Halloween

**Mom, don’t read this one**

I grab my phone out of the toilet and desperately suck the toilet water from its lower holes. I don’t even really think about the fact that I’m doing this in the moment, I don’t second guess my impulse to save my phone at any cost. The fact that I’ve pulled it out of a public toilet in a dive bar at 2am on Halloween night doesn’t really register.

Then I remember why I’m in the restroom in the first place and I try to mentally prepare for what’s to come. I put my phone on top of the toilet next to my purse which is still unzipped, it’s opening aimed at the water—the cause of the accident. I see that the lid to my lipstick is still floating in the bowl. I try not to think about the fact that my phone is probably dead. John the bartender enters and locks the door. He turns to me.

“I dropped my phone in the toilet,” I say, pointing to it, still wet beside my purse. As I point, I notice that my house key has landed in the no man’s land between the seat and the back of the toilet. I vow to remember to grab it later.

John doesn’t understand, or he doesn’t want to deal with this right now. He grabs my waist and pushes me up against the wall. We’re making out and his hand is up my dress and digging around inside my tights. That’s when I remember the bandages.

Earlier this morning I preemptively went to spinning class to “detox before retox,” as my instructor so eloquently put it. Not used to the incredible friction in my crotch area, I chafed something terrible and discovered later that the skin just inches from my outer labia was rubbed raw and actually peeling off in stinging sheets. I smeared on globs of Neosporin and bandaged the area. I vowed to not let any man anywhere near the region because all the bandages made it look like I had recently undergone labiaplasty. Not to mention additional rubbing would definitely hurt like hell. I decided my wounds would help me make better decisions, as I would have to weigh the man against the guaranteed pain involved in hooking up with him—would he be worth it? I didn’t consider as a real possibility that I would find myself in this dilemma with John. I just never imagined we would actually get to this point in our epic 11 month flirtation.

Earlier in the night, when I first arrive at the bar with my roommates in our matching understated yet elegant costumes of all black ensembles and masquerade masks, John greets me with a warm hug over the bar. I kiss his cheek and, when he says “Oh!” in a pleasantly surprised manner, I ask if I can have a real kiss later.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t get any more kisses,” he eyes me suggestively. I obviously know what he’s referring to—the last time I was here I went home with his brother. Why this trumps the fact that he still lives with his girlfriend, I'm not sure.

“Why?” I smile coyly.

“You know why,” says John. But he doesn’t look upset; he looks amused. I like this about him—he doesn’t seem to take it all too seriously. Underneath it all, he seems to understand that it’s just sex. Who cares that I fucked his brother and I still want to fuck him? He doesn’t slut shame me for it. He still wants me too. I find this incredibly hot.

I haven’t really been drinking lately so after a couple vodka sodas with a lemon and a lime (and a cherry that John adds without asking), I am completely hammered. I’m on the floor dirty dancing with a Jewish guy dressed as a Rasta. His dreadlocked hair keeps getting caught in my mask, so I take off my mask. I freak with the Rasta like I’m at a middle school dance, twerking my ass into his hips. He grabs my waist and tries to reach his hand into the top of my dress, grabbing at my boobs. I enjoy dancing with him—he’s fun and he can move (or at least I’m drunk enough, I think he can)—but I don’t want to fuck this guy and when he tries to kiss me, I hold my face away. When he tells me to come home with him to Pasadena, I laugh in his face and say, “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

I carry my friend’s vaporizer loaded up with weed to John at the bar and offer it to him. He takes it and puffs. I order a couple more drinks for my friends and “a shot of your choice” for John. I do this several times throughout the night but apparently he puts none of it on my tab because my bill comes out to $18 at the end of the night. When John hands me my drinks, I rub my fingers on his and we linger there for a moment. Later I make him lean in so I can tell him something and I lick his ear. Later still I suck on his fingers, which taste like lime. At some point, he declares, “You had sex with my brother.”

I say, “So? I like both you guys.”

