InDefenseOfGettingOff's Blog

He invited himself back with me, which kind of annoyed me. I mean, he didn’t even ask, he just assumed we were going to the same place. He followed me, almost, when I said maybe I would take the subway then I said I might as well take a cab. There was no “we” in any statement I said. In fact, earlier in the evening, by the time I realized how bored I was of him already, but before it seemed too late to get rid of him, I asked him if he got home by LIRR and if LIRR ran all night (I didn’t want him to miss his train, obligating me to host him). They way I felt about this situation was, sure I am sort of a bitch if I went out with him and had him buy me drinks and won’t let him go home with me, but most people don’t fuck on a first date. I could have probably even played dumb and pretended that I didn’t expect him to go home with me—that I didn’t fuck on a first date—but the fact that he followed me and there was no conversation about how he would get home, made this difficult. It was just weird to me, because there is no reason for him to think I am a ho bag, it never really came up in conversation, I’m sure our mutual friend never had a discussion with him, and I don’t think our mutual friend could even conceive of what a ho I am. So what do girls who don’t go on fuck dates do when it turns out that that is what a guy expects, and does the guy then look dumb and presumptuous or does the girl look dumb and naïve?

In any event, we end up in a cab together, no questions asked. Unlike the Hector guy, he is cooperative and even a little too eager to make out with me in the cab. And I oblige even though it is still light out and I can still see him. Unfortunately, it was fucking disgusting, like teeth-clanking, drool-smearing, disgusting. Our mutual friend made out with him years ago and warned me that he was a bad kisser, but that they made out when they were seventeen, so he could have improved by now. I thought, no biggie, I don’t even like kissing, only more reason to rush to the good stuff. Seriously, I’m not into kissing but I didn’t know it could be this bad. It’s not that I dislike kissing; it’s just that I don’t really get the appeal. Like who cares if someone’s a good kisser; kissing is never that great anyway. In this case there was no appeal to speak of; it was thoroughly repulsive. While we were having our sub-par make out sesh, a cab make out sesh that wasn’t even hot as per cab make out sesh protocol, he received a phone call that he had to take. Some people might find it rude for a partner to take a phone call during a make out sesh, but I thought, how convenient, a break from his sucking my face down his throat.

You will never guess the ridiculous nature of the phone call. It might have made me lose respect for him, and I had so little respect for him to begin with. The conversation went something like “I’m still out in The City. It became a late night. I’m with Jimmie and some of the guys. We went to this club and it just became a really late night. I won’t be back to Long Island for a while; don’t wait up for me.” So pathetic for a 24-year-old to have to give his mom a report, to have a mom that waits up for him, and to have to lie to his mom about being with a girl. I was tempted to giggle in the background to get him in trouble, but I was so embarrassed for him that I was maybe even a little empathetic. At the same time I thought, what a lying sack of shit; these are the lies he is going to tell his trophy wife five years from now while she is sitting up in Great Neck at night, watching trashy television shows with her Yorkie, waiting for him to return from his “boys’ night out in The City.” Of course, he will be with another woman, because they can’t resist his charm, I mean, money. The way in which he described his story to his mom was so obviously a lie because there were a few too many extraneous details. Like if my mother called me at night just to make sure I was okay, I wouldn’t go through the list of people I was with and account for every place I went throughout the night. Good thing his trophy wife will be too unintelligent to detect these blatant clues.

By the time we got closer, I was done with the repulsive making out. I thought, I have no obligation to you. We are going to go home and fuck anyway. We needn’t ruin it with this bullshit. I don’t owe you my time.

We finally got home, started making out again, and once again I had a pang of hope, that same pang of hope I had when he pressed his body up against mine in the bar. Maybe it was more a vaginal contraction of hope than a pang, but it served the same purpose and it was working in the service of my vagina. We entered my nice, dark room and had a somewhat arousing makeout sesh, despite his lack of kissing abilities, because now we could dry hump and I no longer had to see him. Bodies, apparently, do all feel the same in the dark. His would do.

