*Readers forgive me. As it is now Christmas Eve, this post
is late.*
It’s Thanksgiving week and I have a date with
John’s brother. John, if you’ll remember, is the bartender whose
dick I sucked on Halloween Night in the bathroom of the dive bar where he works. John who still
lives with his girlfriend. Whose brother is an incredibly hot trainer I fucked
over Labor Day weekend. The brother who lives in the Bay Area, where my parents
also live.
I actually set up this date before I sucked John’s dick. I
wanted a booty call prepped and ready to go for when I went home for the
holiday, so I texted John’s brother in mid-October that I would be up that way
the following month and we should “grab a drink.” He responded enthusiastically
that he would “love that.” After my encounter with John, I wasn’t really sure
what would happen. I was half expecting the whole thing to blow up in my face.
My roommate reassured me that, “John is not going to tell anybody about that.”
I figured she was probably right, John is probably trying to convince himself
the incident never occurred, not telling his brother (whom he knows I fucked)
about it.
The brother suggests we meet at this upscale new restaurant
where one of his clients works. I check it out on Yelp and notice the three
dollar signs indicating this place is pretty damn expensive. This makes me
slightly uncomfortable, as I picture sitting across from a one night stand at a
fine dining restaurant, when I would have been happy with a couple beers at a
dive bar followed by some heavy PDA culminating in a lot of hot sex. But the
other part of me—the less cynical, more romantic part—is excited to be going on
a real date.
“We’re having dinner!” I exclaim to my mom, who rolls her
eyes when I tell her this guy is a trainer at a gym. No wonder I’m such a snob.
I wear less clothes than I should because I want to look
sexy, and it’s fucking freezing. I drive over the Golden Gate Bridge with my
parents’ Fast Trak in my car, and arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes
early. I park like a block away and realize I’m shaking—I can’t tell if it’s
from anxiety or the cold, but I do feel suddenly quite nervous. I’ve only
interacted with this guy once, and we were both very hammered, and then we had
sex. Will I be able to spend a whole dinner talking to this person?
I’m there before him and snag a seat at the bar so it feels
a little less formal, and I can rub up next to him after we’ve had a drink or
five. I stare at the cocktail menu and think it’s probably a good idea to get
some alcohol in my system before he arrives. I’m still shaking. He arrives
right on time and at first I don’t recognize him. He looks different from the
Facebook photos I’ve been stalking since we had sex—really my only frame of
reference since I haven’t seen him in two months. He doesn’t seem very happy to
see me, but I now know this is guy code for nerves on a “first date.” I get up
to hug him and it’s a little stiff. He sits down on the stool to my right
rather than the one I’d been saving for him on my left. The bartender puts down
my drink and I offer him a taste.
“You like grapefruit cocktails,” he teases, I guess
remembering from last time. I’m pleased he remembers this detail about me. He
orders the same and I say I thought he was making fun of my cocktail choice.
“Simmer down,” he jokes. At least I get a little smile out
of him.
We look at the menu and he says, “I eat everything. I’m not
picky.” Good, because I hate picky eaters. We order three small plates to
share. He tells me he just came back from diving in Mexico, where he swam with
whale sharks—“the biggest fish in the sea.” He shows me a photo of how big they
can get; they look terrifying. He tells me about his work schedule—he works
from 5am to 6pm most days. He says he has to get up the next morning at 5am, he
doesn’t have a client until 6am.
“After we made this plan, I thought maybe Tuesday is not the
best day after all,” he laughs. I tell him we could have changed it. He shrugs.
We talk about the bar where we met, where he used to work
and John still does. I casually ask if John hates his job.
“Yeah, they all do. They’re all musicians and artists and
they’re not doing their art—they’re just working at the bar.” I tell him that’s
just LA.
He loosens up as he drinks and eventually asks me about what
I’m working on. I tell him I’m in transition, looking to do more of one of my
jobs and less of the other, that I’m doing a lot of different things right now,
and I feel a change coming. He says he’s jealous of that, that he gets bored in
his job because it’s the same all the time.
