Slippery

I was never big on blowjobs. Just not my thing. Throughout college I had a strict no blowjob policy. I never wanted to have some immature asshole go around bragging that I sucked his dick. 

Fuck that!

However, as I got older, I sucked it up, so to speak.  My no blowjob policy became lax. Although, I always opted for the Happy Ending instead.

David, my boyfriend, it turned out, was a fan of the Happy Ending. Well, at least in the traditional sense of getting a handjob from a “masseuse.” 

A year after David and I started dating, opportunity knocked. 

I had just graduated with my M.A. in psychology, and I needed a thinking break. At the time, I was working in a research lab and all the locked doors, windowless rooms, and constant silence was driving me crazy. I resigned. 

I needed a job. A mindless job.

Apparently, I have a knack for finding the sketchiest of Craigslist ads. First the foot fetish gig then this: Massage Therapy (no experience required. Will train). 

“Oh, I know what that means.”  David said with a nod. 

I was apparently twenty-stupid and in my naivety, I disagreed. 

Now, I don’t know if David devised his plan at that moment, or this was some dirty fantasy lingering in his mind. 

“Let me try it out,” he said, “If you’re right, you can go to the interview.” 

“And if I’m wrong, you get a handjob?”

I honestly didn’t think he had the balls. 

David, I thought, was a pussy. So when he stated that he was going to call the ad, I honestly didn’t believe him. I should have noticed he was serious when he sweetened the pot.

He said that if he was wrong, he would give me a hundred bucks. On the flipped side, if he was right, I would give him a hundred bucks. I reiterated that if he was right, he was getting a FUCKING HANDJOB. The only rule was that there was to be no other sexual contact, especially kissing. I didn’t want to catch anything from some prostitute masquerading as a masseuse. And if he got arrested, don’t call me.

The night came (no pun intend), I went the gym, went home, and waited for the verdict. It was in the early evening when David called. And… Happy Ending achieved. Oh, Fuck!

I tried my best not to get angry. After all, I agreed to this mess. I congratulated him on his handjob and asked him to tell me the details. As he got to the end of his recap, he began to mumble. A sure sign he was hiding something.

“You better not have fucked that whore!” I said violently. 

He assured me that he didn’t. I tried to calm down and coax it out of him.  He insisted that I promise not to get mad before he told me. Jut saying that made me mad, but I promised.

“We kissed.” He said.

I kinda lost it then. I called him the nastiest names I could think of, told him it was over, and hung up. He called me back a few times before I picked it up. We talked and I decided not to break up with him. I just let him know he wasn’t getting anything from me for a long, long time. 

A few months later David was going on a business trip. He asked me if he could visit a “massage parlor.” We had discussed our experiment at length and had become desensitized to the idea. 

I made a deal with him, he could get his Happy Ending, but I had two conditions. First, I was not going to give him a blowjob or handjob as long as he continued visiting whores. Second, if I went out to a night club I would be allowed to kiss someone for every blowjob he got. After a serious discussion, we had a deal.  

We stood on a slippery slope. 

Sordid

 “You know, I’ve always had a rape fantasy.” That’s what David said when I told him about my rape. I KNEW he was way too interested. He kept asking questions and leaning in to hear all the sordid details.

It happened a long time ago. I'm over it. Luckily, I wasn’t a virgin anymore. That would have been traumatic. I wasn’t beaten either. I suppose that would be the bright side, if there was a bright side to rape.

The History of Rape, he was almost proud to bring out his prized porno. I assume he thought that since he had a rape fantasy and that I had been raped, we were cosmically meant to have a deeper, meaningful relationship.

On the surface, David was highly educated, with a double major. He grew up in the Midwest, and was raised as a Conservative Jew. In reality, he was void of common sense. I often wondered how he survived life. He was also, hypocritically, an atheist. When I met him, he lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and worked in the financial field.

At this point, we were experimenting sexually, and had recently become exclusive. We were in the tell me your dark secret phase. “Can we role-play a rape?” He had the nerve to ask me that. I wanted to punch him in the face. Hard.

It may sound incredibly fucked up, but after some thought, I agreed.

The role-playing lasted about three minutes. I screamed as he ripped off my shirt then I did it. I punched him in the face. Hard. Suddenly, he wanted to stop. He said I was fighting too hard. I assured him that real life rape was nothing like his circa 1980, big bushed, oh-no-don’t-put-that-big-cock-inside-a-me, wannabe history of rape VHS.

Idiot.

I don’t know why I stayed with him. Maybe I was too busy with graduate school to invest time in anyone else. Besides, before the confession of his delusional rape fantasy, we got along well enough. David never brought it up again. Who knows, maybe that punch knocked some sense into him.

One can only hope. 

Bloody Sheets

As I mentioned in my Foot Note, sex was not a big topic in my family. I was “Catholic” and sex was for marriage. The idea of waiting until marriage was absolutely ridiculous. My greatest fear was loosing my virginity on my wedding night and it sucked. Then what? A life of bad sex? No thank you. Besides, unless I married young, it made no sense. I had plans. I wanted a career. I was not going to end up a thirty year old virgin because I wasn’t married.