But then it took a turn for the disgusting. I hate being dominated, and after a while it became clear that he was trying to get me to do just that. I require equal sex—where one person can be in control and then they let the other person take over, where it is an exchange of pleasure and each person can state and achieve their needs, where there is no power dynamic preventing your ability to be an active participant in making decisions pertaining to the process.  But it soon became clear that it was about him and what he wanted to do to me and not what I wanted, and that I couldn’t even get what I wanted because I was physically restrained. I was both scared and repulsed. Like what did I do to get inducted into his male fantasy and what does his fantasy have to do with me? How could he even enjoy holding me down in a way that I didn’t enjoy? Where is the hotness in that? He held me down and strangled me. Yes, strangled me. It was somewhere in between an abusive hickey and autoerotic asphyxiation. It hurt, there was no sexual benefit, and I was terribly afraid that I would end up with an inexplicable hand mark on my throat the next day. I mean, how could I possibly explain being strangled? Hickeys are gross, but people understand how they happen. A good scarf and stick of coverup can take care of that. I tried to pry his firm grip from my neck multiple times, but he kept doing it, and to what end? I was scared—scared to tell him to stop because I wasn’t sure if that would incite him to be even rougher with me. He squeezed my boobs so hard they hurt, like he thought they weren’t even attached to my body, and he insisted on being on top the whole time.

He spanked me too hard and I didn’t like it. He held my whole body down so the spanking was unavoidable. The thing about being dominated is it isn’t about the acts themselves; it’s about the context, the dynamic between the two participants. And, to put it one way, I only like it if I’m an active participant. I don’t even consider it domination in that case. I have friends who spank me and I enjoy it; I want them to spank me harder, test my limits. Because it is about my limits, about us exploring together, seeing how far we can take it. Unlike in this situation where it seemed to be about how much he thought he could get away with doing to me, how much I would bear. With my friends, the fun comes from the trust we have established, the fact that I know they don’t want to hurt me and they only enjoy it insofar as I am having a good time. Testing limits is only fun if you have an established relationship, if there are boundaries to be crossed, anticipation of what the person has in store for you and what it reveals about them. It wasn’t the acts themselves that I could not take—with the exception of the strangling which is never acceptable if someone hasn’t expressed explicit interest in it beforehand, and I don’t know why anyone would—it was the inappropriateness of his imposing his sexual schema on me before we had any rapport. I’m sure it is pretty bad form, even in the S&M community, to seek out unsuspecting and unconsenting victims. I’m pretty sure upon allowing him to enter the cab with me, I did not sign a kinky-sex waiver.

I pushed him back to recline him so I could give him head—attempting to speed things along and steer them toward normality—but to no avail. He refused to let me take control and in a clumsy attempt to push him down, I ended up poking him in the eye. Sex bloopers: Take one (I won’t even count the teeth clanking, because with him I assume that is par for the course). All this time I thought it was normal to change positions, switch it up, play both cat and mouse. I wasn’t aware that I wasn’t allowed to take the lead, assume responsibility. Obviously, I had been misinformed.

When he took his pants off, which I was rather looking forward too, he insisted upon standing on the bed above me and didn’t sit down even once his pants were off. I knew what he was trying to do—trying to swing his cock over my face, make me suck his dick in the most degrading way possible. I played dumb. It’s not that I have a problem with positions where girls are physically lower than guys or compromised relative to guys. As I said, I’m not into symbols; I am a sexual pragmatist. I have this friend who won’t get on her knees for a guy, because she thinks it’s demeaning, even if he’s sitting on a couch and it would be much easier for her to give him head if she just kneeled in front of him. I think this is self-defeating and silly, giving up utility in favor of maintaining desired gender roles in physical space. Too intellectual and impractical for my sexual taste. It wouldn’t be humbling, but convenient. However, there is no utility in standing above someone on a bed to stuff your dick in her face. It is nearly impossible to stand steadily on a bed for anything, nevertheless for a blowjob, and I’m not going to have this d bag’s balls shaken over my face like I’m some fucking whore. Slut I am. Whore I am not. The only reason he wanted to do it is because of the degradation and I’m not into that. Sexual symbolism I do not care about, but intent is pretty important to me—it is the driving force for and sets the tone of the experience. I will simply not participate in an experience where the dynamic the guy sets up is one in which I am there to serve him and I have no worth or voice independent of my fulfillment of his prescribed script for me.

