Face Fuck, Part 1

Face Fuck, Part 1

August, 2014

Ask two Jews, get three opinions.

—Jewish Proverb

Three Opinions, All mine

1) Late July I had a stern talk with myself: You need to get over yourself and get fucked. Mediocre sex is better than no sex. Get over him. Go back to before you remembered what satisfaction is. Before it was tangible, attainable. Be comfortably numb. Ignorance is bliss. So is semen.

At twenty-six I hadn’t accomplished much in my life, but I knew the difference between good and bad sex. People fail to mention that one of the side benefits of sleeping around is that you have a much better chance of stumbling across a gem or two. It’s the law of slutty averages. And once you experience someone with real skills, it’s very hard to go back.

—Ophira Eisenberg, Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy, The Nice Fetish

2) The less harsh critic in me told me to give myself a break. Let’s face it: you’re just not that interested in sex. If you were, you would be less melodramatic about the paltry prospects. You don’t have to rough it through 40 for 1 gem. You’ve gone on dates with dudes that you didn’t fuck for logistical reasons. Indifference. You know you’re attracted to them. You’ve already narrowed 40 to 10. Text them and they’ll turn up. Above and beyond that, one of the 3 most stellar fucks of the year, a a member of the gilded trio, had returned to town months ago. When I saw him at the beginning of the summer, he invited me over. I was still hung up on Andrew and still held false hope. Besides, nothing could really come of he and I. He was too good for me (physically, professionally). So after a few texts back and forth, I threw him into the indifferent pile. If I wanted to get fucked, though, a little effort and there he would be: guaranteed great sex. Ergo, I didn’t want sex. Oh well, I have other things going for me, right? RIGHT!?! Guys, are you there?

3) The third voice in my head could compartmentalize itself from the other two: Vacation Genie. Wait, let’s call her “Vacay Genie” because this story involves LA and THE VALLEY. Isn’t geographical, I mean cognitive, distance lovely?

Early June, in the thick of my AMCAS application and beginning summer classes, I declared, “At the end of the summer, when I’m done with everything, I need to go on vacation.” It had been 3 ½ years. My mother agreed, “Absolutely.” I had decided on Scandanavian countries. For four very reasonable reasons: 1) I needed to be someplace where I wouldn’t get digestively ill from the food or water, which eliminated South America and much of Asia. 2) I needed to be someplace where I could get excellent medical care in case something happened to me. It was the first time I would be traveling alone or for an extended period of time since all my medical stuff. 3) Because I am a woman and would be traveling alone, I wanted to be someplace safe, especially for women. Scandanavian countries are known for safety because of little income inequality. 4) In a Gender Roles class in grad school we read an article about the gender equality in Sweden, and how it was totally socially acceptable for women there to have one-night stands. Because of the egalitarian views on gender, sex crimes are minimal. It sounded like a sexual fairyland to me—the kind for straightish people. Ever since I’ve wanted to do some sexual tourism—the kind that does not involve 14-year-old Thai girls.

As the summer neared an end and my back condition became more of a debilitating reality, this 3-week Scandanavian escapade seemed less and less like a reality. My evening of camping in early August, followed by my brief trip to LA were my test runs. Could my back handle a 5-hour flight? Sitting upright in class for even 2 hours had proved burdensome. As the oldest postbac by years, I brought my own pillow to class: a geriatric accessory. I figured it was versatile, transitional: from day to night, New York to LA.


Which brings us to LA. On my last brief excursion in 2011, I had sex in a shack. Technically the servant’s quarters. Except there were no servants. Because it was in The Valley. When I disclosed the guy’s area code to the cousin I was staying with, she let out a guttural, “Ehhh.” Whatevers, Valley Schmalley, he was so hot. Perfect Strawberry Blonde. Gentile Dream. High functioning penis. Stayed perfectly hard after he came. Told me I was free to continue riding him until I came. Which I did. And never have I ever felt so much like I used someone as a human dildo. He was a nice boy, too. The sex was horribly awkward. I wondered whether he even wanted it. So I gave him a way out.

I met him in New York and texted him months later. Certain he didn’t expect me to end up in his backyard, quite literally. But guys never turn down cute women who show up for sex. He took me to The Woods. Think the wood paneling of Spitzers without the LES douchebaggery. They played Weezer and Jimmy Eats World. He was unexpectedly lovely even though I didn’t need him to be; it is always nice to think well of one’s sexual partners. I would have fucked him no matter what because I am superficial. Did I say strawberry blonde? Cute plastic frames? It was such a trip to be picked up in a car. It felt like 1950. My cousin showed me off at the harbor. The other trip in LA is you have to monitor drinking. Not as in, let’s not get too drunk to fuck; as in, let’s not get too drunk to drive. Ohhhh, also also also the bar was in a strip mall: how quaint! As the night was nearing an end, I told him I would invite him back to my place, but I was sleeping on my cousin’s couch. With her German Shepard and 19-year-old cat, who had dred locks because he was too old to groom himself. Teddy admitted he would invite me over expect he lived with his parents. He invited me over anyway. They would be asleep and wouldn’t care regardless. We would go to the shack in the backyard. He shoulda been all Bel Air and called it “the pool house.” Whatever, I was down. Obvi! On our way to his place, I mean his parent’s place, I texted my cousin to not wait up for me and not worry about me. She replied, “I’m not worried, you’re an adult.”

We made out in the, cough, love shack. Like, forever. Boring! I guess the way the night unfolded, it just seemed like it was assumed. Like, East Coast girls don’t just show up on your doorstep everyday looking to be taken out for drinks. Except I prefer enthusiastic consent. Even though I looked all cute and stuff, things just didn’t seem like they were progressing sexually. So I excused myself to pee in his backyard. He assured me his parents wouldn’t wake up if I peed in the bathroom and they didn’t care anyway. I assured him I preferred to urinate outside. I’m a classy broad. Duhhr. And it was a novelty. Like the bar in a strip mall. Might as well go to Claire’s to get our ears pierced! When I returned, bladder empty and pee dripping down my leg, I gave him the option to not proceed. But I already told you how it ended. With our fucking and my using him as a human dildo. A really pretty one! He drove me home, took the scenic route through Laurel Canyon for my viewing pleasure. The next day he texted me about how he randomly ended up in Las Vegas for his birthday. Haven’t heard from him since.

Here is a photo of the shack. My golden standard. I mean, my strawberry blonde one. For serious, though, it was lined floor-to-ceiling with books and Vanity Fairs from the 1970s to present day, decorated with caught baseballs and nautical gear. So rad it was totes worth the embarrassment of asking Teddy to photograph it for posterity. My hands get shaky after I cum sometimes. As if I’m signing an autograph through floppy Minnie Mouse costume hands. Vacay souvenir ’11! First attempt mine.


2011-02-12_02-20-40_741 2011-02-12_02-20-55_420

Wish I had a pic of this LA trip’s site of sin for stark comparison. But I don’t. Because never have I ever wanted to escape captivity more quickly after orgasming…

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