He asks, “Was he good to you?” I think this is a classy question. Also kinky. I wonder not for the first time if these are the kind of Irish twins that would fuck the same girl in the same room at the same time. If this is a possibility, I need to do everything in my power to make it happen.

Suddenly, it’s 2am and the lights are coming on, the heavy metal designed to thin the crowd blasting out of the speakers. John comes around to sit in his usual spot at the bar to do the tip out on his computer. Naturally, I plop down next to him, and this is when things take a turn. I try to kiss him and he pushes his face into my neck and says, “I want to bury myself in you.” I try to get his number, asking if we can be friends. He says, “How am I supposed to be your friend when all I want is to fuck you?” I guess that’s a fair question. I can see that he’s struggling. He punches his number into my phone anyway.

He tells me I’m causing problems in his relationship. I tell him it’s not me. He doesn’t understand what I mean. I want to point out that if it weren’t me, it would be some other girl. He’s just not monogamous, at least not at this stage in his life. I decide not to get into it. Instead, I run my fingers down his back and along the top of his pants to the front. He grabs my hand and puts it on his fly. He’s hard. He reaches under my dress and grips my crotch.

“Now that just kills me.” He seems to be referring to the heat coming off me. He lifts his hand away from my crotch and runs it under his nose, along his lips. It's about this time that the DJ says, "This one's for you, John," and proceeds to play Britney Spears' Toxic.

John won’t kiss me but seems to want me to keep grabbing his dick. I guess because it’s under the bar and he thinks his coworkers aren’t seeing what’s going on between us. I ask, “Why can I do this but you won’t kiss me? Because it’s under the bar?” He nods. “So, do you want me to get under the bar and suck your dick?” I ask. He nods, slower this time. Wow, he actually thinks that we are being stealth enough to get away with this. I’m so drunk I actually consider it.

My friends are ready to hit the taco truck, so I bid John farewell. He looks disappointed, like he always does when I leave, and I want to say, “Make up your damn mind!”

“Do you need to go to the bathroom before you go?” He asks.

At first I don’t register what he’s really asking and I almost say no. Then I realize the meaning of this.

“Yes,” I answer and grab my purse. I march towards the restroom.

Inside, the first thing I do is put my purse down on top of the toilet, and then a couple seconds later register that I’ve dumped the entire contents into the toilet. I fish out my phone, lipstick, Altoids. Thinking at the time that all of these items are salvageable, even the mints. This is when I suck the toilet water out of my phone and immediately turn it off, remembering the advice I received the last time I dropped my phone in the toilet. That phone didn’t make it.

With John’s hand up my dress, I remember my bandages and I really don’t want to have to explain them to him. Instead, I move down and unbutton his jeans, squatting on the ground. I take his penis in my mouth. As I’m sucking on him, I reach into my tights and rip off the medical tape and gauze strips covering my outer vagina wounds. I drop these on the floor beside discarded bits of toilet paper.

Naturally, as I suck John’s dick, I can’t resist comparisons to his brother. I notice immediately that his brother was in much better physical shape and therefore (as is my experience) his dick got bigger and harder. John’s is hard but could probably be harder if he hadn’t been drinking so much. He’s been working long sweaty hours and there’s a faint smell of BO emanating from his nether regions. It’s not that bad and I don’t mind it. He’s smiling down at me in a very appreciative manner—that’s nice.

I’m not getting anywhere with his dick in my mouth, so I stand up and pull down my tights and underwear and turn away from him, putting my hands on the wall and pushing my ass into his crotch. I fumble for his penis, willing it to stay hard for just a little while longer.

“I can’t have sex with you without a condom,” he says in a moment of sudden clarity. I respect this decision, for his girlfriend’s sake. And because sex without condoms is a bad habit I need to stop. For some reason I haven’t brought one with me, probably because I really had no intention of bringing my vagina out tonight.

I lean with my back against the wall, underwear down, tit sticking out the top of my dress. John stands at the sink, staring at me and jerking off. He ravages me with his eyes. I can’t remember who decides we’re done here. Probably he says, “I should get back.” I pull up my underwear and tights but leave my tit out.

