A bit of background before I tell this story. I've been hung up on the same guy for a while. A long while. So on this particular evening I was really looking to give the middle finger, so to speak, to this guy to prove to him (and myself, of course) that "I do what I want!" "I'll make out with whomever I want!" "You are an idiot for not being with me."
Aaron and I run in somewhat concentric professional circles. We bump into each other frequently enough to remember where the other worked when we last spoke, but not enough to remember where the other went to college. He is younger than I am by just two years, but the kid looks like he's about 16. He always sports a Plebeian beanie atop his head and makes one wonder if he ever even graduated high school. But the boyish look really works for him -- impish without any legitimate threat. His rosy cheeks, bright smile, and wide eyes make a great combination that quickly draws me in but then immediately makes me feel naughty for being attracted to it.
We recently ran into each other at an early show. Hugs, big smiles on both ends, mild catching up, passive watching of the band intermittently interrupted by work emails on our respective mobile devices, and then I said goodbye. Always good to see him, but I had a business meeting to get to.
Though apparently I wasn't clear about my later plans because about two hours later I received the follow text from Aaron:
"how is your date? do i need to rescue you?"
Now, I don't meticulously overanalyze all words from guys but I'm guilty periodically overanalyzing texts and guys in general. Aaron and I had absolutely no sexual history. Sure, there had always been mild flirting that almost always exists between a man and a woman, but nothing remotely substantial between us. Nothing to indicate interest on his part whatsoever. So when I read his text I was surprised. If he had said he was going on a date I wouldn't have thought twice about it and certainly would not have texted him. Rescue me? He wants to rescue me? I briefly explained the situation and showed the text to the guy I was meeting with -- a business partner who is also a good friend -- and he concurred with me.
Given my current feisty and retaliatory mood, (at this very moment I was also getting ambiguous and frustrating texts from Guy-I-am-Hung-Up-On,) accentuated with three vodka sodas, I quickly decided to play along. The momentary puzzle pieces fit.
"It's not a date, but you're always welcome to come rescue me," I replied back.
A few texts back and forth, one of which included an unsolicited promise to drive me home after the show to which he'd just invited me, (another gesture I took as flirtatious,) and I was on my way to Hollywood. I found him quickly once inside the tiny venue and instantly he had his arm around me.
One thing you should know about me is that when I evaluate my interactions with men, unless I am provided with irrefutable evidence, I almost always find a way to convince myself that a man isn't interested in me. Like many, I harbor latent insecurities born of years of very painful experiences in my teens. Most of the time they lay dormant, intermittently bubbling like lava in volcano. Other times, they erupt. Even his arm around me wasn't definitive. The longer he kept his arm around me, the more my eyes widened with surprise. I have to be misreading this. This must be the booze talking.
The show ends (the band was pretty good, by the way) and at this point I'm on my fourth drink of the evening. I order one more and snag him a beer and we move toward the adjacent bar area. I'm being flirty, but not aggressively so because of my omnipresent "he's not interested" concerns. I'm trying to read him. The boy is so filled with youth and wonder it's almost impossible to discern if he's genuinely excited to be with me or if he just exerts the excitement and energy of a puppy. He's not overly flirtatious but he also hasn't pulled back. There is enthusiasm to what he's saying, but the words aren't necessarily flirty themselves. He touches me, but on the shoulder, not on the side. He looks me in the eye, but not with conviction.
I decide to twist my perplexity with him, with this situation, into a self-proposed challenge. Those who know me know I cannot turn down a challenge. I crave that indescribable satisfaction of victory, whether it be a bet, casual board game, or the timeless battle of wits. In order to eliminate any further doubt he was interested, I made chose to turn this nebulous situation into a challenge.
I will win this challenge.
Conversation ensues. I up the physical ante: my hand on his side, lean in while I laugh. Then I reached up to pinch his cheek -- a common physical exchange between us. One he adamantly protests but one I can't resist.
He pulls back immediately.
"Umm, we can't do this," he stammers nervously, stepping backward. "I respect you too much." He looks down.
"Uh…do what?" I asked, eyebrows raised, puzzled.
"Oh," he said, eyes averted. "I thought you were trying to make out with me."
"You thought I what?" Puzzled is now coupled with nervous and embarrassed. Up until this moment we had both been pretty flirty. What happened? I burst into laughter, which prompted a ripple of apologies from his end, then more laughter from my end, albeit somewhat to push through the sinking realization that my permanent "he doesn't like me" inclination was dead on. Again.
"No, no," he said, "it's just..."
"It's just what?" I asked. "Look," I said sternly, looking him in straight the eye and placing my hand squarely on the center of his chest. "If I were going to make out with you, you'd know it."
"Oh." Now he looked nervous and slightly embarrassed.
"And even if I did want to make out with you, what makes you think I would do it in public at a bar?"
"Umm -- I -- Uh. No, see, look this one time --" His inability to find words is a blunt reminder of his age. He tells me a story about a woman he worked with -- a much older woman -- aggressively trying to make out with him. He said no, she said yes, he said no -- emphatically -- and they both felt awkward. He explains himself foolishly and I listen with as much tolerance as I can fein at the moment.