“Oh, I’m bored all the time!” I declare.
He tells me that he didn’t work out for a whole week in
Mexico, so the other day he took two spinning classes. I tell him about my
spinning-related vagina injury, prefacing the story with, “It’s a little early
in the night for this story,” and then diving right in. I leave out the fact
that this spinning class was on Halloween morning and that same night I ripped
the bandages from my crotch as I was crouched on the floor of the dive bar
sucking off his brother. I tell him instead about how I feel that spinning
decreases the sensitivity in my crotch area, and that I don’t want that—I want
“maximum sensitivity.” He smiles.
We order more cocktails and he starts smiling more and laughing
and enjoying himself. The food is pretty good. A couple times I reach under his
arm and run my fingers along his bicep, which is big and buff and satisfying to
touch. I rub his back a couple times. He grabs my knee and tickles me. I touch
his ribs and it makes him squirm. I remember that first night, when I boldly ran
my hands over his chest and sucked on his finger, making him hard and begging
me to stop. I wonder if he would respond to that behavior now, in this very
well-lit and classy restaurant. I wonder if he’s disappointed that I’m not
being quite so frisky tonight, but his body language doesn’t invite my touch
and when I do touch him, he seems slightly uncomfortable.
He asks if I want another drink and I tell him if I order
another one I’m not going to be able to drive home. As it is, I’m going to need
to sober up a bit if I plan to make it back to my parents’ place alive. He says
tentatively, “Well, my house is nearby. You could come hang out there for a bit
or whatever.” I can’t tell if he wants me to do this or he’s just being polite.
I wonder if he’s worried about pressuring me, as the first night we were
together when he suggested we go back to my place I held him off, not sure at
first. He had said at the time that he felt “creepy” to be pushing it. I wonder
if this guy is just really sensitive and is taking everything I say really to
heart—I wonder if he’s worried about pressuring me to come over and have sex,
when all I want to do is come over and have sex. At the same time, I can’t really
tell if he likes me that much. I remember him mentioning that he moved to San
Francisco for his girlfriend at the time, and I wonder now if he got his heart
broken and that’s why he seems so guarded.
We agree that we’ll go back to his place. We walk outside
and it’s fucking freezing. I shiver. He says, “I’d give you my jacket but it’s
not that warm.” I drive us the two blocks to his house and I really shouldn’t
be driving but it’s not far and he tells me he’ll “point out the stop signs.”
His place is nice—it’s a house he shares with two siblings, a boy and a girl,
and another girl who is Airbnb’ing it. We go into his room that has his bike
from when he did the AIDS Life Cycle ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles. He
turns on the overhead light and it’s really bright—I wish he had better
lighting. He takes off his shoes and I take off my shoes. I don’t know if he’s
expecting that we’re just going to sleep next to each other and I’m not sure he
would have made a move if I hadn’t swooped in on him. I put my arms around his
neck and kiss him. He reciprocates, grabbing my body. I love kissing him. He
pulls my pants halfway down and takes off his shirt.
“We need to do something about this lighting,” I declare. He
hits the light and it’s suddenly pitch black. I think this is fortunate because
I just got my period today and had been debating whether or not to tell him—now
with the lights off, I don’t have to! I have light periods anyway, and if
he’s the kind of guy who won’t screw a girl on her period, I don’t want to find out right now. I take off my shirt. I can feel he’s already hard and I move down,
pulling his briefs down as I go. I take him between my lips and he grabs the
back of my head, thrusting into my mouth. The aggressiveness of this act turns
me on, as it belies a need he has been so careful not to show me all evening.
He fucks my mouth and I take him all the way in. It’s a much more satisfying
blow job than I gave to John’s at half-mast.
