Wednesday, October 15, 2014

The Pussy Knows

He shows up to Urth Cafe an hour late wearing a shirt that says THE PUSSY KNOWS. I can smell his breath from across the table—hot and musty—and his shirt is damp when we hug.
“I’ve got so much energy flowing through me right now.”
He has just come from a seminar on the female orgasm. On his OKCupid profile, he is a self-proclaimed “female orgasm expert.” Obviously, this is why I’m here.

We talk about Law of Attraction (which he doesn’t believe in), and about how people are much more intuitive than they realize (which we agree on). To demonstrate this principle, when the food runner comes to our table carrying a slice of coconut custard pie and a turkey burger, my date insists he guess which belongs to whom.
“Come on, man, you know the answer.”
The food runner looks flustered and continues to repeat the names of the items, as if we haven’t heard.
Eventually, Orgasm Man gives up and sighs, “the pie is for her.”
I eat my pie with gusto, and he smiles at me, "You have a healthy sense of your own appetite."
"I love food!" I exclaim.
"Not just with eating," he says with a suggestive wink.

Later, he puts his hand on the table between us and I know I’m supposed to put my hand on his. I do, feeling the sweat gather in my palm. He stares into my eyes and we don’t say anything for awhile. Then, he smiles.
“I felt that. That wave you just sent through my body. I can feel it at the base of my cock.”
My mouth twitches into a snicker, but I choose to stay in the game. Also, I’m intrigued. In his very first message to me on OKCupid, he had said, “I find myself standing amongst a ton of people stroking pussy and for some reason in this moment I want to say hi.” I wondered if this was a metaphor—turns out it wasn’t, he actually teaches workshops in which men and women couple off and the man spends fifteen minutes stroking the woman's pussy. So, I knew what I was getting into with this guy, and it doesn’t particularly surprise me when he starts talking about the sensations he's feeling in his cock. However, I do get a hell of a kick out of the fact that this is happening over coffee at Urth CafĂ©.

I have to say, I don’t feel much sexual chemistry with this guy. It’s not that he’s not attractive, it’s just that by talking a lot about sex and what’s going on with his cock, the whole sexy game is demystified in an unsexy way. However, I am convinced that this Female Orgasm Expert has to be dynamite in bed. I don’t think that’s an unfair assumption.

At some point, after another long bout of staring into each other’s eyes, he asks, “Do you want to make out?”
I say, “Sure. In the Coffee Shop?”
“No,” he smiles.
And so we leave.
He walks me to my car and then we stand facing each other and, in slow motion, move closer and closer until our noses are touching. Then we slowly bring our mouths and tongues together, and he starts moaning, apparently very into it. I have to say, I am still more amused than turned on.
“Do you want to have sex?” he asks, matter-of-fact.
“Sure,” I say. Despite my incredible lack of horniness, I feel like turning down sex with the orgasm expert is not a smart move.
Then we start to work out logistics. I live East Side, he lives West Side, we met in the middle. I also have an important meeting the next day, and do not want to stay up all night fucking.
“Couple things. I have my period--“
“Don’t care.”
“And I have a big meeting tomorrow so I need to go to sleep soon.”
“I come custom,” he says. “Whatever you want, we’ll do it. I can come over, fuck you for 20 minutes and leave. You can come over and spend the night, or not. Whatever you want. What do you want?”
To be honest, if I listen to my instinct, I want to go home. Alone. I want to crawl into bed and get lots of sleep. But I feel like I have already agreed to the sex and I should probably follow through on that.
“Let’s fuck in the car,” I say.
“I knew you were going to say that,” says the Psychic Orgasm Expert.

We walk to his car, actually his roommate’s SUV he has borrowed for the night. He’s parked on a residential street that’s very well-lit and there are several people milling about. He clears out the trunk, puts down the back seats, makes a pretty functional bed. At this point, logistics are overwhelming passion and I try to think of how I’m going to get myself more in the mood. I pull out my tampon and, with no trash in sight, deposit it in a Recycling bin.
“Sorry, Recycling,” I say.
We then decide to move the car so we get back inside and drive around, looking for a darker, less inhabited spot. We park and crawl into the back.
He pulls off all his clothes, saying, “No time for the sexy undressing of each other.”
I’m wearing a dress so I leave it on. He doesn’t have a condom, but fortunately I do. He puts it on, gets on top of me, and pulls a boob out of my dress.
“You’ve got great tits.”
He plays with them a little, but then immediately starts to push his erection into me. I shift slightly, trying to accommodate him.
“Relax,” he says. So I just lay there while he sticks it in dry, feeling a little sore from the lack of a warm up act.
Then he fucks me for like fifteen minutes. At some point, he says, “This is the point where I would usually ask if you want to get on top.”
We just keep on doing what we’re doing. Every time I try to adjust myself to get into a position where I might possibly come, he tells me to “just relax.”
After a little while, he says, “I’m going to come inside you.” And then he does.
He lies on top of me for a bit, then rolls over, and starts getting dressed.
“That was awesome,” he exclaims.
I just lie there in the dark, thinking ‘that was it?’
He massages my legs for a couple minutes, and then it’s time to go.
For all those pussy-stroking workshops, he doesn’t stroke my pussy at all. Not even for a second.

