That time I went out with a girl

(Im a girl)
I want to talk about how I went on a tinder date with a girl recently. I
cant really say why. Maybe I had just finished Season 6 of the L Word.
Or maybe I had slept with some dude for 3 months and then never
heard from him again immediately after sleeping with another dude for
2 months and never talking to him again. Maybe I realized I wont be
single forever and might end up married, regretting having never
fucked a girl. Its a legitimate fear, isnt it?
Having a crush on a girl is a strange thing. Theres this really fine line
between being jealous of a girl because shes way sexier than you and
all the boys want to sleep with herand then if you cross over that thin
line you can get over your jealousy and realize you want to sleep with
her, too.
Growing up, sexuality was somewhat blurry. It took me way longer than
it should have to realize my younger brother was gay. He had been
borrowing my make up since he was six and had an insane obsession
with Mr. Carry, the hot math teacher at our middle school. I dont know
how that got past me. In high school, my prom date drank an entire
bottle of champagne and came out of the closet around the time most
of my other friends were losing their virginity. This coming out was less
of a surprise but Id be lying if I didnt say it wasnt still somewhat
humiliating.
I could existentially break down the sexuality of more friends and
family members but lets talk about my date instead. It was with a girl
named Mindy. Her pictures on Tinder seemed nice enough. I was able
to deduct from them that she was into yoga, had a dog, had been to a
lot of weddings, and took a lot of pictures of her food. I thought she
had pretty eyes so I asked her out right away and she said yes.
I did all things I would do as if I were going on a date with a guy.
Showered, shaved everything, perfume, blow dry, full face of make up.
I was so nervous I chugged Pepto Bismol on my way out the door and
the entire walk over to the bar, a familiar thought ran through my
head. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I seemed to come up with brilliant random ideas like this all the time.
When I got to the bar, Mindy was already waiting for me at the very
front and my heart sank when I realized I already wasnt into her. Dont
they say you can judge if you want to sleep with someone in 17

seconds? All I needed was 5. I walked in, looked down and saw she was
wearing ill-fitting skinny jeans and UGGS.
Then I looked up and realized she looked much older than I
remembered. I hadnt noticed the wrinkles around her eyes and god,
Im so scared to get wrinkles around my eyes because they are my
only good feature. These observations didnt necessarily mean that I
didnt want to sleep with her though. (BTW, this must be how most
dudes operate, isnt it?)
We awkwardly hugged, ordered drinks and sat down and began to get
to know each other.
I realized the only thing I have to talk about anybody with is my job at
a start up tech company nobody has heard of and since she didnt
seem interested in hearing about it, I let her do the talking. She was
really into dogs (I hate dogs) and worked for a pet magazine. She told
me she once traded dirty pictures with a girl in Ireland but never kissed
her. She lived with her parents even though she was 31. We really had
nothing in common.
Going into this, I thought I wanted to sleep with a female musician,
artist, a writer, someone who was dangerously hot and intelligent. I
wanted to fuck the kind of girl I hated for the very reason that I would
never be as cool as her. But whatever, I guess I really just wanted to
fuck a girl. I mean, girls are beautifularent we?
When I went to the bathroom, a guy had already taken my place and
was hitting on her. She coolly told him she was on a date with me. I
think we both kind of liked that.
There were two moments when I thought about kissing her just for the
hell of it. When we were in the corner, gathering our coats and purses
and it was dark and kind of sexy but then someone bumped into us.
The second time was in her car as she dropped me off at my
apartment.
She said she had to work at 8am so there was no chance of inviting her
inside, which maybe was for the best. I remember looking at her from
my side of the car and she sort of smiled up at me with big eyes,
expectantly. I wondered if I had given men that same look, hoping for a
kiss.
I decided to go for it. I leaned in and she leaned in and we began to
kiss. I remember she was really soft and quiet. She smelled good and
tasted good. Clean, she was very clean. We both laughed a little and

