Face Fuck, Part 4
I told him I was overly sensitive, neurologically speaking, post-orgasm. Could not be touched. True, somewhat, of orgasms resulting from mostly clit stim. Inherently unsatisfying, uncomfortable afterwards. After a minute or two of imposed separation, I relented, ceding to his touch. My skin stood on end, a provisional sheath. Impertinently, he called attention to my armor. Accused me of maintaining distance. As if that would soften me, draw me closer. I never understand what people are fucking thinking when they point out, unsolicited, that someone is acting shy, seems sad, etc. Does that kind of exposure ever dampen an undesirable response or steer it on another course entirely, rather than magnify one’s irritation and increase the original aversive inclination. So intrusive. Sort of like instructing a woman to smile on the street, it implies her mopiness or dumpiness. Turns your desire into her flaw. Recoil, is how my body reacted in relation to his. I repeated my thing about being sensitive post-orgasm. Easy way out.
That’s when the unbearable, overbearing effusion really kicked in. Before the jump, he had made an excessive display of how superior, specifically scrumptious, my pussy is. The first time it was flattering at best, polite at worst. After his referring to my pussy as “sweet,” specifically “the sweetest,” multiple times, I thought, with subdued sarcasm, Gee, that’s funny I don’t remember seasoning myself with powdered sugar beforehand, leaving an Appalachian trail of fruity pebbles for scraggly stragglers to follow.
Post-orgasm, more of the same. Ceaseless, effusive rambling. ENOUGH, already.
Bart: …taste your sweet pussy.
Bart: Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted.
Me (trying to shut him down): Sweet nothings.
Bart: Sweet nothings of sweet pussy.
Bart: Your breasts, so beautiful.
Me: Yeah, I know I’m a tiny girl with huge tits.
Bart: Not just their size. It’s their shape, too. Your little pink nipples are so beautiful. So perfect. You’re underselling yourself.
Uhm, I’m not trying to sell myself, at all. How do I dismiss his compliments without coming off as insecure?
After a minute or two more of social niceties my “Why the fuck am I here, again?” routine resumed. There was just one thing left, I hadn’t gotten him off yet. He was being “difficult,” but fair is fair. I attempted to swipe out of my shift, to verify that I was off duty before bailing:
Me: Do you want me to touch you again?
Bart: Nah, I’m really drunk.
Me: Yeah, I figured. Just don’t want to seem selfish.
Phew, my work here is done. A superhero with places to be, I shifted my weight, popped up, positioned myself for the closing sequence. This would be an easy one, so I thought. Had to get back to my hotel room and be presentable in 5 hours, afterall.
Needy, he insisted upon being. Needy, he was. And since I felt I owed him something, I complied for a little longer. Reciprocation is an unmitigatable human urge. There’s a whole chapter on its success as persuasion tactic in Robert Cialdini’s classic “Influence.”
Bart: Selfish, not at all. I’m gonna dream about you coming all over my face forever.
Good, I gifted him with a year’s supply of wank material. Have more than paid my dues. I am a good person, afterall. “I welcome that,” I replied rhetorically. And also as a narcissist. Good, this is ending on amicable terms. As it has to, because he’s my cousin’s cousin.
Bart: Then I’ll dream about you welcoming that forever.
Okey dokie, ENOUGH. Let’s not get carried away here. Everyone wants to be the fuck of the century, but part of me would rather not know.
Bart: I just wanna hold you. Kiss me.
G is for gross. Nothing is Genie kryptonite like a guy asking me to kiss him. After I’ve orgasmed. I became suspicious that I had gone above and beyond my call of duty. And began charting a definitive escape plan.
A is for antsy. I called the evening, let him down easy:
Me: I’m going to head back to my hotel in ten minutes.
He argued with me about staying over. Pleaded with me. In a last ditch effort:
Bart: I love tasting your sweet pussy. Can you come on my face again?
Me: No, I’m done for the night. I told you, things are sensitive down there.
What the hell is this. I want to go home. Never have ever wanted to escape sexual captivity so badly. Show over. Not that I was interested in putting one on in the first place. How did this become about him? I offered to touch him and he declined.
And that’s when annoyance turned into assault. He slipped a hand between my legs. I removed it. Back it went. That was my cue to leave.
My armor turned to stone. I retracted my body fully.
Me: Stop, that’s uncomfortable.
Bart: I want to make you come again. How about if I’m gentle?
I don’t care what you fucking want. It’s my body. I’m not going to stay here and argue with you about why I don’t want to be touched. Uncomfortable or not, I don’t have to fucking justify it. It isn’t a point to be debated.
Just like street harassers are not entitled to my time, you are not entitled to an explanation. Both are unwanted attention and I don’t owe you shit. Regardless of my consenting to previous acts, I have the right to revoke my consent at any time. I have the right to have my boundaries observed and respected.
Ohh, gentle, that’s so sweet. After being rebuffed—verbally and physically—multiple times, you are willing to downgrade to a lesser version of molestation, which I might only find mildly irritating?
Let me pose this question: Why would you want to touch a girl who DOES NOT WANT to be touched? How is that exciting for you?
Fuck you for pretending you want to please me. Like you are doing me a favor. It is all about you.
Fuck. This. Shit. I’m out.