“Put that away,” he instructs before taking it in his mouth.

Then he’s gone. My roommate appears in the doorway.

“I just sucked John’s dick,” I declare. “And I dropped my phone in the toilet.”

It’s time to hit the taco truck.

After I order my nachos, I text John, “Hey John, it’s me. Let’s be friends.” With a winky face.

Him: “What”

Me: “What what”

Him: “Ok. Yes.”

Me: “Yes what?”

Him: “I don’t know”

“Our interactions are like a Pinter play,” I declare to my friends.

“What’s that?” They ask.

I tell my best friend Sadie about this experience and she asks why I want to fuck John. She thinks my story doesn’t sound very passion-driven and feels more like a challenge I’ve set for myself. She wonders if by fucking his brother, I simply upped the ante in this game of trying to fuck John—actually making it harder for myself, adding a new level to the game. I tell her I find the combination of John’s inability to have sex with me and his desire to do so incredibly hot. I wonder aloud if people who don’t know me would think my mission in life is to home wreck happy relationships. She doesn’t think so—she thinks it’s clear from my perspective on infidelity and monogamy that I don’t consider myself the cause of these men’s relationship problems. I’m a symptom.

Sadie says it sounds to her like I’m bored, that if there were anyone more exciting to come along, I wouldn’t be interested in John anymore.

“Well, of course. But isn’t that always the way it is? You mess around with people that aren’t the real thing until something more interesting comes along?”

She concedes this is probably true.

“If John said he was leaving his girlfriend and wanted to fuck you all the time, would you want that?” She asks. Probably not, but there are a thousand what ifs I could go through that have nothing to do with the actual situation.

“What will probably happen is it will turn out that John’s girlfriend is like your blog’s biggest fan.”

I laugh, “That’s what happens in the movie version of my life.”

“The brother will fall in love with you,” she goes on, “and you’ll fuck both of them and get pregnant and won’t know which one of theirs it is and you’ll all end up raising the baby together.”

I tell her about how I’ve made plans to see John’s brother over Thanksgiving when I’m up in the Bay Area visiting my parents.

“I wonder if he won’t want to see me anymore if John tells him I sucked his dick,” I muse.

She bursts out laughing.

“You are building yourself a fucking garbage fire.” Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am bored.

Happy Hump Day! Now here are 10 Things You Didn't Know About Vaginas.

Full Disclosure

When you strive to share every personal experience about your body and sex life with the world at large, the response is inevitably mixed. My grandmother recently watched this short film I co-wrote/directed/produced which opens with three young women (me being one of them) talking about sex and masturbation in the kitchen while the men are outside by the grille talking about babies and fatherhood. My grandmother wanted to know if us girls really talk that openly about sex. Yes, I said. We do. This scene was based entirely on real things that my girlfriends and I actually said. My grandmother was amazed.

“In my day, my girlfriends and I just didn’t talk about that stuff,” she said.

But she wasn’t put off by it like I thought she might be. She was simply in awe.

When I was home recently, we had some of my parents’ friends over for Thanksgiving dinner. Our guests included the parents of my best friend growing up. They too had seen my film. The mother of my friend, after a couple glasses of wine, openly expressed that she found it to be a little shocking. That we would actually talk like that. She too wanted to know if it was based in reality. She mentioned that she also found Girls to be shocking in the way they talk about sex. I weighed my options: change the subject or engage. Obviously, I chose the latter.

“I personally love this new openness. I feel like sex has been cloaked in shame for so long, especially for women, and I think it’s good to talk about these things,” I said.

Two of the older women at the table piped up in unison: “We weren’t ashamed. We were just embarrassed.”

“I just feel like, sex is the most natural thing after, what, eating and peeing.” I couldn’t help myself. My parents laughed and shared a look between them, uncomfortable and embarrassed. “Why is something so natural still considered so shameful and like we shouldn’t talk about it?”

My friend’s mother asked her younger daughter (early 20s), also at the table, if she talked as candidly with her girlfriends about sex.

