The first time I met him we talked about period sex. I guess that makes me the type of girl who doles out sex advice to random friends of friends at the bar. And it made him the type of guy who got laid by his girlfriend that much more. (You’re welcome.)
We seamlessly became friends, like in one of those movie montages where all of the sudden you’re always at the same places doing the same things with the same people and it’s awesome. We made fun of the same people and told the same sick jokes about sex and violence and shit nobody else would think is funny.
This weekend I went to New York with my friends and he was there. We went out to a crowded bar full of recent college grads and got drunk like we hadn’t just graduated. After having a zillion cigs and snake bites, he fake proposed to me with a condom that he poked a hole in and we decided to make the Thong Song our wedding song. I knew he was drunkenly flirting with me but I thought nothing of it. I’m a hot little bitch, so I can’t blame him!
The next night, he came to dinner with my friends and me, and I ended up leaving with him to get gelato and beer while my friends headed out to a club. We sampled this gross olive oil flavored gelato, then downed beers at a bar that reminded us of our favorite college town hangout. We talked about stupid shit, like how his worst fear is rats, and I made a joke about a pack of rats sucking his dick.
We made mixed drinks at our friend’s apartment, waiting for him to come back before realizing he was out for the night tryna get with some girl. So we drank more with his roommates and all went to a bar together.
I don’t remember how it happened but all of the sudden we’re outside the bar making out between puffs of cigarettes, we’re cabbing through some Times Square-ish bright part of the city and he’s touching me under my dress, we’re at the apartment from Friends, we’re running into all of our buddies at IHOP, we’re taking the train to his parent’s house in some suburb an hour away, I’m falling asleep on his shoulder.
I was anticipating a crazy, filthy, hot fuckathon that even the most hardcore sex addict would be repulsed by. What actually happened was pretty tame. We stumble into his room, clothes come off, I’m sucking his perfect dick, my legs are on his shoulders, and he’s jack hammering me (I know I drunkenly used a bit of teeth in that BJ but come on dude, I said be gentle). I faked being really into it and he finished. All of this was within a matter of minutes.
I got out of bed, laughing all the way to the bathroom about how short that sex was. He kept asking why I was laughing and I wouldn’t tell him but I found out the next morning that he hadn’t actually finished! He’d told me to get on top but somehow I didn’t hear him and thought he was done.
The next morning we sat together on the train back into the city sharing headphones and planning a fictional murder-suicide with our friend. The three of us got brunch and it was probably amazing but every bit of orange juice, espresso, eggs, toast, and hash browns I put into my mouth made me want to vomit on everything, which would actually be perfect because I was so hungover. We never told our friend what happened.
I’m kind of sad that the sex I had with this guy that I’d always had a hard-on for in the back of my mind was so bland, when I really just wanted us to smack and choke each other while having the roughest sex imaginable. I wish there was an app for letting someone you had mediocre sex with know that you’d be down to try again. But in the meantime, I’m just gonna sit in this seat on the bus back home and be pissed that a fuck that had so much potential was such a stupid waste.