As I collected my things, not nearly as furious at the moment as I became recollecting the scenario a week later, he planned our future meetings. Half dismissing him half placating him, I told him I had finals the next week so would be out of communication until my summer classes are over, but would be happy to hang out with him after that. Which was not a lie: I was willing to hang out as friends and this was hardly the time to negotiate the terms of our relationship.
Bart: Or if you want some stress relief before then, I can go down on you while you study. I want you to come all over my face again. I love how you spray all over me.
As if. This guy will not take no for an answer. I told him I would “consider it,” whilst I considered the following quotation:
Spencer was quite impressed with this story, and I added that I was thinking of looking that woman back up. His therapeutic side emerged. “Listen,” he said, “You can do better than a woman who just sits on you for an hour.”
—Jonathan Ames, What’s Not to Love?: Bald, Impotent, and Depressed
How pathetic would that be if I traveled all the way to Bed Stuy to sit on some guy’s grody face, stress relief or none.
Gag me with a spoon.
I can do better than that.
AFTER AFTER HOURS
Yes I know I’m going to hell in a leather jacket
‘least I’ll be in another world while you’re pissing on my casket
All that I can do is sing a song of faded glory
And all you got to do it sit there, look great, and make ‘em horny
Together we’ll sing songs and tell exaggerated stories
About the way we feel today and tonight and in the morning
—Julian Casablancas, Out of the Blue
Approaching my purse, I thought a wicked thought: I wonder if I can still meet up with Garrett. I’m good to go the fuck to sleep for sure, but not DONE, exactly. I’m ready to size-up, up-size. Wait, does my vag smell like Bart’s spit? I could freshen up in his decadent bathroom beforehand. Old Hollywood glam-o-rama style. His toothpaste was orange flavored. Maybe my pussy tastes like oranges? Will match Garnet Garrett’s ginger hair! Perf!
This is an actual thought I had.
I’m going to hell in a handbasket. Or an insane asylum for ginger enthusiasts.
Sliding my phone out of my purse, the blue light blinked in my face and my heart skipped a beat.
1:49 am LA time
Garrett: Should be out in 5… Where you at?
Fuck, I missed his message. What if I were 8 MINUTES more patient or less exhausted. Did I blow it?
2:05 am LA time
Garrett: Bad news…a friend in Hollywood is in a bit of an emergency & I gotta go help him out:( Raincheck I hope though somehow…may even be in NYC in about a month…sorry tonight didn’t work out.
Pheww. High fiving myself like a frat bro, I muttered under my breath, “Well played, sir. A sure thing is a sure thing,” and patted myself on the back on my way out.
Bart: If you can’t get a cab, call me or come back here and I’ll find you one. Or you can stay here.
Me: Got it!
You know, I thought you made love like an ugly girl. So present, so grateful.
—Jack Donaghy, 30 Rock
Tucking myself into bed, I recorded some of the evening’s dialogue and estimated his desperation.
Was this a pity face fuck? I could not enjoy it knowing I was taking the virginity of some gawky, acne-speckled, D & D dungeonmaster teen with a fearsome role playing alter ego. I don’t need to feel special, but I do need to know that someone achieves other hot chicks so I can bask in the glow of being in good company. It’s like being the smartest at an online junior college v. a dunce at a competitive school. At least in the latter case you can rest assured that you’ve passed some kinda admissions criteria. Our exchange was his “selflessly” serving me for the price of accruing endless jack off material. Is it fucked up that I wish he needed me less? Not that I want someone to be dishonest and purposefully play hard-to-get. But as I demonstrated earlier in the evening, displaying casual indifference almost connotes high mate value. Holding out for the next highest bidder to raise their flag before the auction is closed. Starting out with a high asking price. I hate to quote insufferably snide people, but he’s what Ashley Cardiff would refer to as “tragically grateful.” Sometimes I honest-to-atheist-god wish I hadn’t been so sexually blessed (i.e., been with so many dudes) so I wouldn’t be compelled to remain such an ungrateful twat.
Here’s where sex gets tiresome: I have no interest in feigning excitement while I fuck someone’s grubby face. I miss not having to pretend I’m someone I’m not. With Andrew, there was no impression management. We could give each other shit, call each other out on our shit, and be our worsts. And that’s what I liked best.
Time to retire. Sex is the pits.
The next morning, I was smacked by my alarm clock and the jam-packed day ahead of me. Washing my unrested face off with a bar of cheap hotel soap, I realized that I was not the great mastermind behind my evening’s escapades; I had let the night seduce me.
I gathered my well-organized possessions, took stock, and assessed my damage: my favorite lipstick was missing. My most expensive, most luxurious, most physically substantial: Laura Mercier’s Pink Dusk. This possessed me to think the second-to-wickedest thought of the weekend: Was the orgasm really worth the lipstick?
Good sex has no monetary value. I’m willing to do basically anything. Like, I was totally being sarcastic when I offered to get down on my knees and suck Andrew while reading his book aloud. Sarcasm and dignity aside, I would have done it were it physically possible. Because who fucking cares. But when bend your brain trying to devise a formula to discern whether sex is a step above or below masturbation, whether it is worth a cab ride or lipstick or losing half a night of sleep before a cross-country flight, you should have just fucking masturbated. Real talk with GKF.