Part 2 of The Kitchen Trash

I feel I should preface the rest of the story with some information about myself that I’m not sure most of you know. If you know me in person, then you probably already get that I am pretty sexually uninhibited. I don’t believe in shame being associated with consenting adults. People’s choices and proclivities, especially in regards to sex are their own.

With that said, I often get the reputation of being a scaredy cat in terms of making up my mind whether I want to actually engage with someone… but once my mind is confirmed sex is inevitable; there is no topic, act or idea I am not generally willing to discuss, ponder or try. I may take my time thinking about it and ultimately decide it is not for me – but I firmly believe in communicating true desires and having an open mind in the bedroom. There is no such thing as delicious life-altering sex with a closed mind.
Again- consenting adults.

There are however, certain manners, rules and etiquette that should be observed in every situation. Your comfort levels. Your partner’s comfort levels. Safety and consideration. The courtesy of feedback in some format. Respect previously stated boundaries. Stop – immediately and without any negativity if is it requested (see partner’s comfort levels)

I will admit to being a sexually overt woman, with experience I don’t consider to be pithy – but despite that, I am VERY CHOOSY of my lovers.

So with this in mind, I invited FilmBuff home with me. I am choosy – and I chose him.

“Are you worried?” He asked.
“Really, the only thing I’m actually worried about is you feeling like I’m taking advantage of you.” I shrugged. He smiled and followed me out the door.

We left the Doug Fir and headed toward my house. I made sure to keep him in my mirror so he wouldn’t get lost (someone actually wants to sleep with me? I sure as hell was not about to speed and potentially lose them, right?) and all the while my mind raced with questions, insecurities – most obviously the worry that the kitchen trash had fouled up the whole house – and the other insecurity was that I currently had a patchy yaya thanks to the wax job. Go figure. The one time I actually am in this position someone I like enough to bring home who actually reciprocates -in like a year – I have tortured my crotch just in time for a stranger to see it. Go me.

We pulled up at my apartment and when I climbed out my legs were shaking but mores to the point, when he walked up to meet me… the twenty minutes from the Doug Fir to my house had completely altered his body language.

We walked in and sure enough, the trash stunk. I apologized profusely and bustled trying to tidy and light a candle to freshen the air. A quick tour of my apartment showed him that there are still boxes that haven’t been unpacked all over the living room and parts and pieces of a stupid IKEA bookshelf that I’ve spent a week trying to put together. Shredded instructions, loose screws and plywood planks completely left the living room off limits.

That left the kitchen table and the bed. And the kitchen table was a craigslist find so I didn’t trust it to take my weight – which really only left the bed –which I had to drag piles of laundry off and clean up the spilled box of tampons I’d dumped there while digging through the closet for my tripod. I grinned at him as I grabbed handfuls of regular unscented tampons and stuffed them away. “Clearly, I wasn’t expecting company…” I murmured. Go Me.

He sat on the corner of the bed and for all his confidence at the bar, his six foot five frame suddenly looked 5 years younger and coltishly awkward.

“You think you’ll regret this?” He asked. “I think you’ll probably regret this. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Whoa there, how about not telling me what I’ll regret… but more importantly, if it’s something you are trying to bring up then maybe it’s something you’ll regret. We don’t have to do anything unless you want to.”

“Oh! I want to!” He asked if I had birth control (bravo!).

“I’m not on birth control. I rarely ever have sex! But I have condoms. I have protection.”

“That’s what I meant by birth control.” He admitted.

A little flag went off in my mind, “Actually, condoms are protection – not just birth control.”

He suddenly seemed so young and I wondered if I were doing the right thing. I sat next to him on the bed and helped him lie back.

“I’ve never really done this before,” he admitted. Another flag fired, OH GOD! IS HE A VIRGIN?

“Uhm… when’s the last time you had sex?” I wondered.

“Wow. A long time ago. Almost a month.” Yup. That’s how you know a guy is 23. A long time for sex is a month.

“When was the last time for you?” he asked.

“You mean with myself – or with someone else…?”Dude didn’t even crack a smile.

“With someone else…” he corrected.
“Oh, well longer than a month for sure it’s coming up on a year. Then a year before than and well, it goes on.” I tilted my head, “What are your expectations of this? What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid I’ll come too fast and be a bad lover.” He admitted (God I wanted him so bad right that minute. Honesty is the sexiest thing ever!)

“Well, if that’s really bothering you let’s talk about it.” I offered.

“So I have to admit, I’m not really sure what to do. Could you? Could you take control?”
I was surprised and flattered and amused and way turned on all at once. His honesty about not being sure, his willingness to let me take over – all of it, was a major aphrodisiac.

“Have you ever let anyone be in control before?” I asked.

“No, I’m usually the one in control. But I’ve always wanted to try this.”

“Okay,” I said.

“What? What are you going to do to me?” His sudden fear made my stomach clench.

