Sometimes I’m a shitty lay.

Sometimes, I suck in bed.

I don’t do much, I just react.  I moan, I might orgasm, I arch, I claw a little.

I don’t suck, I don’t initiate, I don’t beg for more.  I am reactive, waiting for the pitch instead of calling the plays.   I remain a blank, but responsive slate.

It occurred to me the other day that I’ve been this way for the better part of the past year.  With the exception of David, whose style was so foreign to me and such a delightful challenge, and Chase whose openness inspired me to let go, everyone else has gotten some dialed-in version of Hyacinth Jones.

When I was with The Neighbor and dating other men that was the story of my life.  No one could compare to the passion he ignited in me, the sexual artist he inspired me to be.  Man after man [after man] got glimpses of what I could be, but nothing more.  I wonder now how much I had to do with lack of chemistry.

I seduced the pants off of my dates, but then left the denim pooled around ankles as I stood there, arms by my side.  Looking on.

I haven’t been excited by anyone in months.  David and Chase got me there with their attention and energy.  David was only good naked; Chase was sweetly electrifying clothed.  I banked on their skills to turn me on at which point I was willing to take the baton and run.

With other men, I have been impervious.  A fortress.  A fortress of ordinary sex.

Not long ago a very nice man made me dinner.  He spent a lot of time and money on it; I was profuse with my thanks.  Outside in the hot, thick night we drank under the stars until he suggested we go to his balcony upstairs.  The one off his bedroom.

I knew what was coming.

He fondled my bottom, complimented my skirt.  I thanked him and leaned into his hand waiting for my heart to start beating.  It remained still.

He took my hand and led me into his bedroom.

He kissed me and I kissed him back.  I continued to wait for ignition.

I watched him peel off my clothes and unclasp my bra.  Finally, my heart began to beat.

On my back, below him, he unburdened himself from his own clothing and joined me on the bed.  His skin was warm and soft, his body chiseled.  He had a glint in his eye I liked.

He dove between my legs and asked me what I wanted.  “Anything but sucking,” I said.

He lapped and fondled and slipped fingers deep inside of me. When he crawled up to kiss me with his pussy-stained lips I told him to slam his hand against me and I came hard and long and filled his hand with my juices.  He liked that, as I knew he would.

I lay on the bed, seeing stars, while he put on a condom and climbed on top of me.  Our coupling lasted only a few minutes.  My eyes refused to open except for moments of fluttering.  His gaze bore down on me.  I could hardly move; I was too far from a headboard and the bedspread was too taught to grip.

And so I only lay there and moaned as he bucked and pumped on top of me.  He felt good, tickled my g-spot, and I came again about the time he did.  It was a swift and streamlined process.

He rolled off of me and I felt like I should move closer to him.  It was probably what he wanted, I thought.  I think I was right.

We lay like that for a few moments until he asked me if I liked it doggy-style.  “Sure,” I said.  “I like it all.”

He pulled me up by my hips and deftly put on another condom.  He pumped into me for a minute or two more and I reached between my legs to fondle his tight little balls.  He reached around to rub my clit.  It was a nice touch, the reach-arounds.

Then, all motion stopped and he fell to my side and pulled me down with him.

“I’m clearing away the sexual cobwebs,” he said.

I didn’t know what he meant.

“I just came again,” he explained.

I swatted at him softly, perturbed.  “At least let me know you’re enjoying yourself!”

I surprised myself with my honesty; he didn’t take offense.

We watched Almost Famous while we dozed.  I inched towards his nook, believing it’s what he wanted me to do.  He crawled around to spoon me and possibly go for round 3, but I gently rebuffed him.  I had no desire to touch him.

I felt badly, but also detached, like I had done my good date-ly duty: we’d laughed, talked, shared, had a genuinely pleasant time and I’d put out.  I’d had a solidly decent time.

I couldn’t stay the night — the dog had to be let out, you know — and when he walked me to my car it was a strange goodbye, transactional.