About a year after the Awful Kiss, I decided I wanted to loose my virginity. Chris, a guy that lived just a few blocks away, was 2 years older, and was not virgin. He was very cute, funny, and slightly unsure of himself. I didn’t know him very well, and he was a little shocked when I asked him to be my first. “Don’t you want it to be special?” he asked.

I explained to him that I wanted the experience. I did not want to loose my virginity to a boyfriend, who would destroy my heart when we broke up. No man will have that hold on me. 

He obviously agreed. He’s a guy. Free (safe) sex. No brainer.

The first time was… painful. But it was an enjoyable pain. There was tearing. There was blood. But there were also endorphins, pheromones, and adrenaline. Afterwards, there was no awkwardness. I did not feel any different. I felt like I had gotten something out of the way.

We met up once or twice a week after that. I needed practice, and he’s a guy, free sex. I bled the first several times. The tearing healed up and ripped open every time he reentered my body. I was sore, and my inner thighs hurt like a bitch. Eventually though, my body adjusted. I felt a little bad about all the bloody sheets. When the bleeding finally stopped, we hi-fived.

I know everyone is told to wait until they’re in love, but that’s bullshit. No teenager can understand love. I mean no adult can understand love, or even being in love, unless you’ve had your heart stomped on. It’s the only way you understand your mistakes, and how to be a better person. Or at least, how to be a better person in a relationship.

I understood that even then. 

I was always so wise. 

SPLAT

A year after my stalker saga, I finally opened up to dating. It wasn’t that my faith in the male of the species was restored, but my sister convinced me that I should avoid my path towards social freakhood and ostracism. I agreed to go out with a friend of hers. She had nothing but nice things to say about him.

I honestly don’t remember his name. All I remember is that he was really tall, knew martial arts, and was not blond. While driving to dinner, he confessed that he only befriended my sister to get closer to me. I think he was trying to flatter me. I found this appalling. Especially after all the nice things she said about him. It was an immediate validation of my dating sabbatical.

The rest of the night was so-so. I let him kiss me after dinner (Probably the wine). He asked if I felt the electricity between us. So cheesy. He really thought I was going to sleep with him. I knew this because after I asked him to drive me home, he called and cancelled a hotel room.

Dickhead.

Two weeks later my sister told me, SPLAT, he got hit by a truck. I Laughed. I couldn’t stop laughing. She got all upset. It never even occurred to me to ask if he was still alive. At least, not until she said he got away with only a few broken bones. I did wonder what kind of truck it was, if only for the visual. 

I can't even tell that story without a giggle. I guess I would call that schadenfreude (pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others). But in my defense, he really was a dickhead. 

Evil Bitch

I was writing a blog entry just a moment ago. It is about the boyfriends I have disposed of. I don’t mean dissolved with lye in the bathtub disposed of, obviously (although, I have been tempted a few times). I started going off on a tangent about getting hate mail, hate messages, and notes of general unhappiness.

You see, I keep my hate mail. I like to read them from time to time. You know, to gain perspective on how I’ve grown as a person. I noticed they have a reoccurring theme.

Here are some highlights:

“You are an evil bitch.” (Maybe True)

“You are so selfish.” (Sometimes True)

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” (Not True. I Love Animals!)

“If I died, you wouldn’t care.” (Probably True)

Could it be, that I am so awesome, that the absence of me makes them go crazy? Maybe, or maybe I’m just a crazy magnet. Probably a little bit of both.

The Awful Kiss

Before the age of 26, a sexual experience with another woman was pretty much a no-go. I mean, I‘m a good looking girl, I had offers. I guess I was more worried about the fall-out of being labeled a lesbian. After all, I was enrolled in Catholic school my whole life. However, It was my during time at an all-girls Catholic high school that there was just a little blip. 

To be honest, the first time I kissed a girl wasn’t sexy. There were no fireworks, there was no passion, it was just awful. I was fifteen when it happened, the awful kiss. At the time I had what I call whore’s lips. I recently discovered kissing and I was obsessed with it. I kissed as often as possible. At  the time, my kissing partner was my friend Sarah’s cousin, John. Sarah was WEIRD. And I don’t mean she was lesbian weird, she was just weird in general. She would get mad at me if I didn’t call her, even though I saw her at school everyday. I always just brushed her behavior off as nothing. A possessive friend. Sarah was the facilitator of the awful kiss. 

One day she convinces me to come over to her house using John as bait. I go. We talk. We play video games. I was playing Sonic the Hedgehog when John showed up. She strategically sits next to me and whispers, “Don’t freak out.” Don’t freak out?? What does that mean?? I glanced at her and  shrugged my shoulders, what?

“I want to weird him out,” she says. She sits on my lap and hooks her arm around my neck. I kept playing my game but in my head I’m like,  what the fuck??  “Don’t move,” she says. Don’t move? Then she kisses my cheek. A little kiss. I turn to look at her and I remember thinking she is going to kiss me. Like REALLY kiss me. I didn’t know what to do. Then there it was, the awful kiss. Smack on my mouth!  I was in shock from the kiss when her hand went down my shirt. I shot up, knocking her to the floor, and in a panic yelled out, “You made me lose my game!” 

For the next 12 years there were no sexual experiences with another woman. I think I was traumatized…