He drives me back to my car and invites me to a workshop he’s teaching on Monday near where I live.
“I think I have something on my calendar for that day.”
I drive home, feeling a little grossed out. I don’t usually fuck strangers in cars, but the goddamn Female Orgasm Expert? I feel like I’ve been scammed. I look him up online and he is who he says he is—he’s a partner in an organization that specializes in female orgasm. He has youtube videos talking about it, he’s legit. People pay him to teach them how to give a woman pleasure—what? Then I get a little sad for the state of affairs between men and women—if this guy has no fucking idea about female orgasms, it doesn’t leave much hope for the rest of them.

That was Thursday. This is Friday.

I feel I can’t write too much about my second OKCupid date because, in my drunkenness, I accidentally told him about my blog, and I make it a rule not to write about anybody that might potentially read this. 

HOWEVER, there are some details that simply cannot be left unwritten.

My second OKCupid date is with a short Jewish man. I’ve been messaging with this person on and off for like six months. Early on, in reaction to something he said, I jokingly responded, “I don’t think this is going to work.” He countered with, “Well, it was worth a shot. I guess we should part with as much dignity as possible. So, uh… Nice rack.” Not gonna lie, his bluntness/ rudeness had kind of turned me on, and I decided to objectify him back: “And you look like the porn star James Deen, so I’ll enjoy that later…” Which was actually true, he did remind me of James Deen, which was 90% of the appeal. Then he said, “Yeah, I get that… a lot. Though more in person. Take that how you will. Or take that how you’d prefer. But, you know, take it.” This had my triangle throbbing a little, and again I was intrigued. Then I asked, “So you look like James Deen, but do you fuck like James Deen?” To which, he essentially said yes. As with Orgasm Man, this seemed an opportunity too good to pass up.

Turns out, he looks less like James Deen in person. We meet at what he calls a “dive bar” and to me looks like a nicely-lit Chinese restaurant. He’s nicer in person than his snarky online personality. And he’s clearly nervous, laughing a lot and too loudly. As the drinks flow, the snarkiness reemerges and he starts giving me sideways glances and kind of talking down to me. His condescension is annoying but also annoyingly sexy. We move closer and closer as the night progresses, and eventually we start making out in the bar.

His place is walking distance, so we head out at 2am, stopping at a 7 Eleven on the way so he can buy a cheap bottle of red wine. I comment that this particular 7 Eleven is the “crackiest” one I’ve ever been too. Which is true, and I’ve been to lots of 7 Elevens in my day. He then comments that I’m the “whitest” person he’s ever met. I notice that he has a bit of a thing about whiteness, because he was born in the Ukraine and grew up in a very white suburban town on the East Coast, where he was the “most ethnic” kid in school. He still looks pretty white to me.

He tells me that there are two Korean guys living in his apartment—his landlord apparently rented to them without asking him, and they don’t speak English or talk to him at all.
“I’m going to make friends with them,” I exclaim, drunkenly.
“You’re like the biggest seven year old in the world,” he tells me, not for the first or last time that night. I find it hilarious every time he says it.

We don’t see any Koreans when we arrive at his place, but there’s a curtain in the corner of the apartment, and I guess they’re living behind it. We beeline for his bedroom, where we make out on the couch and he pulls off my clothes.
“You look good naked,” he says.
He moves us to the bed, and we have sex. It’s actually pretty hot—he’s aggressive and passionate. At one point, he sucks too hard on my tongue and I groan and push him away. “Aw,” he teases, condescendingly.

After we have sex, I’m sprawled out naked on his bed. He points at my crotch.
“This is unusual,” he says. I look down. Everything looks in order to me.
“This landing strip. I haven’t seen a girl with pubic hair in years.”
Truth be told, I have very little pubic hair, and I’m surprised he’s pointing it out.
“I guess it depends on the kind of girls you’re fucking,” I say.
“Not necessarily. A girl could be a saint and she still would have shaved pubes.”
“It has nothing to do with sainthood, it’s cultural,” I respond. “Does it bother you?”
“No, I don’t mind. I’m just not big on hair.”
I wish I could show you a photo of this guy naked and how completely COVERED IN HAIR he is. I’m surprised that someone this hairy has the audacity to point out the like square inch of hair on my entire body.

“I don’t usually date white girls,” he says. Here we go again with the ethnic profiling. “At least not ones as All-American looking as you.”
“Really? I don’t think of myself as All-American looking.”
There’s that sideways glance again. “You look like a cheerleader. Were you a cheerleader in high school?”
If I had liquid in my mouth, I would do a spit take.
“I was a theatre nerd!” But thanks for not listening to a goddamn word I've said all night. 
He suddenly seems annoyed with me, as if now that he’s come, he realizes he’s fucked an “All-American white cheerleader girl” and feels bad about it, or something. I don’t know. I get up to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“You seem annoyed or something. I think I’m gonna go home.”
“Come here,” he extends his arms. I pull on my pants.
He grabs me and pulls me down on the bed. Takes off my pants. And fucks me again.

I don’t come, he doesn’t seem to care. I head for the bathroom, naked, and I can hear someone in there running the faucet. I guess the Koreans are home.

At 4am, I walk the five blocks or so back to my car, and I wonder if I should have stood up for myself more. If I owe it to the next woman who sleeps with this guy to tell him he has no right to judge anything on my body—I have a banging body and he’s a short hairy little man. I wonder, like I always do after an orgasm-free One Night Stand, if I’m supposed to point out to these dudes that I didn’t come, and that they might try harder next time. Or at all. Or if I should wait to be asked. Orgasm Man didn’t ask me if the sex was great, he thought it was "awesome". I like to think if he had asked, I would have told him. I want to think I’m a good communicator in the bedroom, but I think I’m learning that guys really have no fucking idea and they need to be hit over the head with the cold hard facts. Even the ones who claim to be Orgasm Experts or say they fuck like James Deen. Perhaps they set the bar too high for themselves, and then pussy out and decide not to even try, because they know they can’t live up to the expectations they’ve built. Why would they do this? And why do I continue to fall for it?

The little Jewish Man’s follow up later that night: “You know, all in all, that wasn’t a bad date. Or maybe it’s just been a while for me.” I’m not sure how to respond to this.
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” I say.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Sex Like a Man

Last weekend, my new housemates and I threw a wicked party. And I got wicked drunk. And in my drunken state, I explored what I think it means to have sex like a man–- and found it’s much more complicated than it seems.

The previous weekend, at my guy friend Keith’s birthday party, I had developed a crush on this cute party boy Music Manager. I told my friend Keith to invite this cutie to my party the following weekend, but hadn’t heard any response so assumed it sort of fell through the cracks. I was also not entirely sure from our interaction if this dude was interested or not, and had heard he might be sort of gay, so my hopes were not high. 

Naturally, when he shows up at my party Saturday night, I’m surprised and excited. I look fabulous in incredibly high platform wedges and an incredibly short bright white tennis dress. His vibes are a little flirtier than our last exchange, so I decide to invite him to see the “view from my bedroom” (which is actually amazing). He comes up and I close the door, because I’m feeling bold and saucy, and turn off the lights. We look out at the reservoir, and then we’re kissing. And he’s aggressively feeling on my body. He tells me he’s kind of uncomfortable with this because my ex-boyfriend is at the party (and they’re friends)— I tell him my ex knows I have a crush on him and that we have his blessing. This makes him more uncomfortable. Despite his discomfort, I guess he’s into me. But apparently he’s also not quite hard (he’s very drunk), so he says “let’s go socialize with the other people and come back later.”

We return to the others, and continue to party. Whenever we find ourselves alone, he lifts up my skirt and we makeout a little. 
“I like the taste of your saliva,” he breaths into my mouth.
“What does it taste like?”

At 2am, it suddenly feels like a lot of people have left and the party is winding to a close. I think it’s probably time to seal the deal with Music Manager. Just as I have this thought, a group of like 30 people walk through the door, about 10 of which are very tall, hot men. One in particular is very very very hot and I think, there’s no way I could bag this guy. But I’m feeling drunk and bold so I zero in on him, touching him, making fun of him, leaning in on him. I guess he too is interested because when we’re not canoodling, he keeps eye-fucking me from across the room. And when I return to Music Manager on the porch, I can feel Hot Guy watching me through the window. I try to tone down my body language with Music Manager, because to be honest, he didn’t seal the deal in a timely fashion, and I’ve gone back on the market. 

