Two evenings ago, after a dreadful night shift, I, Rosalind Fairfax, reeking of stale espresso and tepid, slimy poached eggs, sauntered over by request to the bone-chilling, poorly insulated first floor of a West Village townhouse. The inhabitant was a regular customer of mine: a peculiar young man with whom I feel a particularly unique and sparkling camaraderie (it must immediately be stated, however, that this eloquent phrasing to describe what is most likely pure, violent LUST would have felt appropriate for any of the below, had one asked me at time of interest). He answered the door half naked, pink-skinned, radiating hot from a fresh bath, and sometime nearing 5am, I was close to fucked by my eleventh sexual partner. As it were, the numerical significance of this encounter dawned on me only today, as I patiently perused tiny doll-like French Presses at a store dedicated to “basics”. I haven’t the slightest clue why. Are you there Freud? It’s me, Rosalind.
Since I am on the cusp of the inability to count my lovers on two hands, I would like to take this time to reflect on my historical ten. Let me preface the cold hard, unfeeling facts that will now be penned by proclaiming that I, truly, am a deep and pathetically sensual worshipper of the cult of Eros – otherwise, none of the following could ever have taken place. Even my most repelling bedroom experiences were commissioned because a tiny piece of my hottest, darkest soul wondered if this was the man who could love me forever, and love me right.
So, without further ado, let me introduce to you the ten who definitely couldn’t, by names that have been reluctantly changed in order to protect them:
1. JOHN – I am about to turn twenty, and not a soul has put his hands anywhere on my naked body. In one fell swoop of an evening, John manages to get me drunk, stick his fingers in me, slobber on my genitals, and coerce other adventures I wasn’t really that ready for to all happen at once, but wanted to get out of the way, so whatever. As is the case for (almost) all of my partners, I painfully brooded over the thought of his touch, the feel of his face in my little hands, his lips. One night over my college’s summer vacation, he traveled two hours to visit me for the weekend. We had sex twice in that god-awful position where the lady lies there lifeless, whilst the gentlemen thrusts, hovering, balanced on his two fists, arms straight as arrows. Virginity? Banished. Severe allergy to spermicide? Discovered. Three days later, I got the sinking feeling in the depths of my gut that he wasn’t planning on seeing me anymore. I was right.
2. BEN – My long-term college boyfriend. We met while studying abroad, and I got all psychotic about him pretty early on, whilst he ignored me. Somehow, after two months of exhaustingly longing glares, I broke him down, and we held hands dressed as Chewbacca and Obi Wan at a Star Wars party. I wish it ended just there, because that’s kind of nice, but, nope, I was stoned as balls, and ended up in his dorm room taking HIS virginity. Classic. The cherry-on-top was when he, virginally unaware of ritualistic norms surrounding sex, let his roommates enter the premises a mere three minutes after copulation. And somehow the bizarre beginnings of this romance led to a caring, deep, two year relationship, where for the last couple months, no sex existed at all.
3. ALEXEY – After no-sex long-term boyfriends, the easiest living trap to fall into is a tight-pantsed Euro who makes you so wet, you are bludgeoned helpless by the intense feelings of primitive distress. But four months later, when you’ve signed a marriage license with said person, and on the walk back from City Hall, run into a girl he apparently slept with less than two weeks prior, you start to realize you have some problems that aren’t going to be worked out for at least another two years. You then read some Marina Tsvetaeva and attempt to press on.
4. ALAN – Desperate to deflect some obsessive Alexey energy, I waited patiently in Alan’s apartment in the East Village. He was a whip-smart pal I hard-core flirted with, and I naively assumed that was regular precursor to sexual chemistry. I was incorrect! He rushed home on a break from his hipster fast food gig, got kind of hard, and then penetrated me without even bothering to check if I seemed ready. I was so perplexed by the situation that I didn’t have the will to suggest we stop. The real kicker was when I forced a (convincing) moan, he asked me why I was making the “weird noises”.
5. BRADLEY – After a birthday party, while two of our prudish friends awkwardly pawed at each other in the bedroom, Bradley and I layed in the bedroom’s spacious walk-in closet. He told me a ghost story as our hands touched, just barely. For hours we grazed each others bodies with electric hands, and I buzzed, whimpering for him days after. There was a month until he moved to California. Sometimes he would pull my hair too hard, and I would smack him. I tried anal sex with Bradley, and wish I liked it more, but it just made me uncomfortable. As pay back, he let me go probing for his prostate. Bradley left for LA, and now dates someone who seems very kind and docile. Someone very different from me, indeed.
