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.
"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 Café.
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.”
What?
“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.
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” I say.