“I’m not going to do anything to hurt you. First I’m going to kiss you, let’s just see how we kiss. I’m perfectly content if we don’t have sex, I would be happy to just have my way with your body all night if that’s what’s best. But first, I want your mouth.”

And so that’s how the dynamic was established. I kissed him and he tried to kiss me back at first – but I believe sensory overload shut off his ability to respond and for the next hour he remains mostly stiff.

He was beautiful. I couldn’t stop staring at him. Even after I had taken all his clothes and settled myself in the crook of his arm I kept marveling at his beauty and my hands skimmed over his skin –reading like he was brail. Soon though, he began closing his eyes. And not just closing but squinching them shut. Soon he was gripping the edged of my bed nearly ripping the sheets. He stopped making noise. Stopped moving. His legs were nearly knees together and toes out straight, arms clutching the sheets for dear life and refusing to touch me –look at me –kiss me. It began to feel a lot like he just wished I’d go away -like some bad dream – he just wanted to wake up in his bed at home. At one point I wasn’t sure he was even still breathing.

I was straddled atop him when I said, “Are you afraid to touch me?”

He squinted his eyes open and had a look on his face like he bit into a lemon. “No, I just thought you were in charge so I shouldn’t touch you.”

“Well, if I’m in charge I say put your damn hands on me.” I sighed.
He let go of the twisted grips of sheet long enough to grab both my ass cheeks give them a rough squeeze and then he went back to clutching the bed as though death were inevitable and he wished it would all just end.

“Okay, would you uhm, like to touch my breasts?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he said and double fisted my ladies gave them a good jostle and went back to clinging to the bed.

I felt like I was at an impasse, after a conservative estimate of an hour of touching, kissing him, caressing him and trying to relax him – I was out of ideas. And frankly, I wasn’t having any fun. Furthermore, he had been so ridiculously hard for so long I was certain if I didn’t get him off somehow he would have a nauseating case of blue balls. Trouble was, he wouldn’t actually come because I suspect he was probably squinching his eyes shut and doing long division or imagining his grandmother in an attempt to prevent himself from letting go. I chewed on my lip and wondered if it were physically possible for a 23 year old guy to explode a testicle? Not likely but possible? Not on my watch, damnit! Not. On. My. Watch.

I wondered and wondered what to do, because as it was, without any feedback; i.e., talking squirming; noises; panting, bucking – NOTHING. I had no idea if I was even on the right track, furthermore, there is very little fun in being in control if there isn’t at least some loss of control from the sub, ya know?

So he wanted me to be in control – but clearly could not totally relinquish control to me… not a terrible thing, it’s much harder to do than you’d think so I did actually have sympathy. Just not enough sympathy.

Because to have control I decided to take it, and after putting on protection I gingerly slid my body onto his. It hurt. Obviously I was not warmed up (I’d been busy warming him up not that he needed it) so I was taking it slow. I figured on the 50% likelihood that he would come immediately to take the pressure of and I would warm myself up on him and just keep going until he was ready to continue. You know the ol’ pop the cap- let it breathe- toast well into the night routine. It seemed like my best option.

As soon as my weight settled on his legs he finally and yet all too suddenly lost control and his orgasm completely rocked my body. Go ME! Ta Da! Precisely what I’d hoped for so now he could stop worrying and relax and we could get down to the two way play and build him up again.

BUT…

“I came too fast.” He mumbled.

“No worries, “I said, foolishly quite please with myself. “We’ll have better luck on the next one.” In my mind this meant in like half an hour but I estimated that based on his strength and excitement it would be more like 10 minutes. And even if he was too exhausted to get right back up that left all sorts of first time mutually pleasing pastimes to occupy ourselves with into the wee hours of morning. I was in pain and burning but I fully expected that a rich night of continued lovemaking was in store.

BUT…

No sooner had he finished his spasm then I was fairly unceremoniously on my side as he lunged out of bed, grabbed his pants and ran into the bathroom. I heard the water and my mind was reeling with WTF?

He breezed back into the room to dig on the floor for his shirt. He wouldn’t make eye contact, wasn’t smiling. My body was on fire – my mass of confusion at his sudden shift was overwhelming and disorienting.

“Are you okay?” I asked as he slipped his shirt on. I wondered if I broke him or something. Bruised? Maimed?

“Yeah, I’ve gotta work in the morning.” He said as he hopped into a sock and made a break for the door.

I couldn’t actually believe it. I was so surprised and astonished that I half chased him to the door and said, “Well, have a good day at work tomorrow…”

And with that he was gone zipping up his clothing as he fled into the night. POOF! Hit and run at the intersection of NE and what fuck just happened???

Now, let me remind you all of what I consider to be a substantial sexual background. Then let me tell you I suddenly felt like a 16 year old girl who got laid and dumped on prom night. I hobbled back to bed and sat there wondering what in holy freaking god could have caused such a reaction? I haven’t seen anyone flee that fast since I saw a shoplifter get chased through the Lloyd Center by six security guards.

