It’s a Flop

It’s a Flop (January 26th, 2014)

I’d rather get off to porn than a real, live limp penis. That is the important life lesson I learned Friday night.

It was my third date with Arun. Date #1 we had copious drinks. I knew he was my type aesthetically and my type of person. Date #2 was not so much a date as a study session, where we awkwardly sat around my dining room table chatting and watching public access TV for 7 hours, as we delayed doing our work. Date #3 it was time to test him out. We went to see Brendan Canning first, then off to knock back some social lubrication, and finally to my place. I felt a little nervous about it and stalled for a while, putting on some mood music then watching music videos as a distraction from our proximity on my couch. I threw my computer aside and mounted him. You know I like the skinnies, but it felt like there was a thigh gap between our bony bodies. His entirety was flat: no butt, nothing to grab onto. Everything other than our mouths was disengaged and lacking corporeal reality. I asked him if we could transition to my bedroom, where we could augment physical rubbage. Things escalated, for me.

Here is the thing about arousal. No matter how little chemistry I have with someone or how little interest I have in them, once our bodies rub together I start sliding all over the place. Kissing becomes breathing heavily into their mouth. With kissing alone, I might as well be doing math problems. There is a disconnect. I don’t understand how people fail to get aroused when they are mechanically and methodically stimulated. Friction, baby: that’s all it takes. I felt like he was moderately hard while I was humping him through our clothes, but by the time I got his pants off, I could barely find his penis; it was pointing in the wrong direction. Feel good lost? I reached into his boxers, aimed it onwards an upwards, and rubbed through the plaid divider.

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The last time such a thing happened to me, the guy offered, “What can I do for you?” And all was forgiven. It took the pressure off of him and opened up possibilities for me. I reached under my bed and pulled out a treasure chest of toys. My mom always taught me to make guys feel useful: I invited him to pick, like he was a child volunteering at a magic show. Except he was perplexed by the choices. Or overwhelmed by the sheer amount of devices I had in my arsenal. Of course he did the guy thing and picked the very biggest, sparkliest plastic phallus—one that I couldn’t even fit inside me in its entirety. It wasn’t a starter penis; it was one to which I to had to graduate as my vagina grew hungrier. I handed him my husband, Tom. They shook hands and made nice. He furrowed his brow and fucked me thoughtfully until I took over, gleefully reuniting myself with my sturdy, reliable sexual spouse.

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There is something so insulting about being presented with a limp penis. It’s beneath me. I have such unsolicited encounters maybe once every three years, and it’s always like, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this floppy, sad appendage?” If you can’t get yourself hard for me, that’s not my problem. Hire a fluffer.

Except I wasn’t even offended; just bored. You would think I made out like a bandit: a guy touched me and I didn’t have to reciprocate. Isn’t being served every woman’s dream? Too bad I like penis. Served the traditional way—ready-to-order. I figured Arun would get hard as he touched me. I was ready-to-go, after all. But when he slid his fingers inside me, I screamed in agony! The only thing more useless than a limp penis is two hands full of long nails. He isn’t even a musician. And if he were, he could have taken care of his fretting hand. It was like one of those bad “lesbian” pornos where the women have bedazzled nails, do the air guitar equivalent of fingering, and make fake whines and whimpers of encouragement.

With his penis and fingers essentially out of play, I considered asking him to use his mouth. At least that couldn’t snag my vagina; unless he had, like, a snaggletooth. Except I didn’t want to wrap my mouth around his gross, limp penis with foreskin cascading off the end. Such an excessive amount of foreskin, I couldn’t even find the head under there. Maybe if he were legit hard his penis would grow bigger than a handful and the head would pop out? As it stood, I mean hung, it acted only as an incubator for microorganisms. There’s nothing more unsanitary than a moist foreskin. Let’s say that together, kids: moist. Bleh.

In lieu of my fumbling around with him, I let him work on me. He legit wanted to please me and checked in to see what felt good. When I responded by making a non-committal, pre-verbal sound like “eh…” he pleaded, “ No, tell me what to do.” Except I didn’t want to give him instructions on how to slice up my vagina with his nails. Getting deep enough inside to please me would entail exactly that. You can’t penetrate or caress someone with a pointy object. If I told him to do the “come hither” motion, he could end up scraping out my insides like I was a jack-o’-lantern. Aaaah, ahhhhh, AAAAAH!