looked at each other, straightened out our hair and clothes. And then
our kissing became harder, faster and urgent. She grabbed the nape of
my neck and pulled me toward her so she could kiss it and I had my
hand on her thigh, running it from her knee and all the way up and
then back down again. She had started slightly thrusting her hips,
repositioning herself so that my hand could really reach between her
legs.
I knew what she wanted and after a little more teasing I finally grazed
my hand against herwhat would a girl call it to another girl? Vagina?
Pussy? Hot spot? Im just gonna say pussy. I could feel the heat
emanating from her and she let out a moan and pushed herself harder
against my hand.
She had her hands working their way up my shirt. Thankfully, I hadnt
worn a bra and her fingers were on my nipples in a way that a man
doesnt know how to put his hands on your nipples. Its the sort of
move (if done right) that instantly makes a girl wet. I wanted to touch
her tits too, Id never touched anyone elses tits before but I already
had my hand between her legs. I tentatively reached for the button on
her jeans and she kissed me harder to say, keep going.
Oh my fucking god. This girl was soaking wet. The second I got my
fingers down there, I couldnt believe how hot and warm and wet she
was. I felt my power over her and it made my pussy tingle and I
moaned at this new discovery. I began to rub her clit and she started to
whimper. Her hands froze on my tits as she concentrated on what I was
doing between her legs. I moved my index and middle finger in circles
around her clit and then gently angled myself to occasionally dip a
finger inside of her.
We established a rhythm this way, me rubbing and then dipping and
her arching along with me, letting me know when I needed to go
deeper or faster. It was a slow, steady fingerfuck but I could feel she
was getting close. I was surprised by how easy it was but I guess I was
a girl too and just instinctively did what I would want done to me.
Her lips were still on mine but she had stopped kissing and was just
breathing heavily against them. Her entire body was tense. I knew I
would fuck anything up if I changed what I was doing so I just let her
ride the wave until she let out a loud moan and began to spasm really
hard, over and over, against my hand. I swear, I thought I was going to
die just from fingering this girl. It felt like she came a long time, she
was moaning like crazy and when she was done, she started kissing
me again. After she quieted down, I removed my hand from her pants

and my fingers were glistening. I was kind of proud of myself, to be

honest. I had just made a girl cum and it was AWESOME.

**********

Cocaine Vagina
When Andre and I first started talking on Tinder, I warned him I wasnt
his type. He wasnt my type either. He was a pretty boy. Way too pretty
for me, clean cut and chiseled. I went for the bearded, tattooed,
unemployed type guy. But I guess that was kind of the appeal. He also
was from Peru and spoke four languages, which didnt hurt. I cringed a
bit when I asked him for his instagram account and saw he had
MULTIPLE bathroom shots of his abs but I let it slide when he told me
100 years of Solitude was his favorite book.
I figured he usually dated clubby girls with big tits and small brains
but I think he was intrigued to find that I wasnt a robot (I guess most
girls on Tinder are bots or prostitutes?) and he liked that I was a writer
who had good taste in music.
I was visiting San Francisco for two weeks and was bored, which is why
we started talking in the first place. Andre convinced me to meet him
at a bar that night and I figured, what the hell. So I went.
I got there first and was displeased to find myself at sports bar. I was
the only girl there and a lame dude was already hitting on me when
Andre walked in. As he pulled up a stool next to me, three things hit
me instantly. 1) he was wearing an INSANE amount of cologne.
Something I was not used to in the men I dated 2) he was about four
inches shorter than me 3) he was wearing jewelry. He had earrings and
a wooden bead bracelet and a silver ring on his middle finger.
I considered this flashy. In fact, within the first fifteen minutes, I
admitted that he was flashier than I expected and he said I was
sassier than he expected. So I guess we were tit for tat or something.
He took a seat next to me and I sat up straighter, thinking maybe that
would make me look more attractive, and he began to ramble. He told
me how he worked at a bank but wanted to be a doctor. That he
wanted to save people because he was a humanitarian. He told me
that he had a twin sister but she lived in Georgia and he really missed

