Sex, Love, and Brooklyn: When Great Sex Leads to Absolutely Nothing

07/22/2013 9:45 AM |

Pet rats are totally steam punk. This is not really a good thing.
  • Pet rats are totally steam punk. This is not really a good thing.

A few weeks ago I had amazing sex. I would have even gone so far as to say it was up in my all-time top ten. But it’s hard for me to give him a secure place right now, actually, because I’m still mad at him. The thing is, even though there’s no denying that I physically had a good time, I didn’t even like this guy that much. He is the kind of guy who is a master at “mansplaining,” and he didn’t have a sense of humor about himself at all. Case in point, when I told him his pet rat was “steam punk” he took it as a compliment. He also talked endlessly in a highly affected academic way that is just not natural, and he never reciprocated any of the questions I asked him. He even interrupted me a couple of times, and didn’t seem to notice when I never went back to my original story. Regardless, he was dead sexy, and that counts for a lot.

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At one point in the evening he lifted his shirt up to show me a tattoo he gave himself in college and the brief view of his hip bone poking out over his belt buckle was enough for me to continue the ruse that I really cared about his antique typewriter. Which, why must there always be either a typewriter or a record player? (Or in this guy’s case, both!) We went into his room and he walked me around the tiny space showing me his valuables just like he was one of the 7-year-old boys I babysit for. But then we laid down in bed, and he completely changed. Gone was the insecure emo-guy, seemingly unsure of his place in the world, and next to me was a man—a full blown, confident, I-know-how-to-give-pleasure-because-I-understand-how-to-receive-it man. When I came, everything went black, and tiny little red polka dots flooded my vision. Afterward, heaped together in a cloud of sweat and pheromones, he turned to me and said, “Looks like that kissing thing worked out.”

I still couldn’t believe what had happened.

“Yeah, the kissing wasn’t so bad either,” I managed to say.

But—and why is there always a but?—he eventually blew me off. This is the hard part to navigate, right? I didn’t want to be this guy’s girlfriend. Honest! He’s destined to be with a lady who has an MS in library science, green hair, and wants to write a graphic novel about sleeping with her mother’s best friend. All I wanted was to see red polka dots a couple more times before things fizzled out naturally. He jumped the gun on the fizzling out part. Moreover though, it very much disturbed me that maybe his experience wasn’t as intense as mine. Can two people fuck and one person think it was earth shattering and the other think it was on par with good TV on a Sunday night?

This hot and cold business has become an uncomfortable pattern in my recent dating trajectory. Over and over, these dudes get really hot about me, texting, telling me “they want a tender moment,” and then when I give up the fight they drop off the face of the earth. And after this last ultra-confusing experience, I had to try to determine what this was all about.

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