I shall rename thee Dick. I got drunk with you and a friend one night. Apparently you hinted that the friend should go home, but I didn’t notice. I was too drunk to drive home, so you easily convinced me that it was best to stay at your place until I was sober. You told me that your bed was more comfortable than the living room couch, so I promised to stay on my side of your queen mattress. Then you told me that the air conditioning in your room didn’t work very well, so I might as well take my shirt off to deal with the warmth. All of this logic made sense to drunk me. We had kissed a couple of times before, but the lack of mutual attraction was apparent. Before I knew it, you were trying to cuddle with me and kiss me. I said I didn’t want to hook up. We were both getting over other people, and I didn’t like you like that. Then stuff happened anyway. To say it was non-consensual isn’t quite true, but I certainly wasn’t expressing enthusiastic consent. So I lost my virginity that night, and our friendship changed forever. At least we can joke about it. Regardless, you will always be Dick to me.
Or more appropriately, Humpy. There was absolutely no foreplay involved; you just went straight to “the fun part.” Actually, I remember that you tried to kiss me at some point, but it was awful. I can’t tell if you went for a sexy lip bite or were really just that bad at kissing, but the left side of my bottom lip was bruised for a week. I think it had been a while for both of us, but the sex was just bad. You jackhammered me into oblivion, hoping that things might get better with more speed and effort. They didn’t. Then you asked me to finish you with my mouth (probably because you realized trying to get me to finish first wasn’t happening; my vagina couldn’t feel anything anymore). When I went down on you, my nostrils came upon the most hideous of stenches. I mean, truly awful. Something died in your pants when you weren’t looking. I tried really hard not to let my face show it, but it was all I could do not to vomit mid-blowjob. In an effort to control this overwhelming gag reflex and general disgust, my tear ducts decided to scream in protest. Trust me, I wasn’t crying with joy over getting to suck your dick. But I pulled through, swallowed like a champ, and then pretended that my room didn’t smell like the dead thing hiding in your clothes. You stayed in my bed with me that night because you were drunk and I felt bad, but I was not about to have sex with you again. I was up and in the shower at 6:30 the next morning despite my massive hangover. Never again, Humpy.
I messaged you on OkCupid, and you agreed that we should meet up. You seemed so genuinely overjoyed in all your photos, and I thought some optimism might be a good addition to my life. We chatted for about an hour and then decided to switch bars. But instead of going to another bar, you grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a kiss. Sappy, yes, but totally sweet. Then you happily led me to your car and then drove me to your hotel room, smiling all the way. You playfully threw me onto the bed and cheerfully kissed me. I’m excited to see you again, Happy.
Your penis, that is. Apparently, you had watched so much porn while you were single, that you couldn’t get it up with me. Maybe I will call you Droopy. But you promised that it wasn’t me, and so we worked really hard to get things to be hard. That really only happened once when we were having breakup sex. Since you are the one who broke up with me, I hope you are having a lot more sex. With yourself. And your porn. Because an eternally droopy penis would be wonderful karma.
This was an awful night. I understand that making the first move is scary, so I took care of that. However, sometimes I like to be the passenger and not the driver. That just wasn’t a possibility with you, Bashful. I know it wasn’t your first time, so I wish you had relaxed a bit. You tried so hard to please me, but in your desperation to do so, you went soft. But you didn’t let that deter you! You kept right on trying to jam your flaccid self into me. I suggested that we stop, and I thought you were going to cry. You tried to give yourself a pep talk, and it was painful to listen to. You tried a second time, and I really wanted you to succeed, but it just wasn’t happening. We decided to just sleep. Then you were afraid to hold me, so you just let your arm hover over me awkwardly until I said something. Were you planning to just stay like that until you fell asleep and your arm dropped into place? I don’t know what that was about. Once I gave you permission to put your arm around me, you repeatedly scooted closer until you had scooted both of us to the very edge of the bed. I don’t mind some spooning, but pushing me off the bed wasn’t cool. I asked you to please scoot back, which only started the awkward arm hovering again. Ugh. I’m sorry I didn’t ever text you back after that night, but I am still haunted by the memory of those hours.
Although you did have a very mild case of the sniffles, I think Sleazy is a more appropriate name. But I don’t mean that in a negative way at all. I liked our little fling together quite a bit. We met at a black tie event. You looked great in that tux. We were randomly seated at the same table and made pleasant small talk. I laughed at all of your jokes, and you gracefully broke the touch barrier when you lightly held my arm to whisper something to me. I had to turn my chair slightly to see when the dinner’s speaker took the stage, and we ended up slightly closer than before. Somehow our fingers brushed in between rounds of applause, and then they just stayed there. I liked holding your hand under the table. We were in the presence of three Supreme Court justices, two Senators, and you were still holding my hand secretly. It was exhilarating. Since I had a room in the hotel of the event, we decided to sneak away before the reception. You calmly walked with me toward the elevator, ignoring that fact that you were supposed to be mingling with the important people. I was trying not to grin too stupidly. The instant the elevator door closed, you pressed me against the mirror and kissed me until we reached the top floor. You were now wearing my lipstick, but you didn’t seem to mind at all. I had a lot of fun with you. Forty-five minutes of pure fun. We finally decided we had to go back to the reception, but you struggled to redo your bowtie. I’d never been with a guy who wore an actual bowtie. Watching you fight with it was pretty hot, despite how much it was stressing you out. I reapplied my lipstick, and we held hands in the elevator back down, carefully staggering our entrances to the reception. It was a glorious secret that will always make me smile.
You are a bit of a pothead, but Gropey would also be appropriate here. The first time you kissed me, I was completely stunned for about three whole seconds before pulling away. Later retellings of this story prompted my friends to create a chant that went “[YOUR LAST NAME] ATTACK! *clap clap* push him back.” But I liked kissing you, and even though you moved away that day, we started talking more. During one of your visits, you took me to dinner. You asked if I would let you sleep on my couch that night, and thinking I was helping a friend in need, I obliged. But when we got to my room later, you just kept trying to hook up with me. I felt bad that you had paid for dinner with the expectation of sexual favors later, but when you sent me a long message the next day apologizing for your advances, I knew you didn’t mean it that way. We talked more and became even better friends and slept together for the first time a month later. You were the first person I had been with since Dick, who had left me kind of scared, and you were understanding. Sex with you was comfortable. We both knew it didn’t mean more, but we still developed an incredibly complicated and profound friend love for one another. We would never actually date and it’s been a while since I’ve seen you, but I still consider you one of my closest friends.