her. He said he loved his mom and San Francisco was lonely
sometimes.
He told me that that girls only ask him out on a second date if theyve
slept with him because hes THAT good in bed and the last girl he had
slept with was so kinky, they had a safe word.
The safe word was chinchilla and Im never going to forget it now.
I rolled my eyes at his sexual self-confidence but that didnt mean I
wasnt slightly curious to see if this was true or not. I was surprised by
how talkative he was and he actually was very muscular which I think
made up for his lack of height. Not that there is ANYTHING wrong with
a shorter guy (Ive dated many) but Im 510 so it makes me feel like
an Amazon woman.
I dont remember what I talked about but I told him about my job as an
editor of a fashion blog and I told him how I was writing a memoir, and
he really liked that even though he didnt ask what it was about. He
said he loved a smart girl and I was so so so so his type. Then he told
me HE was a writer too. He proceeded to tell me a short story he wrote
about a vegetarian cat named Carlos who wouldnt eat a mouse
because he didnt eat meat and how society turned on him for being a
coward. My eyes glazed over as he detailed the plot of is story and I
thought to myself, WHAT THE FUCK IS HE TALKING ABOUT?
After half a drink, I told him I needed to go to a concert across town
and he invited himself along. I thought to myself, okay, he doesnt
think Im that undesirable but I also wasnt sure if I thought he was
desirable. He told me later, he could tell I was still on the fence as we
walked out of the bar and he wasnt wrong.
At the concert, Andre began to get a little drunk and handsy. I noticed
him standing very close to me, at one point he wrapped an arm around
my waist. It was very clear that he was down, if I was down. Again, I
figured, why not. It wasnt long before we were buying a six-pack and
heading back to his apartment.
His apartment wasnt much. He somehow didnt have any heat and
had a broken computer that had no speakers attached to it, so it was
difficult to listen to music. His window overlooked a concrete wall which
I found wasnt abnormal for San Francisco. He also didnt have any
furniture other than a bed. But he had sheets on his bed, which I think
is more than I can say for most guys in their 20s.

I jokingly told him we werent going to make out but then we, of
course, started to make out immediately. He was a good kisser. He was
very passionate, like a true Peruvian. He kissed my ears, my neck, my
clavicle. He pushed me onto the bed. Things were getting hot and
heavy. I could feel his abs under his shirt and when he pressed his
body against me and I felt how hard he was, it made me super hot.
My clothes were barely off when he reached into his pocket and
whipped out a condom and started to put it on.
I laughed at the absurdity of how quick this was happening. Dont you
believe in foreplay? I complained. He asked me if I was being sassy
again.
Then he worked his way down to between my legs and began to really
go down on me. He ate pussy like a pro, I was seriously losing my
mind, and when he came up for air he asked, Do you have cocaine on
your vagina cause my lips are tingling
My head was spinning and all I could say was, Shhhhhh stop talking.
That was when he really slipped on the condom and began to fuck me.
Maybe theres something about short guys trying to overcompensate
or something about Peruvian guys being so sexy and foreign, but he
really knew what he was doing and he took charge of me. He was
moving me around like a puppet, holding my legs up in various
positions they had never been in before. This was quite a turn on,
being bossed around a bit. I went for it, played submissive, and as soon
as we found our rhythm, it wasnt long before he made me cum really
hard. We came at the same time actually, which is really rare for two
strangers. Maybe it was my cocaine vagina or maybe he just was really
good at self-control.
Either way, he didnt stop there. He stayed inside of me, his dick still
semi hard, and continued to fuck me gently. Theres something about a
semi hard cock that hits this certain spot for me, a spot between my
clit and my g-spot. That spot can really get me off. And he was doing
just that. Within 2 minutes, I had another orgasm.
I dont know how this is possible, but a complete stranger had given
me my first multiple orgasm in years. Now I understood what he
meant, about girls wanting a second date after they had had sex with
him.

