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.