Ominously looming above me, he asked me to suck his dick. As if! I dictated, “If you lie down.” Firm and necessarily so. The problem was, firm his dick was not.

It is common courtesy to get hard for a girl before asking her to put your dick in her mouth. If you are unable to get hard, it is your responsibility to play with yourself until you are sufficiently hard for her. It is rude and insulting to be asked to play with a limp dick. Who do you think I am? Getting your dick hard is not my job; it is no one’s job. My best friend added, “Unless you are a fluffer, then it is would be your exact job.” You expect me to service you and you can’t even properly prepare for me? You should be embarrassed; you should apologize for being drunk. But instead you think you are so goddamn important and desirable that people should start from scratch for you, go out of their way for you, as you fucking lie back with your demanding attitude and useless, limp penis. I don’t even know what to do with a limp penis. I am disgusted; no one else has ever had the audacity to suggest that I service his unprepared body parts. But I am not going to argue with his bullshit. Reluctantly, I stuff his limp dick in my mouth.

He smells terrible. I’m not sure what to do with the smell and how it got there. It wasn’t like normal ball sweat smell; it was strong and unusual, an unidentifiable funk. I was going to ask him to wash because who is rude enough to smell that bad and demand that a girl stuff his limp dick in her mouth. This guy has no decency as far as preparing his body parts for girls; he is clearly one of those chauvinistic males who thinks girls have to clean their bodies up, but since cocks rule supreme and since girls worship his cock to the point of being willing to do nearly anything to get it in their mouths, he needn’t make any effort. I figured out a way to close off my nasal passages slightly as to avoid the smell, and I alternated between my hand and my mouth, partially so I could breathe and partially since nothing was really happening with my mouth and in the few instances I’ve been in where guys have had trouble staying hard, I’ve felt like my hand has helped more than my mouth initially because guys are so used to that sensation and there is nothing to really suck before a guy is hard—it’s all clumsy licks and nothing to grip.

But when I alternated to my hand, that’s when the worst part came: He tried to dirty talk me with his limp penis! Has he no shame? One of my friends said, “How dare he!” Another one asked, “You mean like a sockpuppet?” No, he wasn’t using his dick as a sockpuppet, but he was trying to dirty talk me about his dick, as if hearing about his limp penis was cause for arousal, a cause for celebration. He would be like “Yeah baby, suck that cock; you’re going to make it so hard.” So I felt like I had to keep sucking it, partially in hopes of shutting him up. Like who calls girls “baby” other than d bags in porno? I’m pretty sure in porno the guys have the courtesy to get their dicks hard before shoving them into whores’ mouths. Limp dick makes for bad TV. Next time you want to dirty talk me and treat me like a whore, do me a favor and get your dick hard for me first.

Sometimes situations like this are embarrassing for the girl, but this obviously wasn’t my fault. It’s like, I think you are ugly and boring and I’m still plenty wet. I was almost insulted because I felt like I was doing him a favor—infuriated because I went out of my way and this is the thanks I get.

I couldn’t take him and his limp dick seriously at all. I wanted to get out of the situation, but didn’t know how, especially since I was kind of scared of him. I thought, everything we have done up until now is so repulsive, sex couldn’t possibly be worse. It seemed like the easiest way to get rid of him was to fuck him; it would be far less trouble than telling him how repulsive I found the experience. I managed to get him hard enough to put a condom on him, but he soon lost it. More disgusting making out ensued.