I told him he needed to teach a class. You know, to all the guys who
dont know how to give girls multiple orgasms, and I, of course, made
plans to hang out with him again before leaving San Francisco.

**********

The Zodiac Killer

or Zac from Tinder
To fill you in, my friend was fresh out of a break up with an illegal
immigrant when she moved to Chicago. He had given her a giant skull
ring with ruby red eyes instead of an engagement ring when she called
things off. We were out drinking on a Thursday night and to distract her
from her recent breakup, we were on her phone tindering. That is how
we ended up at a popular 4am bar, a bar that I have declared on
numerous occasions as the worst place in Chicago.
Why was it the worst place in Chicago? For one thing, I have been
there a handful of times and have NEVER had fun there. I think it has to
be one or all of these reasons:
1.) Its in Wicker Park, a neighborhood in Chicago that went from
dangerous to artsy to unbearably hip to yuppie in less than a decade.
2.) Its in Wicker Park.
3.) Their jukebox is never turned on so all they blast is heavy metal.
4.) There is 2% chance anyone attractive is actually at the bar.
Reluctantly, for the sake of her possibly getting laid, I went along with
her to said bar. It was at this wonderful drunken haven that my friend
came to meet and know intimately who we now refer to as The Zodiac
Killer. Before we called him the Zodiac Killer, he was Zac on Tinder.
Zac and my friend had matched an hour earlier and all his profile said
was that he was 61 with heels on. Since he didnt have any pictures
with a tiger, I approved and said she should message him to meet up.
When we arrived, we found Zac at his perch at the end of the bar next
to the womens bathroom (a carefully planned placement, one can only
assume). I met him for a brief moment and knew I had seen him
before, it was clear that this was his regular bar, and though he was
cute...something seemedoff. (Then again, isnt something ALWAYS
off?)

On the outside, The Zodiac Killer was a complete trick. He was actually
in the 2 percentile at this bar and was somewhat attractive. He was tall
and lanky, wore tight band t-shirts and had blonde Prince Charming
hair. He had an affinity for the metal music blasted at the bar, a bit of
an attitude, and seemed to talk with a Brooklyn accent that was kind of
sexy (even though he was born and raised in Chicago).
They began talking while I slunk off toward the non-working jukebox.
The Zodiac Killer kept my friend well lubricated with shots and beer,
compliments of his best friend the bartender, and it wasnt long before
she found herself with her high heels in her hands, stumbling into a
cab with him.
This is how her story goes:
His apartment was normal enough. Clean, possibly too clean (there
was an overpowering scent of cinnamon glade plug-ins, there was
literally one in every electrical outlet) and instead of an actual bed, he
had a metal futon.
Without even turning the lights on, the two started kissing and groping.
Now, there is a certain point of every make out with a new person
where a decision needs to be made. Do you just say, fuck it and sleep
with the person or do you pull up your pants and hope to maintain a
little bit of dignity?
The decision, in my opinion, depends on a lot of things:
-How good of a kisser the guy is.
-How drunk either of you are.
-Chemistry.
-Can he get past half-mast?
-When was the last time you had sex?
-Is this someone you want to actually date if so then you should
stand by the wait til three times rule.
(Not that I have ever waited for three dates EVER but whatever).
At this point, the make-out had hit the Point of No Return. They were
gonna go all the way it was quickly decidedBUTwaitjust a second.
He got up, tripping over the boxers around his ankles and reached into
his dresser drawer. Instead of pulling out a condom, The Zodiac Killer
pulled out two extra long American Apparel Striped tube socks and a
pair of oversized thick plastic rimmed glasses. Then he reached into his