I’m not a post-coital cuddler with strangers. In fact I don’t even like sleeping next to people I don’t know. If he’d rolled over after cumming his brains out I would have tucked him in bed and laid awake till my alarm went off – because I don’t like sleeping next to strangers. I’ll snuggle if they need it or if by some chance a wild hair catches me all funny and I’m having an oxytocin overload. I don’t expect affection or devotion or a relationship – it might be nice, I might want the option. I might like the concept that someone would be in to me enough that they’d want to see me again, especially if I liked them enough to bring them home. But the fact remains that I had no expectations of a future yet because no such discussion was ever approached.

The expectation I did have was a mutually beneficial enjoyment and the common courtesies and etiquette of having sex with a stranger.

But never under any circumstances has it ever been okay to literally fuck and run without explanation or reciprocation of any sort. Well, I guess unless that fantasy has been previously worked out.

It’s about being thoughtful, despite how awkward, vulnerable, terrified or embarrassed you are. The thing about going home with someone – they almost always have the same worries that you do. Am I good enough? Hot enough? Does my breath smell bad? Will they ever talk to me again? Was I a good lover?

And with his vanishing act, my early days of sexual revolution came flooding back. Every insecurity I thought I ever beat landed squarely at my feet. Am I too fat? Ugly? Uncoordinated? Smelly? Stupid? Was it my hair? Were my breasts too small? Was it because my yaya was patchy from being waxed? Was I stupid to pick a younger guy? Was I fooling myself?

Was it the stinky kitchen trash?

Then as morning light began to come through the window and I realized I’d been up all night agonizing I realized – maybe – just MAYBE it wasn’t me.

Maybe I hurt him? Maybe I broke his penis? Maybe he was embarrassed he came so fast? (I can’t even wrap my brain around this fear. It’s just that weird.) Maybe he had a sudden and crippling case of nuclear diarrhea and he was afraid to use my bathroom (not likely but maybe?) Maybe he was a virgin? Maybe he was late for a wedding? Maybe he was ashamed of himself (I don’t get this one, but okay) Maybe he’s gay and he was testing his sexuality on me? Maybe he realized he left the gas stove on? Maybe he was afraid I would want to snuggle? Maybe he knew I meant to have him again and again that night and he fled for his life? Maybe he heard me say “next time” and couldn’t possibly imagine a “next time” with me? Maybe – probably – he was just not that into me….

Whatever. I could go in circles for hours. Maybe, maybe it was as simple as he felt completely overwhelmed because he had never lost control before. Utter Vulnerability. So vulnerable that there is no recovering in front of someone from the emotional whiplash and the only alternative is to get to safety – fast. I can totally resonate with that one being that my history is as an escape artist as well, right?

This in fact, is the excuse I favor the most. Only after asking for perspective from other people. Only after blogging and stressing. I called him to get a clarifying question that would put all this to rest but I think I already knew… I will never see him again. Is that okay?

It’s sad. I’d love to have a really great and reasonable explanation that I can quantify and tidy up the loose ends with. I’d love to watch him talk about cars some more and I’d love to have my mouth on him again. I know I am foolish to admit this, but I really did like him – obviously enough to bring him home – which says a lot.

So what is the moral of the story? I’m still sorting that one out. I’ve still never EVER felt cheap before, like I felt cheap on Thursday night.

I sent him a text the next day as I was rocked with flash back, “Wow. Thank you for the flashbacks. I hope you’re not too tired at work today.”
I didn’t want to press the idea that part of the reason I had agreed to bring him home was his answer to the question…

““If it would be fun to go home with me tonight… would it also be fun just to have a conversation tomorrow. Maybe another drink tomorrow?”

He smiled, a beautiful stretch of white through his beard, and my world rocked a little when he said, “That would also be fun, yes.”

“Then why don’t you come home with me tonight, and we can talk some more tomorrow…””

I suppose I should have made my intentions known at the time, but his admission that he’d be interested in seeing me the next day, gave me the sense of security that he wasn’t out for a hit and run, and that even if I did have sex with him – we could at least discuss the aftermath like adults, because let’s face it, people can get weird about sex, and I wanted a little security that there would be discussion.

After coming to the conclusion that I would never hear back from him – he’s probably in another country by now he was running so fast, I wrote him a follow-up email, which I have been trying to do after all my dates to express myself so they are not left out of a loop.

I figured it was possible he was struggling with equalizing some of his own chaos or insecurities but despite that, I sent a “food for thought” email about things he might want to know about the etiquette of the one-night stand or sex with strangers. A guide of what not to do.

The way I figure it is if I’m never going to see him again, I hope he doesn’t repeat the behavior on anyone else.

So there you have it. My story of finally choosing a lover after a tremendously long dry spell.

I’ve had sort of a bad run of luck with the men of late and I’m beginning to be deeply suspicious about it because… “If there is one asshole, it’s them. If there are two… it’s a freakish trend. But if there are three – - maybe I’m the asshole….” That’s definitely food for thought.