Couch incident
We made out the first time under a blanket on a rooftop. It was weird – playful but definitely bizarre. It’s always a bit strange for me when the guy is obviously religious. I liked him a lot; he was easy to get along with and a lot smarter than I’d expected. Pretty charming too I suppose, and although I pride myself in not falling for that kind of thing, I know I often do. But there was this little thing in the back of my mind that was suspicious of being judged (hypocritically I might add). We didn’t do it that night. That came a few weeks later. We had spent the day at my friend’s house, working and listening to music and smoking. Everyone had gone to sleep – in fact, so had he, passed out on the couch across from me, curly hair matted to his forehead, stripy boxers sticking out the back of his pants. He was small but cute nonetheless. I’d woken up to drink water, and was groping about for the bottle when he woke up and turned round, looking straight at me.
“What?” I said, bottle halfway to my lips.
Instead of answering, he came over to my couch, bringing his blanket with him. Basically laying down on top of me, he covered us both with the blanket and started kissing me. I’d wondered if we were going to have sex, if he indulged in that activity, and I supposed now I’d gotten my answer. He wasn’t a bad kisser, but I think possibly his lips were too thin, because it felt a bit as though I were being pecked. It was all very hurried, his hands were all over me and then all at once one hand was unzipping and pushing my pants down and the other was doing the same to his. We hadn’t said a word so far. I reached down to see how things were under the guise of general stroking; not bad but no cigar. Suddenly he started climbing up me and it became clear that he was going to try to stuff his penis into my mouth.
“No, no, let me do it my way!” But of course by this point I didn’t want to do it my way or any other, so I hurried things on to the general copulation part. A few quick thrusts, a moan or two accompanied by an expression of tortured pleasure (on his part, my interest having gradually waned), and that was that.
I could feel the colour and feeling draining out of me. I was ‘going cold’: I knew it was basically over. It often takes sex to tell me that it’s all wrong – somehow up to that point I manage to do a half decent job at self-deception, but then I am in his arms and it’s all discord and jarring wrongness. And then the off-switch is flipped and there’s nothing to be done about it but carefully extract myself from his arms, bed and life. Or in this case, couch.