rumpled jeans on the floor and pulled out a glow in the dark condom.
Would you mind?
She blinked at him, vision slightly blurred and unsure about what was
going on.
I want you to wear theseYoull look HOT. He held a long sock in
each hand and they reached for the floor.
Fine, what the hell. She was always up for anything at least once. She
pulled on each sock, put on the glasses, laid back down and they
returned to business. It wasnt until about three minutes in, that it
became clear that the tube socks were the least of her worries. The sex
went something like this.
Sweet Jackhammer moves that never feel good for any girl EVER.
BITCHASSMOTHERFUCKER!!! (from him, not her)
Jackhammer moves, jackhammer moves.
YOU FUCKING WHORE! IM SORRY! IM SORRY! (again, from him, not
her)
The fake plastic glasses end up wedged into her back while there is
more jackhammering.
BITCHASSMOTHERFUCKER!!! SORRY! SORRY!
Jackhammering stops after what cant be more than three minutes
when he orgasms rather pathetically, with just a small grunt. She later
told me he came as if he had been punched in the stomach.
Then The Zodiac Killer rolls over, pulls off the glowing condom and
says quietly,
"Sorry, my mother used to abuse me."
He then sets his alarm for 3PM (what. the. fuck?) and falls asleep. His
apartment was so cold, my friend ended up wearing the tube socks to
keep warm up until about 6am when she finally tiptoed the fuck out of
there, reeking of the unmistakable smell of cinnamon glade plug ins
and shame.

**********

When two people have zero business

sleeping with each other.
The guy you think you are in love with, the one you think youve been
in love with secretly for years, has been on tour all summer with a
massive pop star and hes just told you that hes fucked more women
in the past few months than he can remember.
Three years ago you kissed (once).
A year ago, he told you he was probably in love with you but you had a
boyfriend and hes politely never mentioned it again.
You had been thinking about him all summer, thinking he was the only
good guy out there and how finally you are both single but now you
feel a bit deceived after receiving his news. He is coming home soon
and now you are less excited, less charmed, less interested.
On a whim, you decide to text the person youve been sporadically
sleeping with who actually doesnt like you very much. He replies
surprisingly fast and invites you over to his place. Youve never been
there before so you ask for an address, leave the scene-y BBQ you are
at, and head home to change clothes.
This person youve been sporadically sleeping with is someone who
isnt really in your life but also isnt totally out of your life. Your friends
dont know anything about him, though they allude to the nameless,
faceless guy friends you have casually mentioned over the summer
with raised eyebrows while complaining about their boring boyfriends.
The guy you are about to see was very intentionally chosen for a quick
hook up three months ago. You had completely cut off contact with
your serious boyfriend, the one who once pined for you so much that
he chased you across the country, the one you lived with and
sometimes talked about marrying, the one who was more exhausting
and insane than you wereand you had dramatically convinced
yourself nobody would ever sleep with (or love) you again. So you
made a goal for yourself: to sleep with at least one or three people,
you know, to move on.

Time to move on.

The problem is you dont know of anyone to sleep with. Since youve
had a boyfriend you had stopped paying attention to any men around
you and you arent as pretty and confident as you used to be. So you
find this guy through a popular hook up app that single people have on
their phones, an app that you declare has destroyed romance.
This guy you choose on there is tall and cute. He likes sports (you
think). He wears flip-flops. No, he doesnt like to read and he cant
remember the last time he had been to a concert but thats perfect.
You want someone like this, someone who isnt a musician or a writer.
Someone who isnt your type. You want someone different than you.
Turns out he wants someone different than him too. To him, you are a
hipster, an artsy girl, a weirdo, and that turns him on a little bit.
So after a string of flirty texts, you decide to meet. You daringly invite
him straight to your little bungalow apartment, saying:
the door is open, come in, take a right at the end of the hall, and dont
speak, just start fucking me.
This is something you have wanted to do all your life.
And he is a good listener. He arrives quietly, enters your room and
immediately kicks off his shoes, pulls off his shirt as you watch from
your bed, and pretty soon his lips, his body are on you.
You two fuck.
It all happens in less than twenty minutes.
You dont even say hello.
He doesnt say goodbye either because that wasnt part of the plan.
(no talking)
It was supposed to be a one time thing but you are both so blown away
by how hot it was that you stay in touch. You are both out of town a lot
and have opposite schedules, but you manage to meet again. That
night, you realize he is actually fun to talk to. He is surprised by how
cool he finds you.
And tonight is one of those nights you decide to talk again. You text
him and he says, come over.