In the time since that night happened I’ve thought a lot about the wild woman I used to be in bed.  The one who did everything she could to bring her lover to new heights for her sake and his.  The woman who strode through limits like ribbons at finish lines and who wanted to show off her prowess.

In the months since The Neighbor left me I have kept that woman hidden away — I suspect she’s too vulnerable — but the horny one, the sexy one, she’s ok.  She can lay under giant men and fuck fat guys.  She can lay there while some dude pumps a couple of times and rolls off of her.  She can challenge little Marines.

The woman who was with The Neighbor isn’t at home right now.  She’s running errands or licking wounds or washing her hair.  Please leave a message after the beep.

I get glimpses of her on occasion, but generally speaking the woman answering the phone right now is a mediocre lay, a lazy lover.  She’s waiting for her heart to flutter enough to draw her out, like a chariot hitched to Pegasus, but until then she’ll lay on her back and wrap her legs around hips and make all the right sounds and say the right things.

I’m hopeful this will change soon, somehow.  I want the fire in my belly to inspire filthy texts to a man I like and to plan a night of sexual bliss for us.  I want to prove how much I know about his body and mine.  I want to chomp at the bit to see him again, more, more, and more.  I want to feel uninhibited about my interest, its exposure to air an aphrodisiac for us both.  I want to walk crooked for two days and I want him to wince when he puts on his shirts.

Until I find that man, though, I might remain a forgettable lay.

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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9 thoughts on “Sometimes I’m a shitty lay.
  1. I get what you’re saying. I know that’s how I’ve felt with a few of the men I’ve slept with. I don’t think it has anything to do with you, it’s more to do with whether you sleep with them for yourself or because ‘you have to’ or out of pity.
    I think this is what makes the biggest difference for me. Is there an actual connection with the person, or not.
    I’ve since learnt that, if there’s not a real connection, I shouldn’t bother, because then I dislike myself for it afterwards. Borderline despise.
    At least it taught me that no man should expect me to sleep with them because that’s what is ‘supposed’ to happen. That I hold the decision and am allowed to say no at any time if I change my mind. No to anything. It’s very empowering. And helps me realise that I am allowed to not be in the mood, and no one should fault me for that. And when I am indeed in the mood, then… I’m not a shitty lay, which is better for everyone ;-)
    Dawn D recently posted…Need help for supportMy Profile

  2. First, you don’t need to be (I’ll use your term) stellar every time you get laid.

    Second, it appears from a distance that while physically and mentally you want sex and enjoy it, the difference is that are not committing yourself emotionally as you did with The Neighbor. This is totally understandable due to the connection and love you had with him. You are still recovering from your relationship and that takes time and can not be rushed.

    You should not feel bad, guilty, etc. for not being “totally” into the act. The “inspiration” will come once you are emotionally ready. Try to be patient…

    With that said, I agree with H.H. – I seriously doubt that you are forgettable in any sense, and especially in sex.

    1. What a thoughtful comment, DB. Thank you for this, truly. And the compliments are warmly received as well :). Especially when I’m feeling quite forgettable lately…

  3. Rather than repeat the wise words above, I also want to say, maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself for enjoying sex even when it’s not sparkly/stellar. There’s a tone in the piece that suggests you almost feel guilty? You can enjoy it for what it is, fun physical activities that bring moments of pleasure and delight, and the people you enjoy will embrace that too, knowing it is what it is. It may not be as great as awesome stellar sex you have a with special sparkly people who you super connect with but its still good and you have the right to enjoy that too even afterwards when you think you could have been ‘better’. ‘better’ for who? you were good for you, and maybe a little bit of sex ‘for you’ is just what you need?
    tiggs.

  4. I really empathise with this. I’ve been in that position at various points, especially when going through periods of slutting around a fair bit, and not forming any sort of bond with new partners as a result – the sex becomes perfunctory and uninspired in those situations, and I feel vaguely guilty afterwards that I haven’t given them anything of myself to work with.
    Exhibit A recently posted…Sinful Sunday: SweatMy Profile

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