I come up to kiss him again and he moves me back onto the
bed, pulling off my panties. He starts going down on me and it’s hard for me to
fully enjoy myself because I’m thinking about getting blood in his mouth. At
the same time, I don’t want to discourage him from doing this because not
enough guys do and even he didn’t the first night we were together. He moans as
he eats me out, which I find incredibly hot because it means he’s enjoying
himself, and guys who love eating pussy are the hottest. I let him do it for
awhile and then I tell him to “fuck me.” I pull him up and wet my hand. I reach
down and am thrilled to discover he’s still hard. I put him inside me and he
feels so good that after just a couple minutes of thrusting, I feel like I’m
going to come. I wrap my legs around him and moan louder, but I guess this is
too much for him and he has to back off, bringing my feet to his chest so he
can thrust from more of a distance. The impending orgasm dissipates, never to
return, and I think how unfortunate it is that, as a woman, if you want to keep
the sex going, you have to sometimes forfeit your own orgasm in favor of making
it last longer because, if you come, it might make him come and then it’s all
over.
He moves my leg down across my body so he’s now thrusting
into me from behind but with my body twisted so my chest is still facing him.
Then he turns me over completely and fucks me with my stomach flattened against
the mattress. He then lifts me up and fucks me doggy style and whips out this
very cool move whereby he intermittently, between thrusts, darts his tongue
into my pussy. I cringe a little bit as I imagine his tongue dipping into my
bloody vagina like a pen into a red inkwell. Regardless, I love this move and
don’t want to discourage it. After awhile, he says if he keeps going he’s going
to come. I know by now I will not come, so I tell him I want him to.
“Fuck me,” I whisper, guiding him to orgasm. He pulls out
and comes on my back. I collapse on my stomach and he gets a towel to gently mop
up his splooge, like a true gentleman.
As we lie down, I laugh in a way that’s meant to sound
apologetic and say, “I think I might have gotten my period while we
were having sex.”
“Oh, I didn’t taste anything,” he says.
“You like ordered a steak medium and it came bloody as hell
and you just decided to eat it anyway,” I weirdly say.
He laughs.
“So did you just forget or…?”
“Well, I knew it was coming but was hoping it wouldn’t come
right now.” I guess he believes this lie, and doesn’t seem to care that much
anyway.
“I guess we’ll find out in the morning.”
I go to the bathroom and indeed he has fucked some blood out
of me. I hope I didn’t get it all over his white duvet cover. When he returns
from the bathroom, I ask if he had blood on his dick.
“A little,” he says and lies down.
I don’t sleep well and neither does he. We both toss and
turn. I wake up after a couple hours of fitful sleep to find he’s sitting on
the edge of the bed, hunched over, trying to rally himself.
“Is it five?” I ask.
“It’s 5:15.” He grabs my foot affectionately as he walks
naked out of his bedroom and heads for the bathroom. I watch his beautiful,
spinning-class toned ass as he goes, then I lie back down to get a couple more
minutes of shut-eye. He turns the light on in the living room outside his
bedroom so as not to bother me, and gets dressed out there.
I drag myself up and collapse facedown on the foot of his
bed, moaning. He laughs at me.
“How do you feel?”
“Like garbage,” I say.
I look down at his bedspread in the light shining from the
living room, and am pleased to see there’s no blood.
“There’s no blood!” I report.
“That’s a good thing,” he says.
I drive him to work at the gym, and ask if I kept him up
last night.
“I don’t know if it was you or me. I like to spread out in
my bed. At one point, you moved over and I was like, yes!”
“Oh, you could’ve told me to move.”
“I didn’t want to like kick you out. Maybe next time,” he
laughs.
“I was trying to get closer to you because you were warm,” I
say.
As I write this exchange, I realize it sounds a little sad.
I stop outside the Coffee Bean where he’ll fuel up on
caffeine for the long day ahead, and he hugs me goodbye. I go in to kiss him
and he makes it short. I drive an hour and a half home, crawl into bed and go back to sleep. A
couple hours later, my phone rings and it’s a San Francisco number I don’t recognize.