You havent seen him in awhile but youve been so busy with work and
horny that this feels like a good idea. So here you are, shaving your
legs in the sink and putting on lacy black underwear. You decide not to
wear a bra.
You drive to his apartment and are surprised to find that he lives in a
modern condo, surrounded by palm trees and other equally fancy
condos. The air on this side of town is distinctly warmer than in your
neighborhood. When he lets you in, you enter what can only be
described as a bachelor pad. There is nothing in the living room except
for a grey leather couch and a massive TV.

He offers you a beer and courteously pours it in a glass as you watch

and makes small talk. Even though you dont want to drink it, you
accept.
He looks cute and although he is going a little bit bald, you dont mind.
He is wearing flip flops, something you made fun of him for before,
basketball shorts and a tee shirt with the Nike logo. He looks like the
guy next door. All American. You notice how sterile the place is, not a
single piece of clutter, not even a piece of mail or a misplaced shoe.
Nothing on the walls. You search for signs of what kind of person he
might actually be.
This is something you notice every time you talk. He is impossible to
get to know and also doesnt want to get to know you. Maybe this is on
purpose. Theres a wall and you accept that because you are just a
fling. He is just a fling.
The only book he owns is yours, which he secretly bought online after
the first time he met you.
He never told you if he liked it so you assume he didnt read it, didnt
understand it or didnt care for it. You always wanted someone to fall in
love with you solely from reading one of your stories but only creeps do
that. They send you weird emails and poems and stories about you,
inspired by you and you thank them, politely. Fifteen year old girls do
that to you too but thats a good thing, you think.
Its eerily quiet as you sit down, so quiet that you can hear that
constant white noise that is stuck in your ears from all the loud
concerts youve attended over the years.

Somehow, you begin talking about his career. Which is second

photography assistant for TV shows, movies, and commercials. You
ask him what the end game is, what he wants to do because everyone
in LA wants to do something.
He isnt sure. Maybe he will be a producer and when you ask him what
that means, he has an evasive answer.
You tell him maybe one day you will work in television too, and with
great delusion of grandeur you talk about all the TV shows you would
like to be writing for. It seems, you think, that the universe owes you
this. A shit ton of money for being a writer. Because why not?
Then you admit, as you sip on the beer you didnt want, that the
problem is you dont have any fucking ideas.
What good is a writer without any ideas?
He laughs for the first time and you start to feel comfortable.

You cross your legs Indian style on his couch and then realize its too
nice for that, and put them back down. You touch his arm and tell him
how hes so normal; he doesnt even have any tattoos. You mention
you want to get another and he doesnt ask you of what, just where.
You get up to use the bathroom and while washing your hands you
think to yourself how wonderful it is to be young and in Los Angeles
and in this apartment with such an All American guy, about to have hot
sex. It all feels very adult. You feel like maybe you are in a movie.
You return and ask him to put some music on and after laughing at the
few playlists he has made on his phone, you quickly pull together a
couple of sexy albums, and finally the mood is set.
You ask him to kiss you.
He jokes and says, I thought you just came here to hang out, not to
fuck.
And then he kisses you. You can tell he is already hard through his
flimsy basketball shorts (you have never been friends with the kind of
guy who wears basketball shorts) and he leads you into his bedroom.
There, he lights a candle and you have to reset the mood by putting
music on his computer. (you have to DOWNLOAD spotify just in order
to play it)

