“I dunno. I’ve just never had a sexual experience like this before,” he reluctantly admitted one night after rolling away at some arbitrary moment during our make out as he chuckled to himself. That wasn’t the first time I had received feedback like that, but it was the first time it resonated.
Hooking up with me is a social experiment. Intimacy quickly becomes a series of trials testing a guy’s patience, effort level and willingness, and threshold for awkwardness.
A little bit ago, things ended with a guy I had been seeing (and I use the term “seeing” loosely as what exactly we were doing was a point of contention and, ironically, the reason we stopped doing whatever it was to begin with) who pretty much set the standard for this particular experiment.
He was someone I once worked with and it was there that we became friends…friendly…we talked a lot and I always harbored a crush on him. Too bad I was an intern and he lived with his girlfriend. Cut to a reconnection some time later, the girlfriend was out of the picture, and I felt immediately comfortable with him again. Perhaps too comfortable.
He would come over late after work or meet me at home after the bar (we were seen in public together only once), drink some wine, and go to bed. I was impressed with his unfailing persistence in trying to convince me to go beyond just making out, in spite of his less than stellar success rate.
I would joke to friends and coworkers that even though I saw him almost every night, I never touched it, nor let him touch it. After nearly two months, the reactions turned from entertained to concerned. It was time to reward him for his patience.
Ignoring all my greater existential issues, a big concern for me at that point was that I hadn’t had a bikini wax in what felt like (looked like) an eternity. Unable to get an appointment, I spent some time planning my course of action. For the first time ever, I would attempt to shave. He deserved it.
One night that week, I instructed him to come over when he finished work; He always got off work at unreasonably late hours, giving me plenty of time to prepare. I stared at my razor with intent, ignoring the glaring glitch in the plan: I was intoxicated. No sooner did I pick up the razor than I shaved off a layer of my thumb. I still am not quite sure of the mechanics of this.
Needless to say, that was the end of the shaving portion of the evening. As I was missing layers of skin and not nearly enough hair, this was not going to be his night. When he finally arrived, we crawled into bed, turned on some music, and commenced with the make out/pillow talk portion of the evening.
A song came on that reminded me of the kids I nannied for in L.A. Three of the sweetest kids I know and a mother with cancer. I started to tell him how I would force the kids to finish their homework quickly so we had time to play Rock Band. Nanny of the year. I was (and still am) working through the guilt of leaving them so quickly when the offer for the big-girl job I currently hold fell into my lap. And then…I was crying. Not gentle teardrops that trickled down my face, hinting at my fondness for the children. Full-fledged sobs that wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I rolled over into a ball; He held me in his arms and let me cry.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” And I continued crying in his arms.
Nobody thought I would hear from him again.
The second trial in this social experiment came when I had one particularly frustrating evening at a work-related function. During the event, I met a man with whom I spent the entire evening talking. He ended the night by grabbing my ass, asking for my number, and disobediently stealing a kiss after I refused to make out with him in front of my coworkers. One minute after he left, however, I found out that he was married. Utterly disgusted that this man purposefully removed his wedding ring to creep at this party, I went on a rather loud rant to any man within earshot about how nauseated and angry I was. My friend/coworker ushered me out.
As was the plan, the boy was to come over when I got home. His ride to me was 40 minutes by public transit and he arrived after midnight. I opened the door and greeted him with what would be a half-an-hour of yelling about how horrible and disgusting all men, as a species, are (I made sure to note that he was not excluded) and how I hate them. He didn’t say a word until we were unmaking the bed.
“I don’t really know why you’re yelling at me.” He was so calm.
Nobody thought I would hear from him again.
The third trial occurred a few nights later. We were in bed joking around when he began incessantly tickling me. Unable to breathe, I rolled over onto my stomach, thinking that would impede his ability to reach me. It didn’t. Flailing about (I am wildly ticklish), I threw my head back not realizing that his head was hovering directly over mine. The rest is easy to guess.
After recovering from what was, thankfully, not a broken nose or missing tooth, he started in again.
“Matthew!” I shouted at him in my sternest laugh.
That’s not his name.
And he still didn’t stop calling.
“I dunno. I’ve just never had a sexual experience like this before,” he reluctantly admitted one night after rolling away at some arbitrary moment during our make out as he chuckled to himself.
“What do you mean?” I knew what he meant. I can’t remember if I was embarrassed, offended, or hurt.
Later that night, as I rested my head on his chest, I earnestly asked him why he was so patient with me.
“Something tells me you’re worth it.”
Wait…why did I end things with him again?