I squeezed my muscles rhythmically in an attempt to try to do what his fingers couldn’t, and I kept repositioning myself so I was tighter and he was hitting the right spot without digging in. I though, fuck, I am gonna be really sore tomorrow from all of these odd positions and muscle tension. Finally I helped out and then took over completely. At that point my clit wasn’t even hard and I wondered whether I could orgasm with a sad, limp clit. I put his hands on my tits, as an excuse to straddle his body so I could almost straddle his face. Because nothing gets me off like being in a dominant position.

When I orgasmed, he finally got a little bit hard. Like his penis was actually pointing in the right direction without any help. A shame considering I was done before I was even done. I had hoped we could put the pained production behind us. Reluctantly, I wrapped my hand around his semi-staff. After a few strokes, he gave me instructions that I have never received before: “YOU CAN SQUEEZE IT HARDER.” I tightened my grip and it squished out of both sides of my fist. I had a flashback to that scene in Now and Then where Teeny pulls pudding-filled balloons out of her shirt and asks her friends to squeeze. Arun wasn’t satisfied with my firmer grip. He wanted me to “SQUEEZE IT.” Huh, like a toothpaste tube? Before I caught on to whatever it was he wanted me to do, it turned back into slack. Well, hooray!

He kissed me as if to signify “Thanks for your best efforts.” Which I thought demarcated the end of a failed sexual experience from the beginning of pleasant post-coital time. But then he continued to kiss me. And seemed offended when I withdrew. Then inquired as to whether I didn’t like kissing. I muttered, “Uh, well, I dunno. Just not, like, right now.” Which he followed up with “Well, kissing really gets me going.” Gets you going!?! We kissed, and then groped, and then got naked, and then you touched me, and then I touched myself, and then I touched you again. Going, going, gone!

We lay in bed next to one another silently, yet affectionately. After twenty minutes he inquired, “Are you just waiting on me at this point?” I replied, “I guess,” but made no effort towards him. I wasn’t waiting for anything. There is a window of reciprocation (a statute of limitations?) and that window had long since passed. Did he expect to call me up a week later to tell me I owed him sexual services? If he had hopes and dreams for his limp penis, he should have taken matters into his own hands—literally. Not. My. Problem. After a few more minutes of staring into space, I announced that I was going to grab a towel to “destickify myself.” That way there would be no ambiguity that the experience was OVER. Then I laid that towel in between us. A physical manifestation of finality. Earlier that day, I had wanted to get off but resigned, “Nah, I’m prolly gonna get laid later; I’ll save it all for him.” When we were done, I lamented, “Fuck, I shoulda gotten off before. Can’t believe I blew my lady load on this. FUCK ORGASM BUDGETING!”

The next morning we parted amicably. Upon getting dressed and smelling him on me, I was grossed out. Felt like I needed to wash him off me before I went out. Not a good sign when you don’t want to savor someone’s scent and get off to it forever! Fuck. My. Life. I finally met someone on tinder who was an awesome person and my type physically. Unfortunately, we had so little chemistry and the hook up was such a disaster that I didn’t want to give him a second chance. Except I suspected that I had to. Wahhhh. Since the encounter was “a step below masturbation,” it could only go up from there, right? Unless it didn’t go up again, tee hee. Was pretty much guaranteed to be a flop!

Went out with my friend Annie, who introduced me to tinder, and she forbade me from giving him a second chance. The story sounded so much more absurd when I told it out loud. I mean, you can’t hook up with someone again if you burst into laughter discussing him. If you’d rather masturbate than play with him. Also, Annie scolded me for waiting until the third date to test him out. The thing with internet dating is, you have to put out between dates 1 and 3 to make sure you are sexually compatible or else you risk wasting everyone’s time. If I’m not interested in someone as a person but find him attractive, I hook up with him right away to maximize fuckage. If I am interested, I wait until we know each other a little better. But if you’ve waited and it sucks, it’s awkward because you are obligated to politely explain; you can’t just stealthily disappear at that point. Either way, you are only delaying the inevitable by waiting.

I hoped he would send me a rejection letter first so I wouldn’t have to do the dirty work. Found his doppelganger on tinder and sorta wanted to send him the pic. Sadly, he never messaged me and it certainly wasn’t my responsibility to message someone who couldn’t bother to get hard for me.

The second time Arun and I hung out, I had speculated about how many guys thought of me as a “new low.” At least ten, I estimated. In almost all cases, the feeling was mutual. I’ve been with a handful of guys who couldn’t keep it up, mostly alcohol or drug related; he and Tom of ‘you can’t improve upon perfection‘ fame were the only ones who failed to get hard to begin with. At least he didn’t attempt to dirty talk me with his limp penis. Not quite a new low. Though men never cease to surprise me. Slut: yes. Jaded slut: not yet.

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