His bedroom is just as empty as the rest of his apartment and you
glance around trying to find some sign of his personality. You feel as if
you are in a catalogue for a furniture company. He asks you if you
think his pillowcases should be grey instead of white. The whole room,
his carpet, his bedspread, his walls, are already grey and you call him a
bachelor.
Under the sheets, he already is pretty much naked. He calls you a
hipster, with your skinny jeans, as you struggle to slide them off.
Theres nothing more to talk about so you kiss. Hes admitted to you
before hes not really a fan of foreplay but you try to tease him
anyway. You climb on top of him, one knee and leg between his legs,
pushing rhythmically against his hard-on and you kiss his ears and
neck. You bite his bottom lip; you bite his nipples maybe a little too
hard and work your way down. He is quiet so its difficult to tell if hes
liking any of this.
When you finally go down on him, you take note that he has shaved
down there, and his hand is on your head trying to push himself
deeper, faster. You slap him away and your slap says, Im in control.
He has barely touched you but by the time youre done, youre so wet
it doesnt matter.

You start having sex.

Hes on top of you and really, it all feels very passionate. The kind of
sex that could trick you into thinking it means something if you arent
careful. He goes really slow this time and he doesnt feel as hard as
before and you think to yourself that probably means 1) he thinks you
are gross and ugly or 2) hes trying not to cum too soon.
This works in your favor because he moves achingly slow, which is how
you like to have sex, and after a few minutes you reach your hand
between your thighsask him to fuck you a little faster. It isnt long
before you cum, hard.
In the back of your head you think of your girl friends who say they
cant orgasm without an emotional connection and you think of that
article on the Huffington Post today that says there is no actual proof
there is a g-spot and most women cant have an orgasm during sex.
You are grateful that none of these things pertain to you. In fact, the
opposite is happening. Every person you have slept with in the past
year has been able to make you cum on the first or second try and

quite easily. You attest this not to your sexual prowess or their skills but
mostly due to the fact that 1) you know how to use your hand and 2)
you had thrown away your last bottle of Lexapro.
This, you think, is your reward for spending weeks in withdrawal, dizzy
and nauseous as you weaned yourself off the drug. The drug that
made you tired and asexual. The drug that also saved your life when 3
years ago going to places like the grocery store seemed like impossible
feats and you could only eat a tiny list of safe foods.
You want to bask in these small orgasmic victories now in case the
panic attacks return, in case the depression returns and you hope that
they wont because then what was the point of all the talk therapy
youve been through?
After you orgasm, he asks you if you came, which makes you laugh
because it is quite obvious and then he is suddenly super hard, poking
at your g-spot that the Huffington Post claims doesnt exist, and you
moan quietly while he asks you where he should cum.
You say, on my tits, like a good girl is expected to say and he does.
When he stands up and leaves the room to get you a towel, you turn to
your left where the closet is actually a massive mirrored door and you
look at your face and then your body and cringe. You adjust your legs
and arms in a way that might make you look sexier but its hard to do
with a puddle of cum all over you. You give up. This is how you look.
You remember he once told you being insecure was a major turn off yet
hes never called you pretty.
Finally, he hands you a towel and then goes into the bathroom for what
seems like an hour, washing off his dick. When he comes back, you go
in there and wash yourself too and pray that you dont get a UTI
because thats how your body punishes you when you have sex with
someone new.
You return to the bedroom and minor cuddling ensues where you
scratch his back and he wraps his arms around you. This is your
favorite part, you think. Not the cuddling but the conversation that
follows an orgasm. This is when the wall goes down.
But the mood shifts. He mentions that he would never date a girl who
he slept with the first night he met her and that most guys wouldnt.
He says it makes her less desirable and makes guys want to put less