“Yeah.” She blinked, unfazed.

Her mom looked surprised. “Oh. Okay.”

Someone brought up the recent attack on Lena Dunham for being a “sexual predator” for looking into her little sister’s vagina when she was seven.

“I’m so sick of that name Lena Dunham,” said the father of my friend.

“That made me so mad,” I ramped up for my tirade but, looking around the table, realized I had lost my audience. They’re of a different generation, and no matter what I say, I won’t convince them that we should all be talking about sex and masturbation over Thanksgiving dinner. The topic changed to Ferguson and the decision to not indict the cop who shot Michael Brown, something we could all agree was fucked up.

When I first told my mom I was going to write this blog, she was concerned for my safety.

“You’re really going to write about your sex life on the Internet?”

I chose to make the blog anonymous. Not because I was ashamed, but because I wanted the freedom to write about the guys I fucked and if everyone knew I wrote the blog, I felt it would skew my subjects’ behavior towards me or I wouldn’t be comfortable being utterly candid about my experiences, knowing they might read it.

In the early days of the blog, Mom used to read it. Then she called me one day, outraged. She had just read about a particularly heinous interaction with Gaffer Guy that left me crying on the floor, covered in hot soup.

“Why are you sleeping with this asshole who treats you like shit?” She rightfully wanted to know. I didn’t know how to explain the animal magnetism between us, the fact that I couldn’t get enough of him, despite the fact (or maybe because of it) he was a complete asshole.

As I tried to justify myself, Mom started crying. “It’s really hard for me to read about this. I just don’t understand. I mean, do you have to write about this stuff?”

This made me mad and I exploded at her, “Yes, I do! This is my experience! And you know what, you just shouldn’t read it anymore.”

“Yes, I don’t think I will,” she sniffled into the phone.

And that was that. Mom stopped reading my blog. Which was good actually, because it allowed me a new level of freedom to be even more honest and uncensored and not worry about her getting upset. I actually admire the incredible self-control she exhibits in knowing her daughter writes a sex blog and choosing not to read it. From time to time, if I write one I think she will like and that is light on the sex-with-assholes factor, I will recommend it to her.

As for my dad, he too knows I write the blog and he too chooses not to read it. Actually, that second part was my mom’s idea. But one day, Dad called me out of the blue and said, “I read your last blog.”

“Oh, really?” I held for his reaction.

“It was hilarious. The writing is great, and I love the way the story unfolded. That guy is ridiculous.” He was referring to the Studio Exec who picked me up in the park, fresh off his trip to Burning Man.

Dad laughed and started quoting the blog. “I love when [your ex] says ‘rock the cleavage’.” I couldn’t believe Dad was repeating my lines back to me, and laughing about it. I felt so moved I almost cried.

I suddenly feel the powerful urge to “come out,” to put my face on the blog, to publicly become the Slutty Feminist. Because I don’t want to hide. And it’s a different time than when my parents were growing up. My generation is one of disclosure. Any and all information about everyone and everything is at our fingertips, and nothing is private anymore. This is a mixed blessing, but one thing I find wonderful about it is that there is a resource now for shared experiences, and I think people are realizing they’re not alone. There’s a community for everyone, no matter your kinks or weirdness, to be found on the Internet. This is a great thing for female sexuality in particular, which has been shrouded in mystery and ignorance for so many generations. There is finally an outlet for women to share their stories and realize what they thought was weird or unnatural is actually totally normal. God knows sex education isn’t doing a great job of teaching us about our bodies and our desires, so we gotta figure it out for ourselves, on the Internet.

I listen to this wonderful podcast called Guys We Fucked: The Anti-Slut Shaming Podcast and these gals are not hiding behind a pseudonym. They are Corinne Fisher and Krystyna Hutchinson and they are loud and proud about it. Every week, they have a guest on the podcast—usually guys they’ve fucked. It seems from the comments they read in the beginning of each show that a lot of their audience consists of teenage girls, which at first seemed a little dubious because they talk so candidly and explicitly about sex. But then I was like, no, this is good that these young girls are getting this perspective on sex. Because most of their sex education is probably coming from the endless steam of porn on the internet, most of which is made for men by men. I’m glad they’re getting a female side to the story, from two smart funny 20-something NYC gals. At least if they’re being prematurely exposed to sex, they have a chance at a balanced perspective, which is more than I can say for previous generations.

