On Bitter Disappointment and Disappointed Bitterness

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The first time the ‘just close your eyes and think of Europe’ line applied was also the first time a guy ever went down on me.

This had been a long time coming.

Not because of any particular attraction I felt towards this person, but because we’d been explicitly told not to do it.

Another girl he’d been hooking up was a friend of mine, and one night she called me while messaging him – telling me if anything happened between us she could no longer be my friend, while telling him she would not be comfortable with him hooking up with me specifically, but of course their relationship was just casual and of course he could hook up with other girls and of course she was a ‘cool girl’ who could handle it all.

There’s something always fascinating in the forbidden, isn’t there? That desire to touch which can not be touch, to feel which can not be felt. Your imagination builds it up so much in your head, making it into something that will be fantastical and wonderful.

More often than not, it’s mediocre, at best.

It’s part of why I’ve never understood abstinence only education programs, or programs like D.A.R.E., which, besides being proven more often than not that they don’t work, only make the thing seem more deliciously fascinating.

So one night, when I had friends over, hanging out, beer, pizza, good times, and he came up behind me, I did not say ‘No,’ I said, “We shouldn’t.” I dared him to continue.

And in my tipsy haze, in my sex starved body, he felt warm and smooth.

We didn’t get very far before we passed out. It was late, he was high, and I still had a voice in the back of my head saying, “This is a really bad idea.”

In the morning, he was young and clumsy. He was rough in the wrong places, trying to take control of a situation like he normally would, expecting me to swoon, and I refused. I refused to fake my enjoyment when all I wanted was him out of my room.

Guys, I have already stated that girls will fake orgasms. Sometimes, it’s just easier that way.
If we aren’t moving, if we are enjoying ourselves, you will know.
If we tell you “Keep doing that,” “Don’t stop,” “No, just there,” Or any variation thereof, why would you change what you are doing? Unless you are in a play situation of orgasm denial – why deny us when we are giving you clear cut instructions? If we’re going down on you and you say “Just like that,” “Yeah, faster,” or “Not that hard,” when we’re sucking on your balls, do you want us to go harder and/or bite the damn thing off? No.
(Yes I know that there’s a difference in the harm involved there, but the concept is the same.)

So by the third time I was asking for the incessant drilling of fingers in my pussy to be backed down to a tolerable level/the angle to be changed, when I’d been denied twice already, I gave up. I gave up on instructions. I gave up, and I got irritated.
Very irritated.

We both liked biting, and but I had stated that I did not want any marks on my body. He had no such qualms.
I started slow, nips here and there, finding the correct spots. And moans and groans led me further and further.
I understand that this was not the most mature way to handle the situation, but I was rather unhappy. Unhappy that this had built up so high, that I’d been hearing about the amazing, take control skills of this guy for months, how fantastic he was in bed, and how it had been ohso amazing. Unhappy that he’d been flirting so much with me, telling me things he wanted to do, and that none of it was even remotely close to living up to reality.

I was annoyed that this was the first time I’d let anyone sleep in my own bed, stay in my room, invade my personal space, and it was so profoundly disappointing.

So when his tongue started to lick at me like a hyperactive puppy I stared at my ceiling and held out for as long as I felt reasonable – before using his neck like a cat scratch post.

I can’t say that either of us were particularly satisfied that morning, until he came back because he forgot some of his stuff. My flatmate opened the door, I heard them muttering, and buried myself deeper into a blanket cocoon.

“Uh, what the hell happened last night?” If I’m remembering correctly, she didn’t even bother knocking.

“What did he say?”

“He said he felt like he was returning to the scene of the crime,” She tried to suppress a laugh, “Did you mean to maul him?”

Eh. Kinda.

“He didn’t seem to mind at the time,” I shrugged.

I will say, that we stayed friendly after that. We fell out of touch due to distance and just simply to not having that much in common. And I’ve since found better ways to channel my slightly sadistic frustrations.

TL;DR – Don’t eat the apple. There’s probably a worm in it.

On Neon Lights

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He’s running late.

I’m sitting in a freezing hotel lobby with a dying computer trying to relax, trying to watch a movie, when I’m nervous and cold and aching all over.

He didn’t tell me he wouldn’t get off work until hours after my flight got in.
He didn’t tell the hotel that I was authorized to check in. So instead, I’m sitting here, beside a fake Holiday Inn fireplace, hoping my laptop battery holds out, trying to keep myself calm.

In truth, I’m not so angry as I am nervous. I haven’t seen him in almost five years. Our history has been…bumpy? We’ll go with bumpy. And we’ve talked about this, built this up. But, it was all fantasy – timing and distance getting in the way of fantasy becoming reality.
So when I said I could potentially have time/money to come up for a weekend, I didn’t know what to expect. He enthusiastically agreed, and I suppose I thought he’d put a semblance of effort in.
I certainly expected him to try to get to where we were staying at around the same time as me, or let me know if advance if there would be a problem, let me know when to try to arrive, but…

He finally comes through the door, and I shove the computer away. He hugs me, and he’s bouncing up and down. A barely closed bottle of happy energy.

I thought we’d talk for a bit. I’d have time to decompress, to relax.
I thought I’d have time to get my hands back to a normal temperature, anyways.
He’s on me, kissing me, holding me, and it’s almost like I remember but at the same time entirely different. I remind myself I wanted this. I remind myself I came here. Of course this would happen immediately.