effort in. He only likes girls who make him wait. All guys, he says, think
like this.
Obviously, he has slept with you the first night so this feels a little
awkward. You roll through the list of men you have dated and whether
or not you slept with them the first night.
You ask him if hes ever been in love and when was the last time he
had a girlfriend and the answer is yes, in high school he was in love
(you say that doesnt count) and his last girlfriend was six years ago,
when he was 20 or 22. (also doesnt count). You say its obvious he has
never been in love solely because he doesnt like foreplay and you are
feeling a little offended that he has lumped you into a category of
women he wouldnt date (even though you dont want to date him
either) and wonder what other guys have lumped you into this
category (most guys probably, you realize).
You remember last week how he wouldnt fuck you because you were
on your period and vaguely wonder, is he a misogynist?
He talks about how he once met one girl who he thought could be the
girl, she had all those perfect qualities and you wonder if his dick had
really just been inside of you. You dont know how to steer the
conversation away from this and start to feel beside the point.
Then somehow he asks you about the other guy you had met (the
British artist/musician who is so your type its almost ironic) and you try
not to give many details. You stupidly had mentioned him at some
point in the past few weeks. He is fishing to see if you have slept with
him and you dont want to answerthis suddenly isnt feeling fun at
all. The vibe is off. You feel inelegant and like an idiot. You feel like,
lets just go ahead and say it, a slut.

Your immediate reaction is to flee. Fight or flight.

Somehow, the conversation takes an even worse turn and he starts
talking about his penis and how girls like his size (you instantly think to
yourself HOW MANY GIRLS) and you find yourself assessing out loud
your own stupid fucking opinions on penis size and he is probably
thinking to himself HOW MANY GUYS? If hes thinking anything at all.
It is the least intimate conversation you can have with someone you
have just been intimate with, lying there talking about other peoples

genitals and other people you like more than the person you are with
and suddenly you feel very alone.
Earlier, you had applauded yourself for being so sexually free. Now,
you scold yourself for being in this situation, for giving life to this sort
of relationship and conversation
This is worse than that feeling you had earlier today at the hair salon
where the woman next to you went on and on about scheduling the
perfect time to get pregnant and that was when you realized in that
moment that you hate everybody and you will never be happy. For you,
the perfect time to get pregnant is NEVER.
Its true. You hate everybody and you never will be happy.
He is lying on his back now, with one arm resting over his forehead.
The candle is leaving a sinister glow on his face. By now, your vagina
has dried up like the Sahara desert as your thoughts snowball.
You say you are going to leave and he doesnt even pretend to want
you to stay a little longer. Youre off the hook. You grope around the
floor for your clothes, your underwear feels slimy and cold and when
you find your jeans, you move to the corner by the door to put them
on.
I hate that mirror, you say to him, the one you are hiding from while
pulling up your too tight jeans and he says he loves it. Insecurity, it
really is just such a turn off.
He asks you if you are leaving and you say yes (isnt that what you just
said?).
Only slightly confused, he gets up and starts to dress and asks if you
are parked far. He says he will walk you to your car.
You find your bag in his living room (a tote bag that ironically has the
words I WOULD PREFER NOT TO on it that you got for reading at a
writers conference in Seattle). While he is still pulling up those stupid
basketball shorts and trying to catch up with you, you are already at
the door and opening it.
You say you dont need him to walk you out but thanks.
Finally, he catches on that something weird is going on and asks you
from across the room if everything is okay.

You have already opened the door, one foot out, but you dont want
your voice to echo down the hallway so you close it for a second and
pause. You arent pissed but you cant put your finger on this feeling.
That just wasnt very good post sex conversation. You say and
shrug.
You realize he has now lumped you into another category: crazy girl.
(and you dont care).
His eyes widen and he says, Oh shit, I didnt mean to bum you out.
And you leave.
You are, needless to say, bummed out. Not about him necessarily but
more about yourself and your suddenly bleak future of dating.
You walk to your car trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
You sit in your car for a minute trying to shake this feeling and he has
already texted you. He doesnt ask why you left, just wishes you a
good night in what feels like a weak attempt to salvage the past 15-20
minutes.
You start your car, put on Violent Femmes, and decide to take the long
way home.*

By Damen Alexis

The end.