The exact discourse of the next part gets hazy, but for the next ten minutes or so I indubitably put him place in various ways with my tongue -- verbally, of course.
"Did you really think I'd do that?" I ask him incredulously.
He shifts his weight. He looks down.
"No, no. Please explain to me the moment it became indisputably evident that I wanted to make out with you. I would really like to know."
Silence and bewilderment. More weight and eyes shifting.
"No, it's ok. I'll wait."
Even though at at this moment I did want to make out with him, I hadn't allowed him to know that. He is simply a kid fumbling about a woman with trepidation. He isn't a man with an intuitive sense about the way a woman rests her hand on man's chest, or what it means if she slightly brings her fingers together as she strokes her hands along his arm, allowing her fingertips to slide smoothly across his forearm. No, he is not this man. He is a boy.
The more frustrated I am that he doesn't want to kiss me, the more I reprimand him. The more I reprimand him the more turned on I get. I make sure he understands his place: it is he who has now crossed the line and he must make it up to me. I don't have any issue asserting myself at this moment. My doubts about his interest are subdued by my carnal love of argument. I am invigorated. The mixture of vodka, fear of rejection, heightened attraction, curiosity, and satisfaction from winning this
argument serve me well. A chill of excitement runs down my spine.
Challenge reinstated.
He finally collects himself enough to formulate a complete sentence. "Look, I don't know know. I just thought you were." He looks defeated. Then, a shift. "But I can tell you that we were to hook up you would not be disappointed." Confusion and bewilderment now strike me.
Bold move, young one. Well played.
My frustration at his avoidance of my question quickly dissipates into intrigue. He has skills, he says. He entices me with a story about a girl he dated and how he made her cum twice. TWICE. Frequently. This excites me. My breath deepens and I can feel the area between my legs begin to warm. I think about what he can do with his fingers, his tongue, what I want him to do. A promise of not once, but twice. So young, so intriguing. I want it.
"Oh please," I retort.
"Fine, don't believe me."
I don't want to. His looming promise is making me feistier, and even more upset that he isn't interested. I steer the conversation back to what a dunce. I control the conversation and keep him on a short leash of verbal punishment.
I will win this challenge.
In hindsight I should have seen his proclamation as a warning, but at that moment I was enamored with his lips and the idea of a revengeful fuck. One of us makes the decision it's time to drive me home. En route to the car he desperately tries to remove his thick foot he has thoroughly shoved into his mouth. "I'm attracted to independent women...you know, women that aren't afraid to say what they want." Wait -- what? Is he coming onto me now? That's not possible, right? He just flat out denied me in the bar. "…women who are strong and outgoing. I love women like that."
"Oh, sad young man I think I need you for reasons I don't know."
I'm a cocktail of one part irked, one part revengeful, two parts excited, and three parts aroused. There is animated, snarky back and forth between us on the ride home. He says I'm too tipsy to direct him to my place because I'm tipsy. I direct him perfectly.
Animated borders on heated and then -- wait -- did he just allude to hooking up again? That's impossible. No, no that's the Ketel talking. Nope -- he just made a pass at me. I'm shocked yet incredibly satisfied and feel redeemed. What was just a rejection an hour ago has become a blatant advance. I call him on his bullshit.
"We were in public,” he says quietly. Read: I was scared and nervous, and I'm a child, but yespleasecanwefuck. We pull up to my apartment and at this point, while he's verbalized that he's on board, in true youthful fashion he hasn't made a move.
"Ok," I look him straight in the eye. "Do you want to come in, or not?" My hand on the door handle, purse on shoulder. My patience for his lack of, well, so many things, has worn thin.
"Yes. Let me find parking," he says quickly.
The alcohol has begun to really hit me. I'm drunk -- not drunk enough to be sloppy, but drunk enough to be slightly careless. This won't mean much, I know that. I won't start anything serious with this kid. Right now it is about feeling the weight of a man on top of me. The pending affirmation of my physical self and almost palpable satisfaction I'll have from this experience are relentless.
We attempt to watch television. Minutes into the repeat of The Daily Show and kissing happens. We move into my bedroom.
The clothes come off. I'm excited. I thought he wasn't interested, he is. I thought he didn't want to touch me, he does. His hands grab my sides and breasts with the youthful fervor I was excitedly awaiting. Plus, I am about to achieve my middle finger to Guy-I-am-Hung-Up-On.
While this guy had serious problems being direct up until this point, he had no problem being direct in bed. This is perfect.
Though aggressive in almost every aspect of my personal and professional lives, I entertain a seriously submissive personality in bed. Direct me. Command me. Tell me what you want. Tell me how you want it. Pull my hair. Fuck me anyway you want. I want to hear how it makes you feel good.
"Suck my dick."
Note to the gentlemen reading this: "Suck my dick" takes a certain finesse, one most guys don't have. In fact, guys, you're more likely to sound like an idiot than anything remotely close to sexy if you say this. However, if said just right, it can be irresistible. If said properly it should instantly compel a woman to her knees and bring forth her innate desire to be there. This was not one of those times. But, as I said, I thrive off direction so I let out a heavy, excited sigh at the command. Something's better than nothing, I guess.
