The Penis Sandwich

            The walk of shame: a college fundamental.  Well, for most.  I didn’t take my first walk of shame until after I had graduated.  Since Michigan gets out for summer in the spring, I went to visit a friend who was still in school so I could postpone admitting it was time to join the real world.  It just so happens that this kid I hook up with, and by hook up with I mean make out with, every time we are in the same city, also attended that very university.  Let’s just say I didn’t sleep at my friend’s house any of the nights I was there.  In fact, she didn’t either.  We spent the wee hours of the morning texting each other from boys’ beds; the conversations consisting mostly of hunger complaints. 

            Unfortunately for my friend, I didn’t need to go out to eat.  I had already received room service in the form of a penis sandwich.  Despite being the sexpert that I am, the concept and functionality of the penis sandwich remains confusing to me.  In this boy’s bed with only my shirt removed, I noticed that he was completely naked.  As an aside: why is it that boys are so quick to get naked?  There’s no shame or hesitancy, any shape or size.  Do they think that women are as visual as they are; that if we see what they’ve got going on, we will be enticed, more willing to engage with it?  I can’t count how many times I’ve had boys over that undress before I’ve even had time to brush my teeth.  Shocking for them, I’m sure, when I slip into my flannel PJ pants and men’s XXL T-shirt (so comfy) and then refuse to remove them.

            Not that I am ever too willing to take my clothes off, I was particularly hesitant this evening.  Perhaps, and call me crazy, it was due to the fact that his roommate was less than a foot away, “sleeping.”  After trying to convince me that the roommate was for sure already asleep, though I had literally been talking to him less than five minutes before, the boy turned on a fan.  Because that would block out the sound of our kissing for the roommate and in return, the inevitable sound of his snoring for us.  Brilliant. 

Ignoring all my better instincts that we may be about to put on a live show, we began a horizontal version of what is known on the dance floor as grinding.  He never pressured me to do anything, he rarely asked, (I always questioned his patience), but I suddenly became very aware that I had his “full attention.”  For some reason, this night, he took matters into his own hands.  He maneuvered me on top, which I usually avoid by making myself as heavy as possible or by verbal attack, and then flipped his little soldier up in between our stomachs.  Just to be clear, it was his stomach, the soldier, my stomach: the penis sandwich. 

The grinding doesn’t usually do it for me through my clothes under normal circumstances, but I’m pretty sure the way he set this up took away any chance of my feeling anything.  I was doing all the work and getting no return on my investment.  Confused, bored, physically fatigued, and sure all of this was blatantly written on my face, I wondered how long he expected this to continue.  We weren’t dating and I had already showered so it was unclear where he thought he was going to unload because I certainly was not going to allow it in my bellybutton.  I imagine that would be difficult to clean up.

            The next morning, I walked down the street to my friend’s house wearing the boy’s pajamas and my heels from the night before: a stunning ensemble.  I felt a little embarrassed that perhaps I was the only one unaware of the penis sandwich’s origins.  I walked in to the entire house of girls all seated in the living room, so I told them my tale.  I was happy to discover that my feeling awkward was for once not my fault.  Apparently the penis sandwich is not a sexual staple.  If nothing else besides years of endless teasing unbeknownst to the poor kid, at least I could finally check “stride of pride” off my To Do list.