I don’t answer it, but have a feeling I know who it is. There’s a message and
it’s from him. He left his phone in my car.
I put on a sweater and some shoes and head into the kitchen,
where my dad is emptying the dishwasher.
“Hi honey,” he kisses me.
“The guy left his phone in my car,” I explain as I put on some
shoes and head outside into the freezing morning.
Sure enough, his phone is between my seats and I fish it
out. There are five missed calls from the gym where he works and three from
another number. The Find My Iphone app has been activated.
I get back in bed and call the number back and the
receptionist at his gym says he’s with a client and is there a message. I say
no message and give them my name. The receptionist says, “hold on” and I can
hear him telling John’s brother that it’s “your friend with the phone.” He gets
on the line and feels terrible and stupid for doing this. I ask how he found my
number; he says the iCloud. He doesn’t have a car and isn’t sure how to get his
phone back.
“You weren’t planning on coming back to San Francisco were
you?”
“Uh, not today.”
I suggest he meet me halfway. He’s not sure how to do that. I
know I’m being overly accommodating when I say, “Well, if you can that would be
great, and if not I’ll do what I have to.” I guess I like this guy. There is a
part of my female brain that is excited to have an excuse to see him again.
After all, I’m on vacation and running out of things to do at my parents’
house. He says he’ll try to borrow a car and will call me back in a couple
hours.
I spend the day not doing much but anticipating this call.
I’m very tired and hung over so I sleep for awhile. I feel petulant and
teenage-like with my parents and I think there’s something about the contrast
of having sex with a guy and then having to come back to your parents’ house
that feels rebellious and like high school. My parents keep asking what my plan
is and my mom gets mad at me that I can’t make plans with her because I’m
“waiting on a galloot.” I say I don’t mind so why should she. He calls me in
the afternoon and we make a plan to meet at a Starbucks halfway between us at
6pm. I have to find the address for him because if he gets lost there will be
no way to track him. What the fuck did we do before cell phones? I get on the
road and he texts me from a random number, saying he borrowed his friend’s
phone and car and he’s running
fifteen minutes late. Still, he beats me there. I arrive and he’s sitting at a
table with just one chair at it, the one he’s sitting in. I approach and stand
over him, handing him his phone. He doesn’t stand to hug me or get me a chair.
He just looks at his phone as I awkwardly wait there, and then awkwardly pull
over a chair and sit down. He says he feels terrible and wants to treat me to
dinner. I say, “yeah, I’d like to see you again.” I can’t tell if he wants to
see me again or just feels obligated because of the phone thing. We hug
goodbye, I kiss his cheek and he half-heartedly kisses mine back. I think to
myself, we’ve had sex dude, a little
affection wouldn’t kill you!
I drive home and kick myself for not saying, “don’t worry
about it, there’s no obligation” when he offered to buy me dinner. But then I
realize I only would have said that trying to get a response out of him, and
“I’d like to see you again” was actually more honest. Which is good, I think. I
vow to not be the one to text him first, to let him come to me.
The next day at 11am, I text him. “Hey! You busy tonight?”
I’m in the car on the way to hike with my parents. I’m expecting he’ll text me
right back. He doesn’t. We go on the hike and have a yelling argument
overlooking a beautiful vista when I tell them about the time that I met this cool
male celebrity whom I really felt I connected with and muse on why I don’t meet
more guys like that, and they explode back at me with, “but he’s a
Scientologist!” I then try to explain that just because
Scientology is a creepy cult doesn’t mean everyone in it is an evil asshole. To which they think I’m defending
Scientology, and it devolves from there. We return to the car, and I can’t wait
to get away from them and into the bed of John’s brother. But there is no text
from him. I then start to have a panic attack that he spoke to John on
Thanksgiving and that John has told him about the blow job and warned his
brother that I am this crazy slut who is trying to fuck both of them. I think
about how I would react if they accused me in this way, and am disappointed to
find that I think it would actually hurt. I thought I didn’t care what they, or anyone,
thought, but I suddenly find myself feeling vulnerable when faced with the very
real possibility that someone I had sex with and have a crush on would think I
was being vindictive by trying to fuck both him
and
his brother. I think about how I would explain this to him. That I am a single
woman and free to have sex with whomever I please. And that I am attracted to both
brothers and don’t think it’s my problem that they’re related. I feel better
once I reason this out with myself, knowing that I am still within the
parameters of my own moral code.
