So I’ve been thinking a lot about impotence lately. Totally because of several close calls and one bona fide occurrence. I’ve also been thinking about how the most popular post on this blog by far was my bitching about how the blow jobs have vanished. Gone, like the buffalo and the unicorns:
There really is no mystery about the unicorn myth, for what it’s worth. Skittish-yet-majestic mountain of muscle with one prominent, usually spiral-ridged, horn projecting from where its brain should be? Appears exclusively to virgins or innocent maids? Just STAAAAHP. We get it.
So What’s This I Hear About Your Wet Noodle, HIE?
As I’ve mentioned in the past, I’ve had a few hilariously loud and painfully awkward encounters (confrontations?) in the bedroom, generally centered around me hanging up the D and calling it quits after just one go’round in the saddle. I’m a monster, I’ll admit it.
And lately, I’ve been feeling old. And irrelevant. And all the things that depression sends your way when you hit a birthday while traveling alone (again) and you start wondering what life would be like if you just fucking TOOK CHARGE of its direction.
And one last blow to the libido: I miss “love” sex. Love-sex? Ok, so you know how make-up sex is a thing; there’s grudge fucking… what else? What other “types” of sex are there? I know there’s drunk sex, OBVIOUSLY (whew, don’t I!), bathroom sex, but those are sort of off topic. Sex during a particular mental-emotional state well known to all. Break-up sex. Where did THAT come from?
So What’s Loveseks™ Feel Like?
[WARNING: mushy corn ahead]
Ok, its the thing that happens to sex when you are super super into the person emotionally, and you feel special that she’s there naked with you, and you want to soak up the tingles that just pressing your chest to hers and feeling her heartbeat gives you. So there’s a lot of extended kissing and fingers laced between fingers, and staring into eyes and thinking to oneself “YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.” Plus the boning, which gains this extra dimension that you realize just maybe it should always have, and why did you waste so many nights on drunken kindergarten teachers who forget your name the minute they come and internet-arranged affairs with unhappily married women?!
So anyway, I was listening to this podcast, as one tends to on laundry day, or when one decides to finally do that home-brew beer making kit thing one buys, thinking that perhaps one could fill a lazy Sunday with a productive undertaking in order to stave off the anxiety and dread one feels when contemplating the directions one’s life isn’t taking, and then it isn’t quite enough to be busy, one must fill the awful silence with the inoffensive droning of a PODCAST, so one turns one on. It was actually super good, too.
If you don’t want to listen, this chick Zoe is sort of brash and talks about sex with all kinds of people she finds in random places. And she finds a weird old vet who claims to have had sex with about a million women. “What’s the best sex you ever had?” she asks.
“Like what kind?” he wonders. “Anal? Oral? From behind? It’s all different.”
“Yeah ok, what kind is the best?” (I’M PARAPHRASING FROM MEMORY OK?)
“Love sex,” he says. (but then he adds he’s in love with all his consorts)
What a Softie
Got me thinking about it and it really is the sweetest drug you can add to the mix. That feeling of being locked in to the passions of another person, the unstated surrendering of your free will to her, the electric comfort of knowing (even if it’s actually impossible to know that) those feelings are reciprocal. And it’s just all so extra special what with the heart a’twitter and the sweet breathlessness and lingering eye contact of it all.
But one thing we learn as adults groping our way up through a childhood legacy of shitty family situations–you can’t trust those feelings. Case in point, I had love sex a while back. Super special sense of destiny being fulfilled, the whole nine. Problem was she would go on to super choose another guy. You can read about the beginnings of our “courtship” here and here, but I’ve been told those posts are mad boring.
And they’re irrelevant anyway. You get it: I felt the live-wire-honey-for-blood sweet fulfillment of love sex recently-ish.
The problem: the sex that comes afterwards, with other people, is really really disappointing. Because man. You can’t stop thinking about what’s missing. It’s like ice cream without the sugar. Sure, there’s a way to appreciate the experience, but you probably won’t want to finish your cone. Brussels sprouts without butter and salt.
Which brings us to the topic of the week (month? minute? who cares?).
Wet noodle sex.
Someone recently asked me why guys would try to push unprotected sex on a girl they hardly know. Isn’t it a risk to them as well? I immediately thought of some unprotected sex I’d had recently with a girl I met on Bumble. What’s Bumble? Well…. it’s like Tinder, but when you match, it’s up the the girl to make first contact, otherwise your connection expires and you both vanish forever. Cool concept, but in practice it falls flat. It’s mostly business women and “founder-CEO”s who work in fields that super take themselves seriously (like digital marketing or cosmetics).
So I met this girl (who is an artist and set designer), we hit it off, but in that way that isn’t really anything magical. Like a pragmatic “we could see each other being friends and totally boning, and incidentally you tell funny jokes” vibe. We went back to her place–a strange labyrinth warehouse space turned into arty (messy) dwelling spaces for older arty (messy) types. Up in her loft bed (bunk bed with more space) we got nekkid. I was tired. I was drunk. I was intellectually turned on to the idea, but my body was just slowly draining of energy. Like, “hey this is a bed. I’m gonna do what we do with beds: sleep now k?”
But, When in Rome, Right?
As can happen, she’s getting more and more energetic while I wane. So I do my thing and get her off, but it’s like an appetizer to her. She’s ready for the main dish. Gross metaphor? Fuck off. Anyway, she rolls me over and is all “So how do we make this thing get hard?”
And I could hear it in her voice. Her inflection; the way she said “thing” and “we” just kind of said I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH A PENIS to me. I sighed. She grabbed it funny and pushed too hard. Disaster. After batting away her mildly painful and alarming attempts (she’s got really strong, rough hands), I flipped her back over and tried the old stand-by, doing it myself. Once I whipped myself just barely into attention, going bareback was the only way to keep the D interested enough to get through the deed. So I got it done and it felt like hard work. I’ll skip all the how’d we get to bareback being ok etc. It had to do with birth control and recent lab results coming back clear. Still.. BAD IDEA.
Skip ahead to the next time. The next time I refused to go condomless and I just couldn’t get into it. Wet noodle. No sex. Confused and hurt girl. Me feeling resentful and sad and broken.
And here’s the point. I’m not blaming her, although I personally find more proactive sensual participation to be super necessary. I’m blaming the situation. As a guy, I should be able to call a time-out when I ain’t feeling it without this whole fucking mountain of FAILURE and DYSFUNCTION or DISINTEREST or the inevitable self-esteem hit the lady’s gonna turn around on me with everyone’s favorite weapon, guilt.
So that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna take boning off the table. You can have your mind-blowing head, ladies, and be satisfied with that. If you aren’t turning me on, we stop there.
This song is fucking hilariously bad: