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 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.

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?”

“Sex.”

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.

Man Child

The second I arrive at his house, I know I don’t want to be there. He looks flustered as he opens the door – wearing a ratty old T-shirt and a disturbed expression, he explains that there is a giant green beetle in his bathroom.

“I showered but I couldn’t put on hair gel for you because the bug was in there making a terrible noise.”

I calmly kiss him and go to investigate. As I look around the bathroom, he plays it off like he thought I would be scared and that’s why he freaked out over this thing, which turns out isn’t that big. 

I have been fucking this guy on the semi-regular for two weeks. I met him at a comedy club where he was MCing and my brilliant comedian friend Lucy was performing. I found him funny and cute, and had asked Lucy about him after the show. She warned me to stay away – she didn’t really have a specific reason, but Lucy is very intuitive and she seemed to be getting a vibe that he was not someone I should mess around with. I believe she used the expression “He likes to fuck 19 year olds from the Inland Empire.”  However, when he asked her for my number, she said she didn’t wish to stand in the way of “young love.”

He texted and said he wanted to take me out to dinner, which I thought was classy – a lot of guys these days seem to feel buying a girl dinner is a little too much effort to get in her pants. He asked what I like to eat. I said anything. He asked what I was in the mood for. I said anything, pick a place, I’ll meet you there. He then suggested we meet at the Sherman Oaks Galleria mall so we’d have options and he wouldn’t have to “drag [me] somewhere [I] won’t like.” Now, this put me off. I’m not in high school and I don’t want to eat dinner at the mall. I was feeling a scratch in my throat anyway, so I cancelled the date. Thinking that was it, I’d probably never see him again.

The next night, after spending all day in bed, I decided I could use some soup… and some company. I texted to see if he wanted to meet me for a very “mellow date.” He agreed, and I appreciated that he was willing to come out for a date that would inevitably lead nowhere. I liked him more than I thought I would. We talked and laughed and made plans to see each other again.

Our next date was at a hole in the wall sushi restaurant. While he ate his rolls without soy sauce, I drank sake and did oyster shooters. I asked how old he was. He made me guess. I guessed 32. “Close,” he said, but wouldn’t tell me more. We decided to go buy two pints of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked, get stoned, and watch the Amy Schumer Special.

I found his life pretty together for the 32 year old I believed him to be. He made enough money that he wouldn’t bat an eye at taking me out to dinner to a nice Japanese restaurant. And he lived alone in a one bedroom house that, although he seemed embarrassed about how messy it was, really wasn’t that bad. He didn’t have roommates, but lived with an insanely cute Siamese cat with a face that appeared upside down. And his couch reclined at the push of a button.

That night, we had sex, and it was pretty great. He ate me up with gusto, enjoying every inch of my body, which I loved. I found him a little paunchy, but in the dark it was no big deal. I enjoyed kissing him. The sex was awesome. And, especially, he was amazing at eating pussy. The only issue was one I come across often with dudes – he was resistant to using condoms. Eventually, I stopped enforcing them so we stopped using them. After we had sex, he asked if I was on birth control. I joked that it was proven less effective when asked after the fact. When he asked if I had herpes, I said “not yet,” which apparently didn’t amuse him.

Then he got a little pissy and complained that I was trying to have sex again too soon after the first go round, that he wasn’t really ready, and wouldn’t have been able to stay hard had we tried to use a condom.

I felt like he was blaming me for the lack of condom use even though I had tried to enforce them, albeit lamely. I told him so, while getting dressed in a hurry.

“Why didn’t you tell me if you didn’t want to have sex again,” I asked.

“I didn’t want to appear unmanly,” he said.

He grabbed my arm.

“By the way, I’m 43.”

I Ubered home.

Later, in my own bed, I felt remorseful. I liked fucking this guy and hated the idea that I was incapable of having successful casual sex. I decided to parlay the situation into a purely sex thing. Skip dinner, get right to fucking. The less talk, the better.

Our next couple encounters were great. We’d get stoned, eat ice cream, and fuck. He was amazing at eating pussy and he made me come hard. I didn’t love his personality – I found him slightly whiny and could foresee the age difference becoming an issue – but I was able to look past these details in order to have some really great sex.

Until this one particular night. The night of the bug in his bathroom. I had been on the fence about coming over, but he kept sending me sexy texts and my best guy friend encouraged me to “go get laid.”

When I arrive, it’s already 11:30 on a work night so I figure we’ll get right to the fucking. I immediately find myself not that interested in kissing him, which is never a good sign, but as he grabs my ass and nibbles my neck, I give in to the sensations.  He starts eating me out from behind which turns me on a lot so I tell him to “fuck me.” Instead, he scoots me around so I can suck on him. I manage to get him fairly hard and he crawls on top of me – we start having sex. I can feel him gradually losing his erection with each thrust. Eventually, he stops and tries to pull me up.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

“Touch me,” he says.

So I do, but he’s so soft I begin to lose faith.

“Are you okay?”

He stops and lies down next to me,

“I just feel like we’re not connecting like we usually do. I feel like you’re not even looking at me.”

I laugh, uncomfortable.

“I feel like you’re blaming me for the fact that you’re not hard,” I say.

“Well…” he says.

He’s right of course. I wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t really kissing him, was actually discovering in that moment that I wasn’t that into him. But I thought guys could look past these details when it came to sex.

I explained that sex doesn’t always have to be super intimate, looking into each other’s eyes and all that. That sometimes it’s just about physicality and enjoying the sensations. He said he felt like I was “the dude” and he was “the girl” in the situation.

He complained that this time there hadn’t been much foreplay. That he had eaten me out from behind and immediately I had told him to “fuck me.”  This was confusing because I was simply taking his lead – in one of my favorite sexy texts from earlier, he had said he wanted to “eat [my] pussy from behind, then fuck [me].”

“Every time you leave I feel like I’m never gonna see you again,” he says.

I decide to get real.

“Maybe this thing has just run its course.”

He looks surprised by this. I explain that I loved the sex with him, that it was some of the best I’d ever had, but that if the sexual connection was lost between us, I didn’t see what remained. He says he feels like I turned this into a “sex thing” when he actually really liked me, felt we had a good connection. Really? I want to ask.

Then he starts telling me about this crazy girl he used to date who had to go to love addiction therapy, whom he hasn’t seen in eight months, and whom he feels he’s still in love with. Huh? Then he tells me about this 24 year old he’s talking to on OK Cupid, but assures me he would never date a 24 year old unless she was “really mature.”

At which point, I ask the question that’s been bugging me ever since he told me he was 43 years old.

“Why is your age range preference on OKCupid 25-39? Why aren’t you interested in dating women your own age?”

He tells me, with a straight face, that if he married a 40 year old woman, she would be 50 in 10 years and he wants a wife that’s “hot for at least a decade.” I inform him that he too will be 50 in 10 years – in fact, he’ll be over 50.

To this he replies, “I’m just being honest. Men care more about appearance.” I don’t know what disturbs me more, the fact that he wants the woman he’s with to be 10 years younger than him, or that he thinks women over 50 aren’t hot. 

I’m actually pretty sure I know why Comedian Guy dates younger women, and it’s not just because he’s a shallow asshole. It’s also because there’s no way a woman in her 40s is going to date a 43 year old Man Child who works part time in a real estate office, does stand up on the weekends, and lives in the valley with his cat.  I mean, I’m barely putting up with this situation and I’m not even 30.

So, what kept me coming back? Honestly, the pussy-eating.  And I have a theory about this. If a man is over 40 and he hasn’t been married yet, he’s getting fucking desperate. He’s not going to get a woman with his moobs or his lack of a substantial career. He’s going to win her over with his ability to eat pussy. Because guys in their 20s, you might as well not even let them go down there. And guys in their 30s are still way too selfish to put in the work that’s required. It takes the patience and desperation of a man in his 40s to really nail it, so to speak.

As a form of goodbye, I tell him I feel we’re at different stages in our lives.  When I thought he was in his 30s, his shit seemed pretty together. At 43, there are some expectations for where one will be in their life. I’ve noticed that a lot of my friends in their late 20s are finding themselves at a crossroads where they’re having to choose to commit to one aspect of their life over another. It’s like up to this point, we’ve all planted a bunch of seeds that have been gestating and have finally started to grow. And maybe one plant is doing better than another, and we literally don’t have enough energy to keep more than one plant alive. So the time comes to commit to one and really grow the shit out of it.  I see this a lot with my female friends. I had a friend recently give up her dream of becoming an artist and now she’s engaged to her boyfriend– with her dream career out of the picture, she has chosen to really commit to her relationship. Certain friends are getting married and even starting to have babies, and then there are the single friends who are choosing to commit to themselves and their careers, and finding they’re finally having some success.

So, I guess I feel like, if you’re 43, at least one aspect of your life should be pretty awesome. If you’ve been tending a relationship, or a career, or anything, for a decade, shouldn’t you have something to show for it? Pussy-eating abilities aside, I guess I expect more from a guy who’s 43 – I expect he’ll have his shit together more than the 27 year old he’s fucking.

12 Minutes A Slave

**I am very sorry if this title offends you.  It, like so many other things, was something I was advised strongly against.  And, like so much advice given to me before by very smart people, I didn’t take it.  Because, if I did take smart people’s advice, I wouldn’t have any material.**

I’m not sure how I got here.  Last blog post, I was patting myself on the back for recognizing assholes before I sleep with them – the assumption being that I therefore wouldn’t sleep with them, and that would be progress.  I had put this latest car salesman guy out to pasture for being too sexually aggressive via text message.  I sort of assumed that because I had given up on him, I wouldn’t hear from him ever again.  But of course, the moment you give up on a guy, he’s beating down your door.

He leaves our soured text conversation to stew and starts a fresh one on Facebook.  Somehow, he gets me back on the hook.  Staring into the beautiful blue eyes of his Facebook profile pic, it probably isn’t that hard.

He’s sick in bed apparently and keeps sending me photos of the dirty tissues accumulating on his carpeted bedroom floor.  This is weird, so I jokingly ask if he’s into fluids.  He tells me he’d “be down for pretty much anything.”  I ask if he’s kinky.  “Very,” he says.

I probe a little further and before I know it, he’s texting me a photo of two red ropes tied off at the end in the shape of a heart on his bedroom floor (by this point, I’d recognize that brown carpet anywhere).  I know he didn’t lay these ropes out for me in the minute since his last text – this is a stock photo he uses on all the girls.  It’s alright, I’m gathering evidence and it’s all coming together now – the rude sexual text directives, the multiple personality disorder – this guy is into BDSM.  So he really is having a Christian Grey fantasy after all.  Called it!  The All-American good looks, the expensive suits, the ropes in a heart on the floor…

Him: “Would u make a good little slave?”

This question makes me laugh out loud because, truth be told, I would make the worst fucking slave in the world.  He'd be like 'do this' and I'd be like 'fuck off'.'  But I decide that my curiosity/amusement outweigh my repulsion at this point, so I reply: “That’s a really good question… I don’t know.”  To this he responds: “Ur curious.  That’s a good start.”

Then I show off just how curious I am by writing him a flurry of probing questions: “Why me? How did you know I might be down for this? Or do you just lay it out to every girl you meet?”

Him: “I know the type that need it.”

Me: “What does that mean?”

Him: “It means don’t overthink just obey.”

This is where the conversation stops for the moment.  I wonder if I’m being a bad feminist by going along with this slave narrative.  But I know that you can be into BDSM and also be a feminist, you just have to negotiate the terms to make yourself comfortable right?  If I feel okay about it, it should be okay.  For the moment, I choose to ignore it.

The following night, the sexting commences.  I send him a tasteful nude portrait of me in black and white.  He sends me a selfie of him in bed – in the foreground: hard cock, knees splayed, pants at his ankles; in the background, a very faint reflection of his face reflected in the giant mirror across from his bed.  He doesn’t ask me for a vagina-pic, which I’m grateful for, because in the state I’m in, I would probably send it to him.

I tell him “I can’t wait” to see him.  He responds, “when whore.”  I cringe at this, and decide I can’t ignore it. 

Me: “I have to be honest, I don’t love these names.”

Him: “Poor girl.” I ignore this too… I know, bad, bad, very bad.

Me: “Is that a deal breaker for you?”

Him: “Maybe.”

Me: “Really?”

Him: “How am I not supposed to call my slave by her name?”

Me: “I haven’t agreed to be your slave…”

Him: “Guess I’ll have to find another willing participant.”

Me: “If you won’t ease into this with me, I guess so.”

Radio silence.  I sit there and stare at my phone.  Seriously?  I know I should put it down and go to sleep, but how the hell am I honestly supposed to do that?

Me: “That’s it?”

Him: “U tell me.”

Me: “This bdsm shit is all new to me… I feel it’s only fair you ease me in.”
Him: “Ok baby.”

Then we make plans to maybe grab a drink tomorrow night.  To “meet up as human beings first.”  Which he says is “pushing it.”

I plan so much dialogue for when I go over there.  I plan on asking him if he’s seen that Louis CK bit about texting and the lack of empathy it creates in kids - how kids learn to be sociopaths from a young age with their cell phones because they don't see how their hurtful words land on the other kids they’re targeting.  I know he’ll say he loves this bit, because truth be told I saw a link to it on his Facebook page when I was internet stalking him.  I want to draw attention to the fact that this is how I felt on the other end of his early texts - that he wouldn't have kept going if he could have seen how they were landing on my face.  How I felt dehumanized by some of our exchanges.  

I plan on telling him that I identify as a feminist, and haven’t quite figured out how this jives with my desire to be tied up.  That this whole BDSM thing is complicated for me, and I’d like some more information.  

He texts me the next night: “Where u at?”

I’m in his neighborhood.  “Wanna grab a drink?”

He says: “I’m relaxed. Come over. I won’t make any moves on u.”

Obviously, I know this is a lie and my heart is pounding.  Go over there?  I’ve already consulted several friends about this whole being-tied-up-by-a-stranger thing and pretty unanimously people are advising Don’t Do It.

I call my best guy friend, who I know will give me permission to go over there. “What does your gut tell you?” “To go.” “Then do it.  Have fun and text me the address.”  I do.  In case I disappear, last seen here.

He greets me outside in a baby blue robe with a big grin on his face.  I tell him I don’t know how to greet him.  He takes the initiative by tongue-kissing me.  Which feels weird considering the last time I saw this guy we were having a polite introductory conversation post-show at my theatre.  It’s also weird because he’s chewing gum, which I can taste in his mouth.  And this is an odd detail, but he doesn’t smell freshly showered, which I assumed is just something you do when you have a girl coming over you intend to bang.

We go inside and I perch on the couch as he proceeds to sit spread-eagle (not joking) with one foot on the top of the couch and one foot on a cushion below.  I can now see he’s wearing very tight black briefs under the robe.  I can also see that the muscled torso body shot selfie he sent me last night, is perhaps a couple years old.  Which, frankly, is a relief, because this guy is already quite a bit hotter than anyone I should reasonably be having sex with.  

I must be making a face at his couch-sitting position, because he shifts to something a little less awkward as we engage in some friendly small talk.  I’m aware of the sexual tension building in the room.  It’s also weird because, due to last night’s sexting, I kinda feel like we’ve already had sex.

At some point, he says “I’m listening to you, but you just licked your lips.”  He then comes in for a kiss, and as he does, he hocks his gum out of his mouth and onto the coffee table without missing a beat, like this is some super hero gum-ejection move he’s been practicing.  I find this hilarious but am unable to laugh as fully as I would otherwise if his tongue weren’t down my throat.

I’m frankly not used to moving this fast and for once I feel like the less eager party.  “So I guess that concludes the talking portion of the evening,” I say, as he drags me into his bedroom which is lit, I must say, very well for sex – with warm side lamps, no overheads, and, of course, candles everywhere.  Also, the walls are covered in floor to ceiling mirrors.  So, yeah, he’s that guy.

Then we have sex.  Lots of it.  In lots of different positions.  And I enjoy admiring myself in the mirror as we’re doing it.  He has a kind of intense, angry-looking sex face, but I find that guys in general have not-so-great sex faces, so I’m not going to judge him too harshly for that.  He does have some sort of dorky dirty talk call-and-response lines like “Yeah you like that” and “you want this cock?” which force me occasionally out of the moment in order to respond to him.  He’s also a bit of a porn-y fucker, meaning he favors the jack rabbit pounding style that will never in a million years of pounding get me anywhere close to an orgasm.  BUT, I do manage to slow him down and pull him in for long enough to actually have an orgasm on the first go round, so that’s really something.  It’s not the most amazing orgasm in the world, but it exists and I feel good about it.

After a long time fucking, I ask if he’s close.  He says he can “come anytime you want baby.”  Within minutes, he’s coming.  Which I find miraculous.  When he’s done and we’re relaxing in bed, sweaty and spent, I tell him he should be a porn star – stay hard for hours, come on command (I learned from Jenna Jameson, this is what it takes).  He tells me he would “LOVE THAT.”  I tell him to do it, he could be like James Deen but even hotter with a whole Christian Grey thing going for him.  He tells me that he totally would, except that it would kill his parents.  I tell him to do it anyway – it looks like from the enthusiastic expression on his face that being a porn star would make him really happy.

Then he gets us popsicles and, when we’re done eating them, we read each other the stupid jokes on the popsicle sticks.  He actually guesses the answer to mine, which I find quite impressive.  Then we talk – we talk about kids and Facebook and our depressing digital age culture.  We laugh a lot.  He finds me very smart and funny.  Sometimes, in the middle of talking, I go in for a kiss or to playfully nibble his shoulder.  It feels nice and intimate and just totally not what I was expecting.  I share with him that his text personality is very different from his real personality.  He shares that the reason he didn’t want to go out to dinner was financial – that dating is expensive for men and especially if you don’t know if someone’s going to be cool or not.  Having him explain himself in person rather than the flippant one-liners on text makes me understand where he’s coming from and I start to see him as a human being.  I admit to him that I was nervous coming over here.  That I texted his address to my big, muscular male friend should I disappear the next day. 

Me: “So, story of your life: 50 Shades of Grey or American Psycho?”

Him: “A bit of both.”

We joke about his “slave” script.  I tease him and ask how many slaves he currently has.  He laughs at all my jokes, apparently very amused and not into taking himself too seriously.  Which I find very attractive.

He doesn’t bring out the ropes.  We have sex again and, in the moment, I tell him “You can call me whore if you want.”  He slaps my face gently and says “I’ll ease you into that.”  And that’s that.  He’s very respectful.  Even to a fault.  When he smacks my ass, I feel he thinks he’s going to break me.  I assure him this is not the case. 

Afterwards, I say “Well, that was very…”  He finishes my thought: “Vanilla.  “But it was fun, right?”  “Yeah, it was alright.”  I sense he’s teasing me, but I’m also wondering why he didn’t try to roll out any of his tricks with me.  Maybe I put him off – he doesn’t want a slave he has to “ease in”, he wants one practiced and ready to go.  I wonder if I killed the fun by asking too many questions, being too in my head.  Or maybe he just senses the truth – that I would make a shitty slave, and it’s not even worth trying. 

Or perhaps this is simply how it goes now.  The new mating ritual of the digital age: flirting on Facebook, sexting on text message, sending dirty pictures, the promise of “the crazy shit I'm gonna do to you,” all culminating in an inevitably “vanilla” sexual encounter. 

He’s very sweet as he walks me to my car and kisses me good night.  I turn to say something else, to give some button to the evening, but he’s already walking back down the street.  I watch him strut away in his robe, proud to have made another conquest, on to the next.  I wonder in that moment if I'll ever see him again.

For several weeks, I stalk him on Facebook.  His occasional messages dwindle to zero.  He’s apparently bored of the small talk.  When I tipsily send him what I think is a very sexy cleavage selfie, he responds with little feeling: “Boobs.”

My same male friend points out, quite accurately I think, that men are desensitized to these suggestive body shots.  The internet is full of images of naked breasts, with nipples and everything.  So a PG-13 cleavage pic just isn't cutting the mustard anymore.  He encourages me to "cut the small talk," to be "bold and direct."  

He helps me construct the following sentence on text message: “I really need to be tied up, blindfolded, and fucked hard… Can you help me out with that?”  I giggle nervously, expectantly at my phone.  We both wait with bated breath, knowing he will respond to this one.  He has to, right?  What guy in his right mind could refuse an offer such as this?   

I never hear back from him.  My friend's conclusion: "He's weird."

I over-share with my gynecologist that I recently messed around with a guy who’s into BDSM.  I’m not sure what reaction I’m expecting but her face looks slightly disturbed as she feels me up, looking for lumps.  She tells me to “be careful.”  I’m not sure if it’s my heart or my vagina she’s most worried about, but people tell me this a lot.  To “be careful.”  I wonder if I’ll ever listen.