The rest of the night plays out like a hilarious/stressful love triangle. I disappear with Hot Guy into the garage, where we play a terrible game called Drinko in which the goal is to drop a chip into a shot glass that the other person then has to drink-– we’re classy so we’re playing with Bud Light. Music Manager comes searching for me, looking wounded and 100% wasted, and still drinking. It’s nearing the wee hours. Music Manager gets me alone in the kitchen and puts his hands under my dress, leaning into me.
“I don’t like that other guy. You’re gonna fuck him aren’t you?” He slurs at me.
"No," I giggle, not even convincing myself.
I hear someone coming so I try to pry his hands off my crotch.
He frowns. “Are you ashamed of me?”
I try to laugh it off, but I know this is a dick move on my part. My justification is that Music Manager is far too drunk to have sex at this point, and I refuse to deal with erectile dysfunction tonight. This is my party dammit!

I’m aware of myself unintentionally acting like a man, taking what I want and not giving a fuck. And it actually feels great. I’m drunk enough that I’m not too worried about the hurt feelings potentially involved in making out with one guy at midnight and fucking another several hours later. I feel like dudes do this kind of thing and don’t think much of it–- it must be cool to be a dude. Also, because of my drunkenness, I find myself not really caring too much about the outcome of the night. For once, I’m going with the flow. I’m not trying to orchestrate the booty call–- and this must be an attractive quality because both of the potentials are still hanging around at 5am, waiting to see who will get the final look at my view this fine evening.

At 5am, there are six of us left. Three of us are Hot Guy, Music Manager, and me. I leave my two boys in the garage and go for a cigarette with my gay friend. 
“How do I get rid of Music Manager so I can fuck Hot Guy?” I ask, desperate.
“You might just have to give them both up for tonight.”
What? That’s terrible advice.
I devise a brilliant plan while Music Manager is in the bathroom. I pull Hot Guy out of the garage.
“Do you want to stay here?”
“I could,” he says coyly.
“Okay, you have to go upstairs and wait for me.”
I pull him towards the stairs. But just as we get there, Music Manager comes out of the bathroom. He sees us. Hot Guy heads into the kitchen. I pull Music Manager towards the door.
“Are you going to Uber home?” I ask.
“You’re gonna fuck that guy!” He gives me sad puppy eyes. I put my finger on his lips, trying to keep him quiet.
“No, I’m just trying to get everyone out so I can go to bed,” I lie.
I pry the Bud Light out of his hand as I open the front door for him.
He’s so drunk I don’t think he’ll remember this rejection in the morning. Or at least I hope not. I know I’m being a bad host as I say, “You’re gonna Uber right? Please don’t drive.”
I give him a light push out the door. He grabs the Bud Light from my hand.
“I feel like a loser,” he says.
“Oh no.” I bring him in for a hug and kiss. We kiss with tongues, which is confusing for everyone.
“Rain check,” I say, “We should hang out.” And I mean it. I like him when he’s not this drunk. I just need to fuck Hot Guy tonight.

And I do fuck Hot Guy. And it’s okay. I actually think it would have been better with Music Manager. At 6am, we lie down to go to sleep and I try to close the blinds so we won’t be blasted with sun in an hour. He sleeps soundly, even snores. I of course can’t sleep at all and keep getting out of bed to pee, to get two glasses of ice water, to pee again. At 8am, I start to feel remorseful about Music Manager. I remember that his phone died at some point last night, and I wonder how he Ubered home without a phone. I think if he drove drunk and died, it’s my fault. I text my ex for his number. My ex responds, “How did it go last night?” I text back a pic of my sleeping conquest, and even as I’m doing it, I’m aware that this is a creepy thing to do. 

I text Music Manager.
“Sorry I had to kick you out last night. You were too drunk and I didn’t want to take advantage of you ;-). Did you make it home okay I hope??” I feel this text has a nice spin on it, and might make him think that’s what actually happened. I think there’s a chance he won’t even remember the existence of Hot Guy.

At 10am, I rub my body on my bedmate and wake him up with my boobs. We have sex again, and it’s better this time. More spontaneous, less love triangle. I don’t come but I’ve come to expect this from one night stands. We talk for a bit and he has to leave— he has a conference call at noon. He tells me a bit about his career, he’s obviously very smart and doing well for himself— he has his own production company, producing commercials, music videos, documentaries, etc. 