6. PHIL – After these traumatic encounters, I moved around the country a bit, and remained a reluctant monk for almost seven whole healthy, dreadful months. Sadly, I cracked on New Year’s Eve of 2012, where a slew of saccharine vodka drinks and a desperate need to feel wanted led me straight cowgirl-style to the top of the hottest dude at the party. He thought he felt the condom break and was too drunk to finish, so, heads spinning, and with neither of us satisfied, we tried to doze. Before he conked out, relishing moronically in the fact that I’m an “actress”, he proclaimed to me that I gave a “damn hot performance”. I nearly vomited. The next day, I did vomit. And I never saw him again.
7. SETH – I lasted another four months sex-free, this time as self-punishment. But, as seems to happen on celebratory events, I broke. I was in New York over my birthday weekend, and met up with Seth, a fellow actor with whom I had worked on a film the prior year. We had some palpable chemistry during that time, but I ended up shutting down from him while on set. But this was a year later. And it was my birthday. Back at his apartment, I relished his sweet voice calling my cunt a cunt, and the feel of his tongue: raspy, like a cat. It had been almost a year since I’d been with anyone who could let himself go there like he did, so I rushed to hand write Seth a letter after returning home. Two or three exchanges later, our correspondence died out, and the last time we saw each other, we barely made eye contact.
8. PAUL – While I worked in Cincinnati, Paul came around as a traveling actor. All the girls ogled his mysterious aura, as did I, but I’m not nuts about competing with other women, so I stayed back. Plus I had a nice girl-friend who really dug him, making me especially careful, but when he invited me to the art museum, and then back to his apartment, I couldn’t refuse. Paul begins the bizarre series of a string of men who get to have me, seem okay with losing me, then weirdly return weeks later with a forceful need to claim my deepest, most severe love. For shame. But even his soulful brown eyes couldn’t convince me those following weeks, for while appearing to be so open-minded, he was, in fact, the most vanilla erotic partner I’ve ever had.
9. JAKE – I move back to New York, get lonely, and then meet Jake through some friends who don’t like me that much. He quickly asks me out, so sure, we catch a movie. He is hairy and sweaty, and when he kisses me, I can feel his nose in my eye socket. That’s how much bigger his head is than mine. But after dainty Paul, I need someone to turn me over, lie on top, wrap his arms about me, and joyously suffocate me with body weight. Jake tells me that he feels, independent as I seem, deep down I really just need someone to take care of me. I resent him for saying this, but he’s probably right. After about five romps, I call the whole thing off. We just aren’t a good match, i.e. I’m not emotionally connected. He’s “chill” with it, but then follows Paul’s lead by weeks later confirming his romantic desires via various emails.
10. CHRIS – Chris, a jazz musician, is a close frenemy of Jake. He starts pursuing me just after his comrade, and I’m only emotionally equipped handle one suitor at a time, so I basically brush Chris off. He was terribly attractive to me, but had this kind of depressed, anxious vibe about him that rubbed me the wrong way from the get-go. But then one day we meet up for a classy glass of wine, and, oops, I end up giving him one of my signature blow jobs. Only later did I find out he went straight to a bar that very evening and told all his friends about it. Nice! We end up dating for about four months, and the sex, which starts off pretty wonky, ends up blossoming into a pretty healthy bond. Unfortunately, nothing kills romance like people still dwelling on their ex-girlfriends, so faced with fact that I am dealing with a phobia-filled, anxiety-ridden man in a major rut, still half living in 2010, I realize it is for the better that we decided to part ways. Even if I cried.
Ah, the glorious ten. I’d like to take a few moments now to reach out to number eleven, whoever you are: just know it isn’t as bad as it seems. I probably won’t write something like this again, so your achievements or missteps shan’t be immortalized. Truth be told, if we happen to already be acquainted, I probably think you’re a god. If we’ve hooked up, I most certainly lie awake at night reviewing my memory of the warmth of your chest, or the way you moan when I put my mouth on you, or the rough strength of your fingers.
You’re in the golden place now. Embrace it, young man. Embrace it.