Special Now?

SPECIAL NOW? (October 2011)

When I texted Davey to sow the seed for our ensuing encounter, I was very specific about our going out in public together.

Me: You free tomorrow night?

Davey: I have an early dinner with mom. Should be home by 930 though

Me: Word. How about you call me when you’re done with your mom and we can go out for a drink in your hood?

Davey: Sounds good

Of course, he didn’t comply.

Davey: I’m finishing up dinner. But don’t think I can handle going to a bar. When do you leave?

Me: Tomorrow

Davey: Ok. Leaving upper west shortly. Text you soon

Davey: I’m sorry. I think I need my bed. Can’t party like I used to and still function the next day

Me: Lame.

Davey: When tomorrow do you leave?

And when will you next be back?

Me: Well i leave earlyish tomorrow and might not be back and free until december.

My vagina is still sorta recovering from Friday night anyway.

Davey: Must you say these things?

Me: Should i not say these things?

Davey: Well at least make a guy feel special

Me: Well i offered you my vagina on thursday night

Feel special?

If you were at all reliable i could schedule more sex with you and less with other people. Special now?

Davey: Ok. Do you want to just come over for sex now?

Me: Thought you were too tired?

Davey: It was more an aversion to further drinking

Me: Well can i have a drink at your place. Can we at least go through the formality of talking? You can drink chocolate milk. Im sick of having encounters where clothes are taken off in a pile before someone bothers to ask me how the weather is.

Davey: That works

[his address]

Me: Good. Done. I’ll come over then.

I think I dropped something? Oh, my dignity. It’s over there.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Strained effort gave way to depletion. Two days after my pounding, the way I felt could best be described as “used up.” Meaning, I didn’t feel much of anything. Never thought someone could fuck the horny out of me. Wasn’t even sore like, hmm, I feel a little sensation down there, I should probably poke my bruise; contrarily, my vag was numb. Silent.

As done as I think I am, I’m always surprised by how aroused I can get when presented with a penis. This was a liability when I tried to break up with my college boyfriend. Figured I could get off a bunch of times before each time I saw him, and I wouldn’t want his cock. Would develop a distaste for it. I was wrong; all my sexual extravagance got me was sore. Turns out he was doing the same thing; not that he wanted to break up with me, but he didn’t want to be “swayed” by the sex. So, we had a lot of sad, sore sex for an embarrassing length of time. Which is probably why we got on so well in the first place, our tacit agreement to work out non-sexual issues through sex.

In this instance, though, I was honestly worried I wouldn’t be able to perform. Not that I cared about pleasing Davey. I thought: how awful would it be if after all of this (the vag torture I endured and the scheduling difficulties), we hooked up and I couldn’t have an orgasm THAT I DIDN’T NEED IN THE FIRST PLACE. Inevitably, I wouldn’t because it’s always a challenge with him, anyway. And, seriously, I doubted I could get myself off alone at that distinct point of done—overdone—at which even I should have known to talk myself down.

Electronic device to the rescue! Strategically left some of my less-loved toys at home in New York: while it would be inconvenient to cross interstate lines with junk in my trunk (heh, heh), it would be nothing short of tragic to find myself unprepared. On the other side of a sex desert. Some crazies hoard generators and canned soup in anticipation of the next Y2K. I have a well-stocked arsenal of fuck toys. In both my temporary and permanent residences. My new Babeland bullet was the consummate travel companion. Small enough to slip discreetly into a purse. Small enough to nestle in the palm of my hand, while leaving my fingers free. Fit for home use and house calls.

Not a big fan of vibrators, I prefer to mechanically stimulate my clit. So much less lazy and more satisfying. Similar to fucking back. Feel like you’ve been worked on and have worked it out of yourself. Don’t like to passively receive orgasms. Sometimes it’s nice to have that that extra zing, though. Let your fingers vibrate and your clit swell to gigantic, as you touch yourself directly. The bullet is easy to use during sex, too, without being obtrusive. Sometimes you need extra blood flow to perk up your clit when vaginal stimulation inevitably overwhelms it; everything pales in comparison to getting fucked. By an elephant.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Davey, wasn’t “at all surprised” by the appearance of my personal assistant. The quickest way to get comfortable with someone is to do embarrassing things in front of them. Liberation through self-exposure.

Either the first or second time we hooked up (it was so long ago, my recollection is diminished), I was super stoned. I’m fairly socially and sexually retarded while stoned: I’m unable to read social feedback and I’m extra horny or at least sensitive to touch, but motivationally impaired. Partially it’s hard to get off because of vaginal cottonmouth. Mostly, it’s like, “I have to keep moving my hand? Oh, bother.” Worry not: soon I forget what I was attempting to do in the first place. Discontinuation does not constitute resignation. Usually if I hook up with someone, and they don’t get me at all close to orgasming, I throw in the figurative towel; I’ll finish myself off in front of someone, but seems pointless to start from scratch.

For whatever reason, I got off in front of Davey, and it took me for fucking ever because I was stoned. It didn’t stop there. A couple of minutes later I declared I didn’t think I was done for the night and asked if I could get off again; he didn’t have to participate. He said sure. Looked like he was fading, though, so I inquired whether he was going to fall asleep. (Not because I was trying to be thoughtful; rather, I didn’t want to get off in front of him if he wasn’t interested in watching.) He said he didn’t “usually fall asleep on girls masturbating,” as if he ever had the opportunity. Think I had already pulled out fuck toys for round number one. Informed him I might need to up the ante for round number two. Asked if he would mind my watching porn. He replied, “whatever it takes” or “whatever you need.” Something like that. Guess the former would really be in the correct spirit.

My mother always advised me to make guys feel important by offering them inconsequential decisions. I pulled out my computer, shoved it in his face and asked him what he wanted to watch. He was the guest, after all. Let’s just say I don’t think he was prepared for the sheer volume of my collection. This was before I downsized. He told me I could pick, as it was “for my benefit,” not his. Only restriction was no gay porn. Figured. I was reluctant to choose for myself, though: somehow it seemed revealing to show him my really good go-to shit. Like, it’s one thing to get off to porn and it’s another to disclose exactly what you’re into and demonstrate the effect it has on you. Hilarious that I had any shred of self-consciousness left. Got off in front of him like I was alone. Tortured a second orgasm out of my body. Years later, when I asked him about the scene, he said he wasn’t weirded out or turned off in the slightest; he was just surprised. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Especially considering it has paved the way for future encounters. Now he knows to expect the unexpected with me.

My Babeland bullet: totally mundane.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

After we fucked, Davey offered me a sincere apology for his despicable actions (documented in moral outrage). Told me how hollow the description made him feel and how he wished I saw him as a fuller person. Not that he denied the accuracy of my description; he claimed it covered only a small facet of his personality. Reminded him he only communicated with me on the level of a sexual object, so it should be no surprise that I saw him as someone who served a limited purpose. He granted me that and said it was no excuse, but he was doing a lot of cocaine and drinking during that time period and had treated women callously. He didn’t need to apologize. I had already fucked him. And would have again, regardless. Desperate is desperate. Nice to feel acknowledged, though.

A guy I hooked up with, recently, suggested the purpose of my blog is to “hold people accountable for their actions.” Totally not the case. In fact, I give few partners the link. The blog is not for them. Nevertheless, if moral accountability—for others or for me—is an unintended consequence, I can’t complain.

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