27 October 2011

Pulp Friction

I’m going to Tarantino this and say that he walked me to his door at 3 AM, sporting a striped grandpa bathrobe and a stubborn hard-on.

Flashback to the beginning: I’m enjoying (read: shamefully enduring) my second adventure with Internet dating. My first date with Jeremy was planned for the day after he moved into his new apartment. He used to live with his girlfriend, and when they broke it off he lost half the goods in the process. Our plan was to have dinner out and then head to his place so I could ridicule the man-cave’s sparse furnishings. (I later discovered that this consisted of a garage sale love seat, a flat-screen TV, a bar on wheels, and a bed that was really a glorified army cot.)

Dinner was great—a few drinks, good food, and lots of laughter. I can’t say that the camera crew from ThatDatingSite.com was filming us from the corner of the restaurant to begin compiling footage for our future testimonial, but I was enjoying myself enough that I decided to continue with phase two at Jeremy’s apartment. As I followed him there, I wasn’t anticipating a phase three. I’d never slept with a guy on the first date—not because of any steadfast, pretentious rule, but just because I like to feel comfortable with someone before we engage in the hallowed no-pants dance.

Apparently, after more drinks and a heated make-out session, I was pretty comfortable. We bumper-pooled our way to the bedroom (if he had had any photos or artwork hanging on the walls, it would have meant twenty bucks wasted at IKEA as they smashed on the floor) and got naked. His oral presentation was commendable, and I headed south to reciprocate.

Fifteen minutes later, despite his exclamations that “this is the best head he’s ever had,” my neck was sore, my cheeks were numb, and I was confused. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not a lazy bedroom companion. I aim to please, your satisfaction is my number one priority... Insert your own customer service tagline here. But I’d never worked this hard to get a guy off. So, at this point, I was becoming self-conscious. I’ve received quite favorable reviews from past partners, but now I was calling my entire sexual proficiency into question. Was it me? Was I losing my touch—and my lick, and my suck, and my cupping-of-the-balls? Was I losing my goddamn cupping-of-the-balls?

Just as I was reaching the brink of self-loathing, Jeremy said, “Sorry, it takes me long time.” Well, okay, then. This is a good thing, right? I’ve been with other guys who were a bit quick on the draw, so I should be thanking the sex gods that I met a guy with some stamina.

But before I could let the appreciation of my good fortune settle in, Jeremy spoke up again. “Hey, can I ask you to do something?” Sure, I take requests. He continued, “It’s kind of weird though.” Wait a second—is that…? Yes, I think it is. That’s a red flag.

Nevertheless, I tried to be open-minded. “That’s okay, babe,” I said, “What is it?”

His response: taking my free hand and putting it around his throat. Shit just got real.

I struggled to rein in my panic. I’m a former Catholic school girl (and I don’t mean the porno archetype), I can count the number of people I’ve slept with on two hands, and, as previously stated, I’ve never before had a first-date close encounter. So while I’m not a prude, I’m a simple lay. Bells and whistles aren’t a big part of my sexual repertoire—a vibrator here, a blindfold there, but definitely not asphyxiation. These were unfamiliar waters.

After I tempered my initial reaction to freak out, I tried to be reasonable. Sprinting for the door would be a bit awkward. Also, I was determined to get him off, so maybe he was handing me the golden ticket. And I’d already hopped into bed with him after a mere four hours of acquaintance, so I might as well embrace the classic adage: “When in Rome, choke someone.”

What ensued was a level of multi-tasking I didn’t know I was capable of. In addition to the normal attention to lip pressure and tongue movement—and have I mentioned the cupping of the balls?—I also concerned myself with hand placement on the trachea and whether my nails were digging too hard into his neck. But it soon became clear that my multi-tasking was for naught. I blew and I choked, but I still couldn’t bring the three little pigs’ house to the ground. This seemed to be a story that wasn’t getting a happy ending. I was dejected.

Finally, Jeremy said, “I need a break.” Really? I would’ve slapped him if I wasn’t already choking him.

I scooted up the bed, helped myself to some water, and lay down, exhausted and worthless. “You’re incredible,” Jeremy sighed.

Obviously, I had to speak up. “Um, it doesn’t seem like I’m that incredible.”

“Oh, no,” he countered, “it’s not you at all. This is totally me. No one’s ever been able to get me off.”

Apparently one shock for the night wasn’t enough.

“Never?” I asked. “Like, never? Not your ex?”—whom he was with for five years, by the way—“No one?”

“No, never,” he said casually, as if he was surprised I didn’t already know this.

“You just mean oral, right? What about girls you’ve had sex with?”

“Nope, sex doesn’t do it for me either,” he shrugged. “I’m not sure why. I get off pretty quickly when I’m taking care of business myself. But I just can’t with another person. I guess I’m come-shy.”

Although the blowing of Jeremy was not successful, the blowing of my mind was. How was this possible? Had he been hoping that I was the magical mouth/hand/strangling combo that would finally get him off? Or was he just enjoying the ride, knowing fully well that the train would never pull into the station? I was so confused that I made him go down on me again just so I could stop thinking for a while.

Another orgasm and the standard cuddling period later, I dressed and made my way to the door. He threw on a bathrobe that could only have been stolen from a nursing home and kissed me before I left. The last thing he said to me was, “You’re getting me hard again.” Totally meaningless, but thanks for the update. I shook my head as I made my way to my car.

The jury’s still out on whether I’ll see Jeremy again. The most I know is that I will check the obituaries regularly to see if a man has been found in his apartment hanging from his light fixture with his pants around his ankles.

Point of the conversation: It takes a village.

- Ess Bee

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