The thing is, even if theoretically sex would have been less disgusting than what we were doing, if what we were doing had never happened, I was already grossed out. Once the gross-out factor rules, you can never look at the guy the same way again and anything you do with him is going to be disgusting. Had I no time to process this, I would have fucked him and it would have eventually ended and we could have both gone about our lives as if it had never happened. Giving a girl time to think is a mistake.

While we continued on with more of the same, I started thinking about how I wasn’t even sure I wanted this guy to be my #_1. I didn’t want him to be on my sex list at all. I wanted nothing more to do with him. I couldn’t have sex with someone just because I thought it would less repulsive than what we were currently doing and it seemed like the easiest way out. The most viable option, the natural progression, but I have too much respect for my body to do that. I could not use it for convenience or too attain social ends. Sharing your body with someone is for personal or mutual pleasure. My body is not an instrument. If I felt otherwise, I would sell my body. I recalled the scene in Elizabeth Wurtzel’s Prozac nation when she is in Houston giving the bassist of The Butthole Surfers a handjob, somehow something suddenly feels wrong, and she runs away. I always told myself, Elizabeth is famous and successful and I respect her for many things, and if I were ever in a situation I wasn’t comfortable being in, if it didn’t feel right for any reason, I could simply get out of it. Like when you are 13 and go to a party and your mom tells you that if someone at the party does something that makes you feel uncomfortable, she will pick you up no questions asked. I determined that I would not in fact have sex with him; I realized that I had to stop rationalizing and start feeling because sex is ultimately about bodies, and it was clear from my body’s signals that I did not want him. I was already physically closed off to him, withdrawn, recoiled in revulsion. It would be no surprise to him; I just had to figure out the details of my escape plan.

Throughout the night, he kept going to the bathroom for extended periods of time. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing in there. The first time I could hear him pee and the toilet flushed, so obviously he was going to the bathroom for at least part of the time. The other times, the toilet didn’t flush and he was in there for so long it was just really bizarre and confusing. I thought maybe he was fluffing himself, but he would return only minimally hard.

After I resolved to end the experience, I slowly withdrew from his touch more and more and made a point of being less and less participatory. I wanted to end things gradually, rather than suddenly, and make it clear that I was losing interest. When the time seemed right, I excused myself to the bathroom to gain composure. When I came out he was standing up near my bedroom door waiting for me, as if he had been listening to me in the bathroom as I peed and washed my face. It was kind of creepy. I kissed him a little, careful to allow a distance between our bodies, and I guided him back to my bed so we could chat. We kissed a little more, slowly—what would be considered sweetly if you could use such an adjective in a situation like this—and I fondled his flaccid penis for a few seconds, sloppily rubbing, cupping and fumbling around, as if to make a point that I was brushing over the area. Then, I looked at him and said in resignation, “It seems like we are both getting pretty tired.” I thought it was an extremely tactful way to say it. I am a nice girl. But really I was pitching it in a way as to not embarrass him so he would be cooperative. It didn’t have to be an antagonistic parting, just a “this obviously isn’t working out for either of us.”

But he was determined. He said, “Genie, be patient. I want to fuck your brains out. I just need a minute.” And with that line it was over, because I couldn’t think of anything more repulsive than the prospect of him fucking my brains out. And besides, one minute! I had already given him forty-five to get his shit together. I would have even fucked him if he had been able to stay hard initially, before I had the one minute and then two minutes and then fifteen to think about how much I didn’t want to be in the situation. I do believe that if I was patient enough and waited, eventually he would piss the alcohol out of his system and his dick would function properly. But I certainly wasn’t about to give him another forty-five minutes of my time, and I was sure it would take even longer than that.

He asked me to suck his limp dick again. I thought of the stench of his pubic area. Why would I torture myself with his dick in my mouth only to get it hard for sex I didn’t want to have?  I declined the request: “I’m sorry, I’d rather not. Maybe we should call it a night.” And he said, “Okay, just kiss me for a while longer.” I obliged—in favor of ending things on good terms—in a restrained and withdrawn manner as to make it clear that I wanted the experience to be over with asap. After a while he said, “Okay, it seems like you are getting tired of my bullshit.” I politely replied, “No, it’s not that; it’s just that I’m not really into this.”

