No, really. In life. Like everyone's life, not just mine.
Of course you're first question is how did I get away with twenty-something odd years of amazing sex? Well, for one thing, I haven't been having sex for twenty-something odd years, that'd be gross. The other is I never said I always had amazing sex, but it's always been anywhere between pretty good and amazing. Pretty good to me on a bad day is still okay. It's like getting a B on a report card. It isn't an A, no, but it ain't a C either, so you're still satisfied. To me, average sex was what I considered bad sex, but to those who've had bad sex, I'm sure average would've been like winning the lotto. Twice.
So, nope, I've never had bad sex. And now that I know exactly what bad sex is, I'm positive I've never had it before. So, let's get on with the story, shall we? It's a bit long, but worth it.
It was really late. I had opted out of traipsing the streets and instead was on my couch (where I'd been for hours) cleaning out my DVR. I was in the middle of an episode of The Bad Girls Club when the familiar text message ding of my phone sounded. I'm a night owl and so are most of my friends, so it didn't strike me as odd to see the number on the screen. It was Jay, a guy who wasn't quite a friend, but wasn't quite an acquaintance either. Somewhere in between, we chatted on the internet or hung out when common friends were together. I could count on one hand the number of times we'd actually hung out alone.
J: What are you doing?
B: Nada, killin brain cells watching tv.
J: Me too. Wanna watch together?
B: Not really. Wanna go for a walk instead? It's nice out.
J: Sure. I'll call you when I'm near you, so you can come out.
Simple enough. It was nice out and my ass was seriously losing that loving feeling, so I hauled myself up, threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and waited for his call, which I didn't get. Instead, several minutes later, I got a text that read:
I'm outside, but I gotta go to the bathroom. Buzz me up. I did.
But after he did his business, he plopped down on my couch. I told him I thought we were walking, not sitting. He responded about some weird homeless guy perched outside my building and maybe we should chill for a minute until he cleared out. Homeless man? In NYC? Noooo, we must run for our lives. I rolled my eyes and sat down next to him. Jay and I always have pretty okay conversations, and this evening was no different. We're bussin it up, having a few laughs, catching up as it'd been a while, when I shifted my position and my leg wound up sort of leaning on his. All bets were off as he reached out and started rubbing my leg. Oh, for real? Suddenly I totally got it. Call B, naive, because the signs were all there: later than 11pm phone call/text, finding an excuse to come up...Jay was trying to get it in!
I immediately gave Jay the once over. He was going on about something I didn't care about, but as he talked, I noticed he had really nice teeth. And a nice smile to match. Shoot, Jay was actually pretty handsome.** However, the question wasn't whether Jay was attractive or not. It was whether or not Jay was gonna get it or not. Hmmm...decisions, decisions.
I finally decided to go forward with a little making out when the opportunity presented itself. Worst case scenario, diet coke. And when the opportunity did in fact present itself-he had left my thigh behind and was now rubbing my hand-and he pulled me over to kiss him, I was relatively excited. I love kissing. It's the best thing since purple Skittles, seriously. Taste that rainbow, homeboy. Or not. It's the worst kiss I've ever had. In fact, if you go back to my kissing blog last week, he was "Solid As a Rock." Yuck! I should've just stopped there, but I kept thinking how it had been a month and I really wanted some! Damn hormones, I should've been thinking, "If the kissing is this bad, imagine what the rest is like!" Sigh, some lessons you learn the hard way. No pun intended.
So somewhere during the bad kissing, he starts rubbing around on me, which of course makes me a tad bit distracted, and I sort of forgot how bad the kissing was. So instead I sort of shoved a boob in his mouth and let him rub around elsewhere. (Gosh, this is a bit much, but in order for you to get the story's entirety, we must do it this way. If I have to suffer, you do to. We're all in this together. HSM.) So, he's doing whatever he's doing and then he says, "Are you on the pill?"
What? Who stills asks that past the twelfth grade? I don't think I've been asked about the pill in ages, do they still make that thing? Maybe that's just me. More importantly, who cares about babies; I care more about the HIV, my friend, so pill or no pill, you're wearing a condom. I said exactly that. He didn't have one. o_O. We pulled from my stash, which took us off the couch and into the bedroom.
All this time, I felt that little voice saying, "This won't end well," but I shoved it out my head in the name of an orgasm, but little did I know, that little friend wouldn't be coming to visit that night. But, we'll get to that.
So, I'm lying on my bed as he's pulling the rest of his clothes off and man, oh man, clothing is such a damn liar. It fools you into thinking all kinds of good things are hiding underneath them when the truth of the matter is they mask reality. No, my body isn't the best, but damnit, he looked like he hadn't eaten since 1972! I have a serious problem with thinking one of my breasts will take out one of his ribs, but like many black men, he was well endowed, so I surged forward. The sex. About a minute in, he's moaning and says, "I want you to give me some head, too," to which I respond, "No." We all know I've said how much I like head, so for me to not want to give...When I decline, he says, "Well then I'm just gonna have to tear this pu**y up aren't I? I'ma tear. it. up!" The funny thing is that while he was "tearing it up" I was thinking about roller skates. Like what are you doing up there? He was talking shit, pumping away, and I think I made ONE sound, which is highly unlike me. I'm a screamer, but Jay doesn't know that, how could he, so he's thinking he's doing it big willy style. Speaking of which, a note to black men everywhere: it is not just enough for you to be well endowed as many of your brothers are, so do not think for one second that you can rest on your big laurel; you must work the big laurel as well, thanks. Back to Jay, who is not working his big laurel at all. About four minutes have passed when he lets me know he's about to cum. I gave him a Sam Jackson eye roll and told him to go ahead.
He does and then collapses on top of me. The only movement are the small shivers that come every few seconds. That good, Jay? Enough to have the shakes?
"Did you cum?" He asks. In the thirty-two seconds of sex? No, I didn't, my man. I say that, but nicer. No, I didn't.
"Why are you breathing so hard then?" He says as if I am trying to pull a fast one on him so I can sneak another in or something.
"Because you're laying on top of me." He rolls off and apologizes then wraps himself around me like a damn curly straw and apologizes again. This time I assume it's for my lack of climax. Two huge problems here: one, sorry? I mean, are you going to fix it? Two, get off of me! I hate cuddling.
"Are you staying?" I ask. His response:
"Zzzzzzzzz." He was out cold. DEAD. I'm not going to lie, I almost cried. Sexual frustration does not look good on B and I was locked in bed with someone I wanted to punch repeatedly. So lame.
Eventually, I fell asleep and was roused in the AM by him kissing on me. I'm sorry, did you miraculously find a toothbrush hiding on the bedside table? Get. Off. It didn't take long for him to recall the night before as he came in for more. Hell to the naw, I wasn't about to be a double sucker. In my opinion, you have to be a real dingbat to mess up a good fingering, so I pushed his hand down there and helped him help me. When I finally finished, he asked if I had another condom. I told him no and I had an early appointment just in case he thought he was gonna have a shot still.
He left and I washed my body with a brillo pad, hoping to erase the memory while I was at it. Some say it could've just been first time jitters; that people sometimes need to get comfortable with a new partner. To that I say: I wouldn't piss on that dude if he were on fire let alone sleep with him again.
That bitch stole my line,
**Later, when I showed Maria a picture of him, she concurred that he was handsome, so no I didn't make that up for my vagina's benefit. It was true.