And the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys.
Man after man, dick after dick, miss after miss.
Last summer it was a project of mine to cull my contacts and I found I had multiple pages of the same man’s name, a list in black and white of my apathy, hunger, and disdain.
- Chris Car
- Chris Chuck
- Chris Cool
- Chris Doo
- Chris Eastside
- Chris Magnum
- Chris Mindsome
- Chris Pander
With the exception of 3, I have no memory of those men.
There have been 6 “Chrises” in my life recently, each terribly memorable and forgettable simultaneously. The Chris who ghosted on me after we fucked under a bridge and all night in my bed. The Chris who apologized at 8:30 at night on a day we’d planned to go out that he wasn’t up to it. The other Chris who admitted he was not attracted to me despite behavior that sent mixed signals. The Chris who… I can’t remember who he is or was. Another Chris I can’t remember. And then a Chris from that list, one I actually do remember, just texted me last night.
I’m doing this wrong if I can’t remember men.
Not only that, but I can’t remember the dicks I have in my phone. Fleshy and hard, in bathroom mirrors and surrounded by crumpled pants or sheets. I find myself scrutinizing one on occasion trying to place it. Whose is this?? What time of year was it sent? What was going on in my life then? WHO IS THIS???
Inevitably, the questions go unanswered and I click my phone off.
I recently went out with an old lover who texted me 2 years after our last date. The last time we were together I struggled with my lack of interest in our sex despite our easy rapport while clothed. I called myself a shitty lay and wracked it up to my own poor performance. Our second date shattered that theory: he’s not that good in bed.
And he’s delusional about his penis size.
“I love being the skinny white guy with a huge dick,” he said while we sipped whiskey cocktails earlier in the night. I thought maybe I’d remembered him wrong, but no, he has about an average length penis that is quite slender. It felt like a sneeze that never swept through me.
Of course I came — lots — but that’s just lucky body composition on my part, not his skill or passion.
At one point I was on all fours, ass high in his dimly lit room, with his mouth on my little starfish and nothing else. Not his hand or arm. It felt odd, like I was floating in space with a warm, wet alien attached to me between my ass cheeks.
“Where are your hands??” I asked almost irritated that I was even having to ask.
“One is on my dick,” he answered.
“Where’s your other?? Put it on me, please!”
I felt a soft palm press against my hip. I grit my teeth until he’d had his fill.
There are so many Chrises in my past I stopped chronicling them here. I’ve stopped a lot of things here since The Neighbor left me. I lost my muse, my joy in sex and discovery, nearly my interest in writing. I have been beaten to a pulp in the dating arena in round after round and have felt overly responsible about protecting my dates from their own miserable, sad, ridiculous, or embarrassing behavior, but I don’t want to do that anymore.
From now on I’m going to write about all the Chrises and their delusions of grandeur.
And all the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys. Not out of spite or revenge or to make them look bad, but because their stories are mine, too, and I’m tired of protecting them when there is a story for me to tell.
There’s much more going on here than I’ve let on. So much more.