He excused himself to the bathroom one more time for an excessive amount of time and I thought to myself, “Is he jerking off in there?” If so, why would he even bother? He would have to start from scratch. But I couldn’t figure out what was going on in there. It seemed so strange. I thought he was preparing to leave.

Just in case he changed his mind about things or his dick magically worked again, I wrapped my whole buddy in covers—I mummified myself—so that when he reentered my room, I was wholly physically inaccessible to him. Gathering people’s clothing together is such a bother and I wasn’t in the mood to be especially helpful except for the fact that I wanted him out. What shocked me was his boldness in standing naked in front of my window, on the second floor across the street from a bar. Most people at least comment on it, so I did, in case he somehow missed our conspicuous location. I didn’t care for my sake—well, maybe I would have been a little embarrassed to be seen with him—but it seems almost rude not to go through the motions when you are in someone else’s place. Like I said, this guy has no shame.

Not to be excessively gross about this, but I did learn one thing from his unapologetic exposure in my living room. You know how penises are darker than bodies and how guys with red hair easily turn red? Well, red heads’ pubic areas turn abnormally red. Once I hooked up with a guy with red hair who I initially thought might have herpes, also a repulsive sexual experience for reasons similar to those in this case. But all it is, is excessively red skin, the red-headed version of the sex flush. As my best friend said, I too literally saw him “in color.” I hope my stats boy doesn’t have an excessively red groin area, or at least I hope he has a freckly penis to go along with it. That would be charming, like polka dots. Fanciful, even.

I should have known that the night was going to be a bust when I was telling him about how doctors should encourage people to fuck dildos, as a surgical alternative, and he said, “I’m not so sure about that; I think doctors should encourage people to fuck people.” I considered fucking dildos in front of him to knock him down a notch. And here I was worried that his cockiness would extend into the bedroom. Ultimately, though, I can’t complain. Unlike the “Say hello to Hector for me” guy, Tom left politely upon suggestion. This situation, however, called for prompt departure because the message was “I don’t want you,” not “I want a vibrator in addition to you.”

He was going to leave with out making a gesture, then kissed me goodbye, which was conciliatory and appeased me. It is better to leave things on good terms, but I almost wish he didn’t so I could send him a text message stating, “You can improve upon perfection.”

After three weeks of vacation, the unthinkable happened: I fell asleep while watching porn, not out of exhaustion, but boredom! To be filed under: ways in which you know you lead a cushy life, a student’s lifestyle. Upon waking up to harsh reality of my couch (my neck hurt!), I had an epiphany of sorts, the distinct realization that I had to seriously reevaluate my life. See also: that time in college when I bumped into the biggest bitch in my high school class twice within a month (time to reconsider the private school dives in which I was hanging out).

Drastic times call for drastic measures, and I declared: I need to get laid. So I took out my book of men, and I skimmed through the list of potential suitors. Just kidding, of course. I didn’t even have to take out my informal mental list of people whom I would fuck were I to get desperate enough. I contacted Andy, my favorite thing about him being that I could call him at 1am the night of and he would be flattered, not insulted. I think he is even beyond flattery and would just evaluate the situation according to utility–utility and absurdity. But this required careful planning. The last time I decided I needed to get laid, I started contacting guys at approximately 11pm and it was too late (although, I must commend myself for being good and refraining from getting off from the time I made a point out of contacting people until the time I realized it wasn’t going to happen).

The trouble with sex is the planning. You can’t plan ahead, because how will you know how horny you’ll be, but if you wait ’til you really need it, you want to get off before you go through all the trouble of having someone come over. I suppose it is all in orgasm budgeting. Sometimes before I go out I think: I need to get laid, so I will only get off once, but if I go out and can’t attain sex I don’t want to be disappointed (after all, it would be a shame to waste horniness), so I will get off once just in case. I am a cautious girl, a careful planner, highly organized. I would have aced study skills class in 5th grade if it weren’t for my lack of talking due to a fear of public humiliation for uttering the word “like.”