I can't speak for others, but with me there's an energy brews inside when I'm about to give a blow job. Every time is a challenge -- of wit, of stamina, of precision, of technique. Very few tasks test a woman's talents as much as a blow job. Can I make it better than the last? How much can I make him groan before he cums? I want to be the best. Everytime.
There are no surprises on him in this area. I'm comfortable with what I'm working with and a hunger for him to be in my mouth grows rapidly inside me. He's smooth and virile. I'm careful to be cognizant of how drunk I am. I mind my teeth, just like a good girl should. I run my tongue up and down, moaning just slightly. I curve my hand around him, delicately; stroking him with the tips of my fingers ever so slightly. I'm turned on. I put my mouth on him gently at first, then bring my lips together. I listen for what he likes; when his breathing is hard and quickens. When he tries for words but can't get them out. These are the parts I love the best. I'm desperate to see what comes next.
Imagine a little boy, about 5 or 6, who has just seen a dog and gets extremely excited and wide-eyed at the sight of it. He runs up to the dog, and you know what's coming. He takes his hand back, open palmed, and brings it forth toward the gentle creature in this "I AM GOING TO PET YOU OH SO HARD" kind of way. And you, the responsible party, have to step in quickly and shout "NO! GENTLE! We pet, gennnntle" and forcefully take the boy's hand and show it how to pet the dog gently.
What came next was exactly like that.
He pushes hard with his fingers, and at first I like it. At first. I enjoy it. Firm and purposeful. He doesn't know it but I love that he pushes hard. But then it quickly becomes painful. Purpose is lost and there is just pure aggression and exploration without focus. The thin line between forceful pleasure and pain is breached. It all becomes jarringly painful. Suddenly this hookup is more of a contest of speed and strength than anything sexual. He couldn't get his hands inside me fast enough. He pushed inside of me with the vigor of a sixteen-year-old boy.
With foreplay and an adequate warm up, I love things rough. The more I'm into it the farther I'll let you take it, especially if you command me to go along. I long for him to pull my hair and whisper close to my ear what he desires, but instead he just pushes more. The aggression in his fingers is sobering. The probing hurts. I sit up rapidly and grab the sides of his shoulders, hard. His fingers still inside me. I dig my fingers into his flesh so hard he gasps.
"What did you expect?" I asked, slightly annoyed. "I'm only responding to your force" I try to say this as demurely as I can, wincing from pain. I'm only responding to you jamming your fingers inside of me, jerk. I have a solution.
"Go down on me, " I whisper. I lay back, pulling his fingers out of me. I breathe hard as my head falls against the pillow. I can see my breasts swell up and down as I stare down at him.
He sits back. Sighs. "I only do that with girls I'm dating," he states as a matter of fact.
"What?" I shot back. I'm peeved. "You're kidding, right? That's pretty ballsy for someone who just demanded a blow job."
I don't remember what his exact response was, I was in such shock. Does it truly matter? There is no legitimate response. Whatever it was, it was complete bullshit. Who the fuck demands a blow job and then responds to reciprocating with THAT?
I should have stopped there, but the alcohol swirled in my brain and I needed him inside of me.
Despite my frustration and the quick dismissal of any thought of his tongue between my legs, I continue. I don't know which one of my brain cells told me "well if he's absolutely horrendous at fingering you, then go to sex. The sex will be better." If I am ever able to have a doctor locate that brain cell I will have it lasered.
It gets to the sex point. I reach into my nightstand for a condom. I hand it to him. I lay back. Take me. Enter me.
He sits back again, looks down on me.
"Yeah... I don't really like condoms."
OVER IT. He can't see it, but my jaw drops. I thought it couldn't get worse. It has. I adamantly reply, "well, then, we're not having sex." What did he think was going to happen, that I was going to fuck him without a condom? He wouldn't go down on me but I'm supposed to take him inside of me without a condom?
Why I allowed things to progress after this is beyond me. I can't entirely blame the Ketel, nor my revenge, nor Dude-I-am-Hung-Up-On, but I want to. Yes, we used a condom -- that was non-negotiable, but at this point I was so turned off that the sex was unavoidably painful. Though a step up from the ramming -- I mean, fingering -- it won't surprise you that the sex was forgettable, though thankfully it wasn't of the jack hammer nature. I cut it off quickly due to discomfort. I feigned exhaustion. We laid there, both breathing heavily.
"I should go," he said.
Yes, you should. "Ok." I said, longing to have my bed to myself.
I didn't even get out of bed to see him off. I don't even think I opened my eyes to watch him close my bedroom door.
The next day, in addition to a solid hangover and lingering pain I received the following text:
"How ya doin'? Were you able to get out of bed? Lol ;P"
"I've been in a haze all fucking day lol"
"I just wanna sleep"
I replied, "Gotta step up your game, Aaron." I allowed him to interpret.
"I think I'm doing a bang-up job, while half awake, boss."
Bang up job. Yup. That sums it up. Perfectly, in fact.
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