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?”
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?”
“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.