On Tuesday, I contacted Andy for a date on Thursday night. I figured, even if I was magically deficient of horniness by Thursday night, at least I would not fall asleep on him. That is more than I could say for my porn. Thursday night came and I was still plenty horny (good thing my reckless sleeping habits steer me clear from the temptation of compulsive masturbation–I mean, the execution of it). Andy seemed interested in hanging out but uncertain if Thursday night was the best time for him (something about having to go to Brooklyn to pay his rent). I had plans Friday and Saturday, Wednesday wouldn’t work for me, and I was determined to get laid by the end of the week. Not to sound disgusting about it or anything–I really don’t have a list of guys and I don’t think guys are replaceable or expendable–but I got this fb message on Wednesday night, the timing of which seemed too convenient to be true. Over the summer I met this guy with red hair–let’s call him “Tom”–and he was currently in the city for his last week of law school vacation. When I met him, I had taken his number with the rough intention of calling him if were ever to get desperate enough, but last time he visited the city I half responded and half blew him off and generally displayed a lack of interest, which maybe he mistakenly read as coyness or playing hard-to-get. I’d say it was hard to get me desperate enough at a time which corresponded to his infrequent visits to the city. Never would I ever look twice at him if he didn’t have red hair. I sent him a msg back saying I might be free late Saturday night and for now I had tentative plans on Wednesday, but if they fell through maybe we could work something out. I would have much preferred Andy, but I wasn’t going to pass up the potential for back-up plans. And if I suddenly came to my senses and realized that someone for whom you lack interest is never going to be an acceptable sexual partner, it wasn’t like I even had to cancel on him.

You already know how this story ends: imperfectly. I met up with Tom late-night after he had already been out with his friends. Before I explain the disaster of an evening that was to be gilded in red-haired history, let me relay my initial impression of him, or rather the impression of the friend who introduced us. Our mutual friend first went to college with me, then transferred to an Ivy where he had transferred the year before. They were childhood family friends. I went through the transfer application process with my friend and we applied to a pool of schools similar in academic standing, but, for the most part, divergent in social atmosphere. I got into this particular Ivy but was too much of an elitist snob to go on account of not wanting to go to college with kids like those with whom I went to high school. I was soo over high school. Anxiously awaiting our midterm grades, which would be somewhat determinant of where we would get in, she said something like, “You know what it is like when it’s like you need to go to an Ivy so you can meet the right type of guy and so the right type of guy can get the right impression of you.” The answer was: of course; I’m not going to lie about whence I came. But that I can relate doesn’t imply that I want to perpetuate such superficial brand-name standards, which isn’t to say that it doesn’t go without a sense of embarrassment or at least annoyance when people don’t acknowledge my degree from an unprestigious (but well-respected and academically rigorous) institution as equally estimable or indicative of my being the right kind of company. When I meet people in New York City, sometimes I name-drop my high school. Okay, I am a tool. Or at least don’t want to be at a disadvantage as compared to others against whom I’m being judged and with whom I could easily compete if it weren’t for the obscurity of my school and the chance circumstances that determined my matriculation. But this is what I am getting at. My friend who espouses and condones these values, who perpetuates these standards, introduced me to this guy and told me that he is a tool. That is pretty low. He is the kind of guy who name-drops the law firm at which he had his summer internship, then (if he can’t think of a reason to drop the rankings of his law school or his firm) devalues his peers as to increase his purported worth. He is the kind of guy who would talk about how he can’t relate to certain people his age because of their immaturity. Humble he is not. And why should he be? He is from a rich, Jewish suburb of New York, transferred to an Ivy after commencing his college education at an academic institution wholly unimpressive for someone of his advantage, got in to one of the top law schools in the country, got a coveted summer internship which was followed by a job offer, and is generally moving up in the world of numerically measured success. I am sure you can tell already what a bore he is and my writing about his merits exhaustively is really a ploy, a literary device used to put the reader in my shoes. And now you can relate. To the two and a half hours of conversation through which I suffered, and suffered without adequate quantities of alcohol, as to not ruin the sex for which I had such high expectations.

