Let me tell you about the worst sex I've ever had.
It started with an out-of-the-blue email, from a girl I kinda knew from school. This email invited me out for drinks, and the context of the email suggested that there would be other people. But when I arrived at the dingy dive she'd recommended, I couldn't see anyone else. And, no, I'm not being romantic--there was literally no one else in the room. Even the bartender had fled.
Now, I'm no Brad Clooney. I was once told that I looked like Donny Osmond, and I really don't think that was intended as a compliment. But this girl... I'd rank her in the lower percentile of girls I've Biblically known. And "girl" is not exactly the right word. More like "woman." More like "experienced woman." More like "experienced woman with more than a few miles on her and well overdue for an oil change."
Don't get the wrong idea! I mean nothing against her! We got to talking and drinking and she was smart and funny and I don't even think that was the booze talking. After an hour or so, the conversation turned to rough sex and bondage.
Okay, fine, I'm dense. But I still thought we were just talking. Like, hypothetically. And, after all, sex is my favorite topic--it's endlessly interesting. I'd say that only realized that our talk was more than hypothetical when I found myself inside her apartment, exchanging half-hearted kisses like soggy cereal in the dark.
With all her talk about torn stockings and bruised backsides, I was expecting something a little fierce. But any playful biting or scratching I could muster only got an annoyed "Ouch!" in reply. It was the sound you'd make after getting a paper cut or clipping your nails too close to the quick. It was a sound that could make boners deflate faster than you could say "Grandpa in a push-up bra."
You might be thinking, "Just like a man! Taking what he wants with no thought for the other party!" Hey, I responded! I toned it down--hell, I stopped the rough stuff completely. Her reaction, with all the coyness of auto mechanic, was, "I said 'ouch.' I didn't say 'quit.'"
I won't bore you with thoughts of foreplay; she didn't. It was like I was trapped in a feminist's role-reversal experiment. Here was I, the man, wanting nothing more than to fool around, to fondle, to take my time, to lick, bite, and pinch, and here was she, the woman, demanding that we skip right to the sex, presumably so she could climax in two minutes, roll over, fall asleep, and start snoring.
Well, I consider myself an attentive lover, so I got right to it. I picked her up, tossed her on her bed, pulled her close and...
"Stay still," she said.
I don't know about you. Staying still is not something that I associate with sex. Staying still is almost anathema to sex. At first I thought I misheard her. "Stay still!" she hissed with a bit more insistence.
I looked down at her. She looked up at me. I stood there, and she lay there, and we, connected at the genitals, said nothing and did nothing.
You know how people have those nightmares where they're naked in public? You know how people have horrible stories about getting "caught?" Imagine standing naked next to a total stranger, who is also naked and who is cupping your privates. Now imagine making direct eye contact with that person for 180 excruciating seconds.
"It's not working," she sighed, and she reached behind her pillow to pull out a vibrator. I was far too grateful to feel insulted. While she took care of her own problems and I prayed for a merciful death, she began to idly babble about how our little tryst was probably the nail in the coffin for her relationship with her heretofore unmentioned husband. "I torpedoed it," she kept saying. "I torpedoed it."
"WRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR," replied the vibrator.
I detached myself and gathered up my clothes. "Aren't you going to stay?" she asked. "It's okay; I don't pick up my kid until tomorrow afternoon. We could get breakfast."
I'd love to tell you that after I ran out of that cat urine-scented apartment that I never saw her again. But that would be lying. I saw her almost three times a week for an entire year of school, and each time we bumped into one another, she'd hug me, or squeeze my hand, or rub my shoulders, and exchange one of those sensual looks that said, "We really shared something, didn't we?"