A drum&bass compilation called Legally Stoned is the perfect background music to this little bit I’m going to write. I contemplated housing this blog post on my desktop, in eternal obscurity. Instead, I’ll put it online and dedicate it to one tall, big-boobed, blue-eyed, full-lipped, smart, sweet, hilarious blonde with whom I talk about sex way too comfortably.
When I found myself single after a very intense relationship ended, I went out. A lot. If anyone was going out, I was going too. I danced and danced and drank about 50 glasses of Sauvignon blanc that winter (rebel). I smoked pot with my friends and had a blast being young and happy. There just wasn’t a whole lotta action going on. Know what I’m saaaaayin’? Until one fine night, when I went out with a friend to this chill little funky lounge. We’d been there for a couple of hours when I saw him walk in.
He was tall – a little taller than I like ‘em but with great shoulders and looking mighty sharp in dark jeans. My friend readily approved. He chatted with friends, didn’t approach any girls, and none of them approached him either. Fuck it, I’d do it. I don’t know what the hell I said to him when I touched his shoulder, but we talked, exchanged numbers, got to our respective homes and continued to talk over the phone for hours. We met two nights later to talk some more in the dark, quiet booth we ended up choosing at the bar. I really liked him. He was smart, funny, attentive, kind, seemed genuinely interested in me, and had a gorgeous smile.
We went back to his place after the bar that night and I had that voice in my head telling me I was a slut. Then he switched into sexy sweatpants (I love sexy sweatpants), offered me a diet coke and turned on South Park.
You’re single, you haven’t had sex in a while, you’re horny but you don’t want to be a whore. So God sent you a hot-bodied, intelligent, funny, well-dressed, well-mannered, deep-voiced, good-music-loving motherfucking Adonis to watch the Casa Bonita episode with. Are you serious? It doesn’t matter that God doesn’t exist. It doesn’t matter if you don’t ever see him again. Jump him now, idiot.
So we started kissing and stuff. It got hot and heavy and we went to the bedroom.
Then the equipment wouldn’t work. At first it didn’t bother me at all, because I knew it eventually would. But no. Really. It didn’t work, no matter what. No matter WHAT.
Oh man! Sometimes that happens, was he drunk? Maybe he was just nervous, it’s happened to me before. Poor guy!
No, he was completely sober, and yes, I understand that. And honestly, I would’ve been OK with faulty equipment if it weren’t for how the rest went down. He didn’t know what he was doing… he was very confused. He was so confused I didn’t even know where to begin to help him. I was shocked at what was happening. It was a cruel joke. I could’ve been home sleeping with my dog. What the fuck.
We never spoke again. I was traumatized. I figured the worst case scenario would’ve been mediocre sex with Adonis. I didn’t imagine it could be so bad and strange and difficult that after months of celibacy and while tipsy on two beers I would truly wish I were home asleep instead.
It took me months and a 21 year-old Irish soccer player with a great sense of humor and the best-ever accent and word choice to restore my faith in men. It was a splendid and quick summer fling.
While my friend and I chatted about sex tonight (all the sex she’s having and I’m not); we agreed that my next boyfriend will be a lucky man. I know there’s only great (or at least mediocre) sex to be had. For my sanity, I have to believe it.
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