At the first bar, I told him about this article I was writing about vaginal rejuvenation. This is the kind of small talk I like to have with the strangers I fuck so they know I am the right kind of company, the kind of girl they might come across at the type of academic institution which people attend almost exclusively so they can meet the right type of guy and so they can avoid quizzical and dismissive looks upon being questioned by the future lawyers and bankers of America, who will never really respect them for their brains anyway. I explained that the biggest travesty of vaginal rejuvenation surgery is not the vaginal slaughter; it is that doctors conceal or flippantly brush-off the non-surgical alternative, Kegels, which can be performed by fucking dildos, fucking anything–fucking. Upon careful consideration of the options, I am pretty sure that most women would choose fucking dildos. Even upon non-careful, extremely careless consideration of the options, I am pretty sure that most women would choose fucking dildos. If doctors (okay, maybe plastic surgeons who perform elective and cosmetic surgeries shouldn’t be considered real doctors, like how people don’t consider art history Ph.D.’s real doctors) recommended this rather agreeable “procedure” and there were clinical trials to confirm, there could be advertisements on television proclaiming, “Dildos: clinically proven to fight loose vagina.” I would revel in the listing of side-effects; “May cause soreness, lack of interest in leaving the home, and all the side-effects of marijuana smoking as listed in the Afroman song.” As a grade-A jerk, Tom seemed to relate to the phenomenon of vaginal looseness, but when I explained to him that guys can do Kegels too, and that the PC muscles are the same muscles you use to control the flow of pee, he asked me why on earth any guy would engage in such a futile exercise. I explained that besides increasing orgasm strength–also a benefit for females–it could increase ejaculatory control. He replied, “You can’t improve upon perfection.”

By the time we were at the second bar and I was a drink and a half in, I thought, I cannot do this. Even I am too good for this. I agreed to a third drink only because I didn’t want the date to be a complete waste. Alcohol consumption has increasing returns the more you drink up to a point. Two drinks would be a waste of his money and my time. As I was sitting there, thinking that I could not in fact do what I set out to do, I thought the unthinkable: I shouldn’t have orgasm budgeted today. As if I am going to waste my horniness on him. It would have been so much better if I had just done it before when I was actually horny. I can’t think of anything worse to think about a person, that they are unworthy of an orgasm you would have spent on yourself, that if would have been spent on you and wasted on them. Instead of orgasm budgeting, I considered alcohol budgeting. I thought about how I didn’t want to be too drunk to get myself off upon returning home alone, but given that it would have been better if I had gotten off earlier in the evening (rather than being prudent and self-restrained, as is my nature with anything not pertaining to sex,) would drunken getting off be more fun that somewhat-sober getting off that, at best, would still be less than what it could have been? All the could haves and should haves in life, the orgasms missed, the opportunities gone forever. In this bar, across from the list of credentials, thinking about the cosmic importance of orgasms (as analogous to potential and kinetic energy, gone forever vs. simply transformed in form) and how my vagina has way more utility to me than he does and the rest of the night will be determined in terms of utility to my vagina. Perhaps I will craft a vagina-utility index.

One more drink for good measure. Drunk getting off is awfully fun. Alcohol-budgeting and orgasm-budgeting go hand-in-hand. The last half an hour of our conversation was the most insufferable.