The more I read memoirs like Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants by Jill Soloway and Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham, I realize there is a community out there for women like me. I think that Jill and Lena would relate to my weird musings. Like the fact that every time I’m on a public bus, I imagine everyone as giant genitalia and I can’t help but picture the bus filled with enormous penises and vaginas; the sheer amount of genitalia surrounding us at any given moment never ceases to amaze me. I think about how so many of our interactions in the world can be linked back to our genitals, and how it’s amusing to me that this is the one thing it’s most socially unacceptable to talk about.

Although I’m sure it would make my parents and their friends cringe, I look forward to a time when we can all talk openly about fucking at Thanksgiving dinner. There’s something amazing that happens when people come out of the closet about sex and really start to hash it out. People’s faces light up. They get excited. I get the sense that this is the one thing people have been waiting to talk about, but they’ve never had permission or they’ve always been too embarrassed. It’s amazing to me what happens when I talk to strangers about my blog, because my candidness seems to give them permission to open up and suddenly I’m hearing about the sex lives of people I don’t even know. There’s an instant connection because we’ve skipped through the bullshit small talk and gotten to something real. Sex is something we all do and we all think about a lot of the time—it’s something we literally all have in common. So let’s fucking talk about it! Every time I get together with my girlfriends, of course sex always comes up, and every time we talk about it, I feel like real progress is being made. Sex is a powerful force, and something that women haven’t had ownership of for far too long. Owning it will be the final frontier for women’s equality and liberation. That’s what I think. (mic drop)

Standing with Lena

I'm very disturbed by this recent media/Twitter storm against Lena Dunham regarding the depiction of her childhood sexual curiosity in her new book Not That Kind of Girl. The jump to call her a “sexual predator” for masturbating next to her little sister lying in the same bed, or for looking into her baby sister’s vagina (when she was seven!), is in my opinion grotesque. Somehow I feel like if Lena were a boy, this would not be considered such a shameful offense. The fact that she was a little girl curious about a vagina seems too much for our society to handle, and this I find really sad and upsetting. Even the fact that her curiosity about her sister’s vagina could be misconstrued as sexual in any way is frankly ridiculous.

It makes me reflect on my own childhood and how I was taught from a very young age to have no shame about my sexuality. Whatever I did or asked about, my parents indulged, never shaming me or telling me I was wrong or gross for thinking or feeling a certain way. And I feel like Lena’s upbringing was maybe similar in this way. And so she grew up feeling shameless about her sexuality, which has molded her into who she is today and given us, her audience, the body of work we love in Girls, Tiny Furniture, and now her memoirs.

I’d been working on writing a piece about how my mom bought me a vibrator when I was twelve. This is one of the examples from my childhood that I feel shaped me into the confident, sex-positive woman I am today. Now I find myself questioning if the public would have a different view. I wonder if my honest account of this event could potentially bring down a shitstorm of judgment on me and my mom—judgment that I know actually has nothing to do with me or how I feel about how I was brought up, and has everything to do with other people’s disturbing cultural denial of female sexuality. Because Lena’s sister Grace has clearly not been deeply scarred by these events. They have a wonderful healthy relationship, they’re clearly very close, and she is the first to defend Lena on Twitter, citing heteronormativity as the reason people are up in arms against her.

I just can’t believe the extent to which this has been blown out of proportion. Again, I reflect on my own upbringing. My parents coming to tuck me into bed at night, butt naked. My mom’s diaphragm sitting on the edge of the bathtub. The fact that she bought me a vibrator when I was twelve. To me, these aspects of my growing up naturalized sex and nudity in a way that’s made me more comfortable with my body and my sexuality than most of the women I know, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. The fact that other people might then take my experience and put their own prejudice on it and tell me it’s wrong or sick or that someone should be punished for it—well, I can’t imagine what that must feel like and my heart goes out to Lena.