Because I have a big mouth, I can’t help but tell him I’m worried about Music Manager. I even say, “He was cock blocking me! I had to get rid of him. I wasn’t gonna fuck both of you guys last night, and you obviously won.”

Why do I insist on saying things like this out loud? I guess I find them funny, but it takes a special kind of guy to enjoy this brand of humor. My ex would have laughed. Maybe it’s me trying (and failing) to act like a dude. Dudes know how to act casual about sex while keeping these transparent statements to themselves.

“Thanks for the fucking,” I say this too, and again immediately regret it. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism to pretend I care less than I do. Maybe it’s my way of saying “I know I’m never going to see you again so I can be as gross as possible and it doesn’t matter.” Or maybe I’m hoping one of these guys will end up being as crude as I am. Regardless, even as the verbal diarrhea is streaming out my mouth, I’m aware of shooting myself in the foot, dashing any chance at a second date. Hot Guy laughs politely at my antics, but I get the sense he doesn’t really understand where I’m coming from.

We kiss goodbye and I say, “it was nice to meet you.” We both laugh. I also wish I would stop saying this after one night stands. He doesn’t get my number, which doesn’t necessarily surprise, or even bother me… until later.

Later, after I’ve cleaned my house and slept for three hours, I start to think about him. A lot. I do some lite stalking on Facebook and Instagram. I find a picture with his wholesome looking family. I Friend him on Facebook, then several hours later undo the Friend request. I guiltily ask my male roommate for his number (they’re friends, that’s why he was at my party). I text Hot Guy at 8pm: “Hey, it’s me (from last night)… I had fun with you, if you’re interested I would love to hang sometime.” I wait for a response for awhile. Leave the room for five minutes, and check my phone when I return–- thinking I might have missed his text while I was gone. I make myself dinner and watch Sex and the City and try to forget about him. My new obsession, gradually taking the place of the last one.

The next morning, I still haven’t received any response and I’ve given up. Unless my roommate gave me a bogus number, there’s no way he didn’t get my message. 

I guess this is what happens when a woman tries to have sex like a man. My friends often laugh and say I treat sex like a dude treats sex. I guess this is true in some ways-– I have casual sex without feeling remorseful about it, I pursue sex more than most of the men I know. But the difference comes in the follow up. I have sex like a man, but my post-sex practices are decidedly female. I want that follow up text. I want the “Hey, I had fun last night. I would love to grab dinner sometime.” And this really goes against the rules of casual sex, particularly one night stands. It’s in the name: One Night Stand–- it’s supposed to be for ONE NIGHT. I don’t know why I can’t get this into my head. There’s not supposed to be any expectation beyond that. The problem for me, and I think for a lot of women, is that something gets turned on by sex. What felt casual before changes because there’s some hormonal, primal, biological response that wants to latch on to the man that fucks me. It makes sense in nature, but it really doesn’t work out well in this culture of casual dating and sex, Tinder and OKCupid, and all that shit.

I ask my ex what he does when someone he likes ignores his texts. 
“I move on,” he says. And I think that’s generally what men do, they move on. Whereas I will stare at my phone for 12 hours and agonize about why he didn’t write me back, about what I said to turn him off, a dude in my position would move on to the next. I don’t know how to do this, and it makes me think that maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to have casual sex until I figure it out. Because it takes a lot of energy. And I think, because I act all nonchalant and flippant with my conquests, they think I don’t require any follow up. I act like a dude and they treat me like one. They don’t see my feelings, because I hide them under statements like “thanks for the fucking.”

On Wednesday morning, as I’m writing this blog, I receive a text message. My heart starts pounding fast. It’s from Hot Guy’s number, the number I deleted on Monday when I hadn’t heard from him.
“Good morning… So I owe you an apology… I just looked at my text thread and realized that I never actually hit send on my previous response…”
I can’t believe my eyes. After all that agonizing, all those hours of staring at my phone, my bruised ego over being ignored. He never hit send on his response.

And I realize, this is why I fail at having sex like a man. It’s not that I can’t stop myself from endlessly commenting on the fact that that’s what I’m doing, it’s not my insistence on sticking my foot in my mouth at every possible opportunity. It’s the fact that when I fuck a guy and I don’t hear from him the next day, I am utterly incapable of letting it go and moving on with my life. That’s where the dudes really have me beat.