier to make the same mistake twice.
We engaged in some social pleasantries. I thought after months of not seeing each other, even if it may have been a bit easier to get down immediately, it would have been a little rushed even for me. I kept in mind the whole time that once I was ready I couldn’t be fooled by the fact that time seemingly becomes more difficult to punctuate the longer you let it run. After half a glass of wine and a little catch up, I was ready to go and started pulling him in during conversation. I mounted him and my first impression was, “His costume feels so fucking disgusting.” He was wearing the burnt orange, sequined ice skating outfit that Will Ferrell sports in Blades of Glory. Visually it was unpleasant enough. My second thought was, “Underwear or no underwear?”
We traveled to my bedroom where I persisted to mount him and make out with him, but other than his lips nothing was really moving. I repositioned him so he was on top of me, and he became a deadweight, preventing my continued humping. I felt like I was thirteen and someone was just figuring out what to do with his hands during a make-out sesh, after mastering what to do with his lips. Getting “felt up” was awkward to say the least. It seemed like he was scared to offend me by touching my “boobs.” Boobs aside, body parts that he did not touch include: my hair, neck, thighs, ears, ass… and the list goes on. I got bored, threw him back on his back, and took him out of his pants.
I quickly made a mental note that I would not suck his dick because last time he failed to reciprocate so my failure to initiate would prevent me from feeling annoyed and cheated. But the problem is that I love sucking cock. I didn’t so much as spit on my hands because I didn’t want to be tempted in the slippery slope of slippery penises. I’m not going to lie: I was a little grossed out by his dry penis and general lifelessness. Even his precum was an unwelcome visitor, as it reminded me of all else that was missing in our encounter.
After approximately five minutes of dry penis rubbing, which I assumed would culminate in wet vagina touching, he asked, “Do you have a condom?” i.e., “Get out a condom,” which sort of stunned me because I was still in my underwear. He had made no attempt whatsoever to touch my vagina, or to do anything, really. I looked at him like he was ape-shit crazy and replied,” Yeah, but touch me first.” Normally I state requests as suggestions, like, “Can you touch me first?” but with him I wanted there to be no ambiguity.
He made a half-assed attempt to grope my ass—through my underwear. Stopped, and looked at me again as to submit a second request for a condom. As if he had magically gotten a step closer to my vagina by touching my ass—through my underwear. Not to sound rapey, but I moved his hand and put it in my pants. Because seriously that’s just a basic step towards sex and he will touch my vagina before he puts his penis inside it whether he likes it or not.
I’ve never invited someone over for sex before and had any difficulty orchestrating it. Normally if you set forward sexual steps that guys have to fulfill before fucking you, they are happy to comply. Most well-adjusted people see underwear as a physiological impediment towards the execution of sex and go through extensive motions to remove it.
When I stuck his hand in my pants he just left it there, no initiative. So I had to move his hand around on top of me, the way guys sometimes guide my hand for a few seconds if they want me to get their rhythm. I removed my hand and he continued exactly as I showed him for approximately thirty seconds. Then stopped, looking at me expectantly. Mimicry as foreplay.
It was so hopeless and he did such a shitty job that I gave up. I touched myself for a second, took the condom out, and started fucking him. It was a little good at first and then I thought, “Wait, I will not get myself into this situation. It is a little good now and will not end well if I allow myself to be teased. He’s going to be totally useless to me. Why should I put in any effort?”
I made him get on top of me to do all of the work. If it was going to suck for me, I sure as hell wasn’t being involved. I hoped that he came soon and got it over with. His expenditure in fucking me was comparable to my effort and enthusiasm in humping my hand when I am half asleep. All his dead weight placed on top of me. He moaned and I cringed. He remained on top of me, sweaty. After a minute or two, I unpealed him.
The gross thing was, although he made virtually no physical contact with me during our sexual encounter, he attempted to be cuddly. I attempted to veer far, far away from him. If you will not touch my vagina, you will not touch me. I thought about how on a scale from masturbation to sex, this was worse than masturbation because I wished he would just fucking leave so I could masturbate.
I contemplated masturbating in front of him, because he was cooperative about that the first time, but I was more disgusted than horny. What was I going to get off to? His vagina phobia? Last time I could at least get off to how his cock felt in my mouth, how it looked slicked to his boxers in precum. This encounter felt almost non-consensual, like he didn’t want to be there. I considered going to the bathroom to get off. I thought about the rudeness factor and didn’t care. It would have been easier than getting off in front of him and it isn’t like he didn’t bring it on himself.
Ultimately, I talked myself down by repeatedly reciting the ancient Jewish proverb (in my head, although, it would have been so much funnier to do out loud): “And this too shall pass.”
And it did. All it takes is a little concentration and revulsion. And a general lack of arousal.
I was left wondering:
1) I’m pretty forward for a girl. How does Hipster Dave manage to have sex with other, less active participants?
2) How could Hipster Dave take the initiative to travel from Brooklyn, but not take the initiative to remove my very willing underwear in order to stick his penis in my vagina?
3) How could Hipster Dave not have the desire to touch, or at least default to touching, my vagina before asking to stick his penis in it? Somehow his lack of interest in my vagina made me feel more objectified than I’ve ever felt before, like I was just an entry point through which to stick his penis. Never have I been in another sexual encounter where I have thought in such explicit and gross terms about sticking penises in vaginas. Normally this just happens. As part of a progression.
4) How could someone stick his penis in my vagina without inspecting it first? There could be any number of things wrong with my vagina. It could have cauliflower. It could have teeth. Does this guy have so little interest in his penis that he does not inspect its potential whereabouts ahead of time? I hope he never has children. If I were a guy I could think of many places I would prefer to stick my penis than a vagina that I had not touched: apple pie, a wide-necked shampoo bottle, girl’s underwear, a vat of Crisco, my hand. None of these requires leaving Bushwick.
Forget vaginas. Arousal is a process. That someone would want to fuck another person with no consideration of whether she is aroused is bizarre to me.
This past Sunday morning I woke up to a text message sent at two-something am: “Hey Genie, what are you up to tonight?”
I briefly considered writing back with any one of the numerous versions of the response I had been drafting in my head in anticipation of his coming back for more: “Are you fucking kidding me? You are totally useless. I might as well fuck an inflatable doll.” A simple “As if!” would have sufficed.
I thought, what nerve he has contacting me!
Until it occurred to me: And this too shall pass.