I was a very sexually curious and precocious child, and the stories I could tell that might be misconstrued are endless. I remember one time my godfather was babysitting me and I took off all my clothes to show him my naked body, and he looked uncomfortable and told me to go get dressed. When I was seven, I flashed my vagina at my best friend’s older brother and he told his mom on me, and I was sent home. In kindergarten, I gave my little male classmate a box of crayons to show me his penis—I had forgotten about this episode until I saw him again in high school and he wouldn’t talk to me for this reason. My best friend and I used to take off our pants and take turns sniffing each other’s butts. One time I kissed my mom on the lips and stuck my tongue in her mouth.

Yes, there’s no older person taking advantage of younger person in any of these stories, but they all involve a child’s curiosity about sex and bodies. And I think what’s really bothering people is not the harmless childish things Lena did to her little sister, but the fact that a little girl might have sexual feelings or curiosity at all. Somehow, as a society, we’ve tricked ourselves into forgetting these moments in our childhoods when we first started having sexy feelings, or we suddenly started paying attention to the junk between our legs—somehow, this is still taboo.

To me, this incident suggests a much larger conversation we need to have, as a culture. Sex education is still not taught in many schools throughout the country, girls continue to be ignorant about their vaginas, sex and nudity are still considered shameful topics of conversation. We can stop beating up Lena Dunham now. We’ve got more important work to do. 

Desperately Seeking Orgasm!

I’m starting to wonder if guys realize that women actually like having sex.  There’s a bit of a 50s notion going on where men are like ‘okay, I need to just stick it in, pump a few times, and get it over with so I can let her go to sleep.’  Does this have anything to do with man’s ancient fear of vagina, I wonder?  Is it like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom – get in and get out ASAP before someone gets hurt?  Even my very sensitive, lovely and cunning linguist ex-boyfriend once referred to it (speaking as a 13 year old boy, when he encountered his first vag) as a “scary little monster.”  To this I say, come on guys, there’s literally nothing scary about a vagina.  It’s this soft, fuzzy thing with little pink lips, totally harmless, totally sweet and loveable.  But I digress…

Times are a-changing and I’m not looking for some rich guy to buy me a house, make me a baby, and stick a rock on my finger.  I’m simply looking for someone to give me a goddamn orgasm.  Shouldn’t be too much to ask.  Just saying.

So, this one night I find myself engaged in a pretty raunchy encounter with a random gaffer in an Albertson’s parking lot in the middle of the night after an event at my work.  After following me around all night with a string of suggestive commentary, he wants to “walk” me to my car.  In preparation for coming attractions, I pop a mint in my mouth.

“What are you sucking on?”

“A mint… You want it?”

“Yes.”

And with that one no-nonsense exchange, we’re off.  He grabs me, kisses me, sticks his tongue down my throat, a rich man-smell emanating off him making it all the more primal and exciting.  We rub on each other and groan, trying to keep it down so the folks chatting just out of sight around the corner won’t hear us.  I am stunned into silence when I notice his penis poking out at me under the fluorescent lighting.  Bold move to whip it out in a parking lot. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just gonna rub it.”  He bends me over the hood of my car and starts to put it in.  I push him off.  No, this is not happening.  I’m not having unprotected sex in the Albertson’s parking lot with a total stranger.  I have to draw the line somewhere.

“Come on, just a couple pumps,” he begs.  It’s tempting but I stay strong and get my panties back in position.  I drive away, very hot and bothered, and upon arriving home, I put my rabbit (not the kind with fur, the other kind) to good use.