We began talking about Green Day because when you have nothing in common with someone and, thus, nothing to talk about, you bring up culturally relevant things, pop culture referents about which anyone in a certain age-group has a certain level of knowledge. Green Day: Could there be a more benign topic? He asked me my favorite album. He told me his was Warning and I LOL’d! Except he was seriously offended, like who are you to judge me for my musical taste. He defended his choice; “They set out to make a Kinks album and that’s exactly what they did; they made the perfect Kinks album.” I continued to LOL because who is he to think that his music taste in above being judged and who is he to care. Give me a break. Get over yourself. I certainly have–gotten over him, that is. I have no tolerance for people who have no sense of humor about themselves. I like shitty music and I quite frankly don’t give a fuck if people make fun of me for my musical preferences. It just doesn’t matter. We are not still five years old. We can laugh at other people for petty and inconsequential things without the fear of offending them–or so I thought.

At some point, after he bored me with his standard list of short-term goals, which included passing the bar, being more positive!, etc., he stated that they were only short-term goals. Because I am a good conversationalist–or because I had to pretend I was at least somewhat interested in him as a person, if I was to get away with going out for the drinks and skipping out on the sex–I asked him what his long-term goals are, as if I fucking care. I thought I would get a generic and respectable answer, but he said the most vile thing I have ever heard on a date: Having sons. That is his long-term goal–not having “children,” rather having “sons.” I asked him, “What about daughters?” He looked perplexed, as if it had never occurred to him and, moreover, he couldn’t imagine why it would occur to me. He hemmed and hawed for a minute, grappling with the idea of what he would do were he to have the misfortune or, at least, unintended consequence, of knocking a girl up only to receive a daughter, God forbid! He said something about yeah he guessed he might want daughters too but it wasn’t like a goal or anything. I think I could have cringed less if he announced that his long-term goal was finding a trophy wife; at least, that is more along the lines of what I expected from him. Well, it’s settled then. Thanks Tom, for letting me know in advance that when we have children you won’t love our daughters, and will probably never love or respect me because I am a woman. Fuck you, you sexist, elitist, tool. I have listened to two hours of your self-aggrandizing bullshit, put up with your cockiness and self-satisfaction and even your incessant bragging about the ease with which you bag girls (it must be the charm). You repay me by letting me know that there are guys out there (my father included) who will never think highly of me, always be disappointed with me, because I was born a woman. This was too much for even me. I thought, never would I ever tap that.

Toward the end of the evening, he started caressing my face from across the table, leaning across the table to deliver a peck on the lips and faux flattery–affectionate, but sleazy gestures. He reminded me of Ryan Phillippee in Cruel Intentions, only full of expectancy and devoid of hotness. I was somewhat repulsed and thought, you don’t need to do that. Either I will go home with you or not, and if I go home with you it is not because I like you. Stop bothering; you aren’t furthering your case. There is nothing you could do to make yourself any more palatable to me.  I don’t like being bullshitted and there is no use in romanticizing the situation. We both know why we are here and it isn’t out of mutual regard for each other.

But then something changed. As the night dragged on, I began to rationalize it: We are on a fuck date–the only reason we are having drinks is so we can fuck afterwards. I knew before I agreed to go out with him that I didn’t like him; my cognitive stance had not changed much throughout the evening. The only thing that lessened my opinion of him substantially was that he had grown an overly-manicured beard, when previously he was clean-shaven. At the end of the night, right before he paid the check, he pulled his body up against mine and gave me a real kiss. I thought: That is kind of hot. Everyone feels the same in the dark. And I reminded myself that I had this lighting issue in my room, so I wouldn’t even have to see him. I could focus on the sensation and ignore him entirely. How serendipitous. In a decision-making process that could rival the one employed in the “Say hello to Hector for me” situation, if only I could remember that one, my final rationalization was: I have already suffered through two and a half hours of conversation with him; I think I’ve earned the sex. After all, the only reason I went out with him was for the sex. I am an extremely pragmatic person, or else a lazy one, and I don’t like feeling like I’ve wasted my time, my cognitive energy. It is like the classic social psych paradigm where once you’ve committed, you don’t want to retract your decision because it would be admitting you were wrong in the first place. Considering fucking him was almost as embarrassing as fucking him and came without any material reward. There is no way to justify the consideration of sex, but the enactment of sex is self-explanatory. Thank God for psych majors. Or those who are convinced easily only by themselves.