At 5pm, he texts back, “Hey! So sorry to leave you hanging!
I was sailing all day and just got back to shore. How was your day?” I tell him
that sounds lovely, that my day was chill, we hiked, and that I’m planning to
leave the following day.
“Well shit, I’m in Santa Cruz and we’re hanging out here for
a little while. What time are you leaving tomorrow?”
I tell him I will probably leave early. Then I say, “I
wanted to get you in bed once more before I left.” Hoping to entice him back to
the Bay.
He responds, “Haha. Well if not I should be coming down to
LA soon enough.”
I leave this alone and go to bed early, thoroughly
disappointed to not be getting a follow up booty call, especially because my
period is now gone.
The next morning, I decide to try one final time.
“Hitting Tartine on my way out of town if you’re
interested.” He doesn’t write back. I do drive past Tartine but the line is
long and out the door and I can’t face it. It’s cozier standing in a line like
that when you have a warm body to rub up against.
Feeling like I want one final adventure before leaving the
city, on a weird whim I text
Childhood Crush. He texts back right away that he is
out of the city for the day, but how long am I in town. I explain I am driving
back to LA now and just killing time before getting on the road. He says he’ll
be in LA soon and that “it would be fun to say hi.” “Word,” I respond
noncommittally. The last time he was in LA and texted me, I basically ignored
him and was proud of myself for not allowing more of the mediocre sex to occur.
Now I’ll have to cross that bridge all over again. I hope I will lose interest in the whole John situation soon, as I have with Childhood Crush. It feels good to be over it.
I start to drive out of town and immediately feel better. Amy
Winehouse blasting, I feel lonely and liberated. I get a text from John’s
brother: “Oh man, I really slept in today. Feel kinda shitty. How are you?”
I tell him I got loads of sleep and feel great and am en
route to LA. To which he responds, “Awesome! It was good to see you and have a
smooth drive down.” Do I detect an air of glad to be rid of me?
Back in LA, I get drunk with my roommates and we head out to
the local dive bar where John works. But he’s not there. I play dumb and tell
the DJ it seems like the usual staff has changed. He says, “oh there’s just one
guy that’s usually here and isn’t tonight. John.”
“Oh yeah, I know John. Where is he?”
“He just drove down from spending Thanksgiving in San
Francisco and wanted the night off.”
What?! John was in San Francisco when I was?? Is it possible
that John’s brother spent Thanksgiving with John and when I asked what his
plans were, he said he was having a
Friendsgiving and essentially lied by
omission by not telling me John was with him? I can’t believe it. Why would he
not tell me, unless he knows about me and John? In which case, why would he
still want to see me? I haven’t seen John since Halloween night and am also
very curious to know what information he does and doesn’t have. Does he know I
went on a second date with his brother, that I fucked him again?
The DJ invites us to sit in his “VIP area” and we proceed to
get wasted. I am wearing a skimpy tank top with no bra because I was hoping
John would be here. Instead, I’m approached by a boring RN who keeps stopping
me from dancing to ask, “what do you do?” over the incredibly loud music, and a
grumpy looking guy who tells me I’m “rude” when I don’t take the hand he
extends to me.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I text John, “Where you at
fool?” Which I think is neutral enough that it wouldn’t be terrible if his
girlfriend saw it. He texts back right away.
“Home.”
To which I send the emoticon with two lines for eyes and a
line for a mouth. Unimpressed, nonplussed, bored. This emoticon perfectly suits
my mood.