Since that fateful night, our relationship has consisted of sexting dirty pictures back and forth, and intricately detailing the nasty things we’ll do to each other once our opposing schedules finally align.  He promises to make me “cum 5 times” and wants me to “sit on [his] face and drip down [his] chin.”  The talk is hot but it leaves me all worked up with nowhere to go.  For weeks I try – and fail – to get him to come over after work (he claims tiredness, I discover through my own research it’s more like live-in-girlfriend-ness… he promises via text that she is “on her way out”… I decide this is Not My Problem). 

So this one night, I’m being put up by my work in this really sexy hotel room.  I mean, literally on Santa Monica beach, waves practically crashing on the bed – SEXY.  I’m thinking, there’s no way I’m not getting laid in this room tonight.  I weigh my options.  On one hand, my ex-boyfriend: lovely, sweetest guy in the world, best friend, amazing sex, awesome orgasms – all in all beautiful man.  On the other hand: Gaffer Guy – totally unreliable, maybe alcoholic, possibly manic depressive, potentially still living with said girlfriend, dubbed “tweaker” by reliable coworker, last seen at random Albertson’s encounter.  The choice is obvious, right?  I mean, right?  Okay, so I’m not a masochist or one of those girls that gets off on being degraded/abused (at least, I don’t think I am), but I’ve had my ex – a lot – and, slut that I am, I’d like some new cock.  Besides, Gaffer Guy is HOT.

Holding out little hope he’ll actually show up, I invite him over.  Incredibly, he agrees to drive from Studio City (?) at 11pm on a Monday night for a company-funded booty call in my hotel room in Santa Monica (??).  I’m excited.  I shower, shave, switch on the electric fireplace, turn up the volume on True Blood (my boss is literally in the next room… like, I can hear her talking on her cell phone through the wall… at least if I get fired, I’ll go out with a BANG).  Half an hour later, Gaffer Guy miraculously shows up on my doorstep.  It’s late, I’m horny and naked under my hotel robe, so I figure, you know, let’s get this show on the road.  I reach out and touch his hair (lame, I know, but you gotta start somewhere and I’m not just gonna grab his crotch). 

“Okay, touching the hair,” he narrates.  I stop.  He goes to “take a leak.”  I lay down on the bed, robe strategically open just the right amount.  He returns and heads for the couch where he promptly cracks open one of the Coronas he brought in his backpack.  Okay?  I join him.  Reach out and try again, this time going for some finger-touching action (what can I say, I’m not used to making the first move). 

“Slow down,” he says.  Huh?  Via text, this guy has seen the inside of my vagina and he wants to SLOW DOWN?!  He wants to “talk.”  We drink beers and try to find something in common.

“What are you here for?” I ask. 

“To hang out,” he says.  He didn’t bring condoms, he doesn’t want to “disrespect” me. 

“Stop being coy and fuck me,” I say.  He says I’m going to get crazy later, women all pretend to be “down to clown” then turn crazy after.  I’m not sure what his point is but if we don’t have sex soon I’m going to start paying attention to the bullshit coming out of his mouth. 

I’ve encountered this male line of thinking before and it completely baffles me every time.  This thing of “I don’t want to disrespect you by just fucking you” and “guys don’t just want sex.”  No sweetie, you’re not hearing me.  I JUST WANT SEX.  Why does no one believe me?!  I didn’t invite you over here to talk like girlfriends – I’ve got girlfriends for that, and guy friends I like to talk to.  I invited you over to fuck.  I’m a big girl, I can live with this decision.  I’m not going to regret not getting to know you later.  Believe me, of my various regrets about this night, that will not be one of them.  I honestly think they actually believe that sex is something we give them so that we have someone to cuddle with and confide in afterwards.  Which leads me to my next point…

I finally coerce Gaffer Guy into kissing me (a harder battle than I was prepared for this late in the evening).  It’s getting hot and heavy, my robe is open, he’s moving down, and before I know it, he’s inside me.  Finally got him right where I want him!  He moves us to the bed and starts taking me from behind (why guys always skip right to doggy when it makes them come so fast is further evidence of the point I’m getting to)…

“You’re so delicious,” he says, grabbing my ass.  He pumps away for a minute and a half and, with little fanfare, tells me he’s going to come, and… comes.  Okay.  That’s cool.  He’s 36 but whatever.  He’ll get his thing back together and we’ll do it again in 15 minutes or so.  That’s fine with me, I actually enjoy the build up.  After all, he did say the first one would be quick and the plan is to have sex all night, right?  I mean, that is what you’re here for… right??

