Thursday, March 21, 2013

Sex, Love and Brooklyn: Ass-Play and Other Things

Posted By on Thu, Mar 21, 2013 at 1:28 PM

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The other night I met someone at a birthday party and seduced him. He was dead sexy: a blonde wearing cowboy boots. (Sidenote: I’m beginning to realize through this column I have a thing for blondes.)  When we got home, the sex was not hot—lukewarm at best. Whatever position we tried, he kept falling out of me. When this happens once, you think, “Whatever, it’s just bodies being weird and not fitting together exactly right.  Nobody’s perfect.” When it happens over and over, you both start to feel insecure. I kept thinking my vagina had finally stretched out, even though I believe this is a horrible myth designed to make women feel even worse about ourselves. He started to get anxious and kept saying he was sorry.  “Sorry," of course, is the least sexy word. It is very hard to come back after "sorry."

While I was on top, I felt him get just a little bit softer, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I got off him. Not one to go without a fight though, I went downtown. He started to make some noise, and I thought, “We’re getting somewhere.” I noticed he really loved it when I licked his balls, and inched closer to his taint. I slipped a finger into his butt and his body began to writhe. That’s when I made the executive decision to eat out his asshole. Bam. Boom. Fireworks.

I make no apologies for MTA (mouth-to-ass) play. I don’t think it’s gross, and rim jobs feel great. Moreover, I love discovering what flips people’s switch. For me the best part of having sex with someone new is finding out how weird they are. Some folks want their brown star shined, others want to pretend they’re your personal toothbrush and lick your teeth clean. The scope of desire is wide and deep, just like the ocean.  

But this story is not about kinks. It’s about what happened after the sex: Pillow talk. Blonde cowboy and I chatted up a storm. It was amazing. We told each other our “special date” anecdotes—the ones you save for the people you really want to impress. I have a story that screams, “Look at me, I’m vulnerable, self-deprecating,  hilarious, and the absolute best mix of sexy and cute.”  It’s my lucky charm, and I’ve got the delivery down pat.  He laughed loudly at all the right places, he gave me compliments, and in the morning he made me breakfast. While we were eating in bed, he told me about how he got his scar on his forehead. When he was seven, he walked into a sliding glass door. I was smitten. We stayed in bed for another hour just looking at each other. I was on a cloud as I walked out. It wasn’t until about two blocks later when I realized we never exchanged phone numbers.    

The night had only been about the (mostly) ho-hum sex. The intellectual connection (if there had been one at all) was a bonus. There would be no follow up for dinner, dessert, or even a movie. I was devastated.  

I have never been the type of girl who would subscribe to any sort of relationship “rules” scenario. By “rules” I mean The Rules, the dating book written in the 90’s by two women named Ellen and Sheri. It’s essentially a lifestyle that requires you to play hard to get in order to snag a husband. It's for women who love rom-coms and J. Crew.

There are 35 rules. The one I have the most trouble with is "No More than Casual Kissing on the First Date." I’ve always felt you should be yourself and do what you want, and if that includes a roll in the hay so be it. But after my last one-night encounter I felt something funny. I think it was shame. And then I felt a double dose of it because I’d allowed myself, my empowered self, to feel any shame at all.

But if I’m being totally honest, the embarrassment came from the fact that I was expecting more. I wasn’t having sex with this guy in order to rope him into a relationship, but I was confusing being sexually open with also being emotionally intimate. Sometimes pillow talk doesn’t have any meaning beyond the pillowcase.

In an anti “rules” lifestyle, I’ve tried putting the cart before the horse, the orgasm before the conversation, and, well, it hasn’t been working out for me. We now live in a world where the opportunities to hook up seem endless. Which makes it harder to tell what’s really going on. I often want to ask, “Are we just having sex, or are we sharing something else here too? I don’t really mind either way, but I’d like to know beforehand so I can adjust my outlook on the situation.” Maybe dating before sex has nothing to do with feminism or some sort of relationship grifting, but comes down to practicality. It’s awkward to sixty-nine with someone, then put all your clothes back on and try to have a conversation about national debt. I’m learning that you can’t eat out someone’s asshole and then expect to share a plate of linguine later on.

Follow Lacy on Twitter @Laceoface.

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