And he’s tearing off my shirt and my pants and I’m so, so nervous.
It’d been a while since I’d had sex. Too long. But my previous experiences with it had been a combination of both wonderful and exceedingly painful. This was height of ‘the time of vag hell.’ I had halfheartedly tried dating, but this wasn’t exactly a time in my life when I would call myself “happy,” I was struggling in my city, between moves again, and finding someone to just relax with, while it would’ve been nice, was just another stress I didn’t need.

So while his foreplay might’ve worked for some, for me, no, it was not enough.

It was pain. Tense, terrifying, horrible pain.

We try a different way, and it helps. And he manages to make me orgasm, for the first and only time that weekend, but far from a release it feels like agony. Like tearing something from me that didn’t want to give.

He stands up, still that happy energetic ball, and leaves me to pull myself together. I’m a mess of emotions, with a steel mask in place.

Will it be like that for the rest of the weekend?
Well, he hadn’t seen you, he was probably excited, maybe he’ll take more time, you’ll be ready next time?
Oh God, what if he does take longer next time?
Maybe booze will help? Can you find a bar near here?
Maybe you won’t have to again tonight?

He’d mentioned going to a concert, when we were sort of planning this weekend, saying things we might want to do.
He’s pulling out some sort of drug, he calls it a supplement, but it a drug, just the kind a test won’t care about, and I say fine, but I’m driving back.

It’s not until I’m in the passenger seat of the pickup truck that he says it’s a three hour drive. Because why wouldn’t it be?

 

We grab dinner before the show, and talk about old friends, old memories. I say how much I want to travel, don’t want to settle in one place. He’s saying he wants to come with, if I need a travel ‘companion’, he’s there, and I don’t know how to respond.

 

The concert, as it turns out, doesn’t start until 1AM. It’s not really a concert, though, it’s part rave, part club night, and this would be fine, but I’m so tired already, and looking forward to a three hour ride back in a truck I’m not sure how to drive with a guy taking uppers and drinking. If we could just get a cab and go home, I wouldn’t care.
And then I go to the bathroom and see blood.
Because he’d torn me.
I come back, and he’s whispering in my ear that he wants to fuck me again when we get back.
I don’t know how to deal with this; deal with him. I don’t know how to yell at him and tell him he’s acting like an asshole when he’s been in my physical presence for less than eight hours, and I don’t have a flight away for two more days. I don’t know how to deal with a body that at that point, I had no other explanation for than sheer hatred of dicks.

 

So I took a deep breath, and said, no, I’ll be too tired. I got his ass in the car, got my ass in the car, made him stay awake long enough to help me figure out the controls, and got us back.

 

And I’m exhausted, and he’s rolling over to me, and trying to touch me, and it burns. I tell him the Reader’s Digest version of the truth. That he tore me, I need the night to recover, he can fuck me in the morning. He groans, and falls asleep.

It’s not so bad, in the morning. There’s no foreplay, at all, but I’m so tired my body gives up resistance, and I convince him he doesn’t need to try for anything but his own pleasure because I’m still sore.
We have a nice day, go explore his city. I take him to a very nice dinner for his birthday. We don’t run out of things to talk about, and it’s nice, and easy. He makes me smile.

I’m relaxed again.

 

We go to the hotel and watch TV, and eventually, he kisses me. 2 seconds of foreplay and he’s in me and I want to scream. I’m trying to adjust, to take him, not even to enjoy it, just to make it through. I want it to be okay more than anything. But he pulls away, and there’s blood on the sheets.

And he doesn’t get it. I’m upset, and I call down to the desk to get fresh ones. He says it’s just my period.
No, it’s not. It was too rough and you tore me. He gives me a raised eyebrow.
I understand that wasn’t rough for you, but that was for me. Why am I justifying myself? I’m the one in pain. I’m the one bleeding. I’m the one trying to deal with this.

We don’t mention it again that night. In the morning, he has to give the car he was borrowing back, and get a different one. He gives me a kiss, and I pack my stuff. I debate. Do I want to try again? Do I want to leave it like that?

He calls me. To get me to the airport, he was borrowing another car. This car has a girl attached.
Okay. Whatever.
But, girl attached is girl attached.

 

I think it’s been established by now that I really could give a rat’s ass about commitment. But, there’s a difference between ‘we’re not committed’ and ‘here’s the other girl I’m fucking let me dangle her in front of your face as you’re on your way out the door.’

So he comes in to get me, and we kiss goodbye then, because it’s an unspoken fact that from that moment, I am the ‘friend,’ and not the fuckbuddy. That’s her role now.

We spend a lunch with them on one side of the table sharing their own inside jokes and old memories and secret glances. I smile and laugh when appropriate, and let them get on with it, not showing how upset I am.

 

They drive me to the airport and he gives me a hug.

My flight won’t leave for seven hours.

He said he’d check in on me later, we’d talk once my flight got in, but we haven’t spoken since. I’m okay with this. I haven’t felt the urge to reach out, to like any pictures, to say hello, to know even cursory details of what’s happening in this guy’s life.

I understand that from his perspective, this story will look different. That he may have expected something much more enjoyable. That he may have wanted some crazy off the walls fuck machine and a destroyed hotel room. And that’s fine. At that point in my life, I never advertised that. He knew full well the extent of my experience. From my perspective, it was a fucked up weekend where my emotions and physical limits were pushed far beyond what I ever would have hoped, and I was left alone in the airport terminal feeling sore with a queasy stomach half full of thai vegetables.

We can’t know how these things will play out before hand. No one knows the future. And sometimes it takes stupidly shitty couple of days to figure out whether or not your gut instincts on a person/situation were right all along.