We move back to the couch, me fully naked, him fully clothed.  We talk a bit more.  The more he talks, the less I like him, so I go in for some more kissing.  I actually really enjoy the kissing.  I unbutton his shirt and try to touch his stomach. 

“Stop grabbing my fat,” he whines.  Sorry, didn’t realize I was making out with a 16 year old girl.  Having exhausted all my other moves, I go in for the big one (figuratively speaking).  I reach for his penis and… I can’t find it.

“It’s gone,” he says ominously.  I check, feeling around.  It really is gone.   
“Where did it go?” 

Actually, he’s got it tucked Silence of the Lambs-style between his legs. 

“Stop that, you’re gonna cut off your circulation,” I plead, genuinely concerned that he’s ruining my chance at a second go-round.  It doesn’t really strike me until later how fucked up this is.  At this moment, I’m just sexually frustrated and bored of the horsing around. 

“I’m so tired.  I got like 3 hours of sleep last night,” Gaffer Guy slow blinks.

I just stare at him.  Please don’t do this to me.  Silently pleading with him to pull himself together man, get back in the game!  I push my boobs in his face.

“Oh man, I want a bacon-wrapped cheeseburger.”  Seriously?!  I tell him to eat the $10 pop chips on the bar and take a nap.

“Nah, that’s lame.” 

“You can just leave then,” I pout, hoping to guilt trip him into giving me an orgasm.  He reminds me that he’s 36 and doesn’t need my permission to leave.  Okay, Norman Bates. 

I wonder where did all that charisma and bravado go – you know, the stuff that made me give it up in the Albertson’s parking lot?  I feel blindsided by his insecurity, caught unawares by this person I’m suddenly painfully aware I don’t know at all.  I tell him again that he’s free to go.  He puts a penny on the coffee table. 

“That’s for you,” he jokes.  “That was the best minute and a half of my life.”

“Meaningful,” I say, opening the door to make it easier for him to leave. 

“Sorry for letting you down.” 

“You didn’t let me down,” I respond lamely, instantly regretting letting him off the hook.  Yes, you fucking let me down, you selfish prick.  I’m still learning how to say these words out loud.  He stalls, kissing me (I let him, I know… I’m a slut, what can I say?  Despite it all, I still want to have sex… I know.)

I can’t believe that all his teasing sexts amount to this.  Where’s the guy that promised to make me “cum 5 times”?!  I’m bitterly disappointed in him and, for the moment, men in general.  Who is raising these guys?  They can’t all have crazy mothers and misogynist fathers… or can they?  I’m fairly impenetrable (no pun intended) so I don’t take things like the penny-on-the-coffee-table personally – I actually feel nothing about this, which maybe is not healthy either – I don’t know.  But the disappointment is palpable. 

At 11am the next morning, I’m in a business meeting.  My phone vibrates.  A text from Gaffer Guy: “I got arrested last night on a DUI.  I just got out of jail.”  I feel awful.  Instantly guilty and sorry for making him come all the way to the beach so late at night for a failed booty call.  I apologize profusely, I feel sorry for this sad individual who is 36, lives paycheck to paycheck, and now has to deal with getting his license revoked and spending a ton of money on a lawyer and traffic school and all that shit.  My heart pounds, my imagination runs amok, I’m on the verge of a panic attack when… bzzzz.  New text message:

“April Fools Day in July!”  I stare at my phone in disbelief, trying to get inside the head of this sick person.  And then I realize, no, this is not worth my time. Because as disappointing as last night was, I can give myself a fucking orgasm.  

            “Fuck.  You.”  I write.

            “Yes please,” he responds.

            “No thanks.”  I turn off my phone and go back to work.