The One - No one said it would be easy

by Goldsmith, J. F.

  Number Nine and I may not have been on the same wavelength with regard to olfactory preferences, but we were with regard to everything else. Things were eerily familiar between us, sometimes almost as though we were siblings. When we went out together, neither of us ever got to flirt with anyone else – everyone assumed we were a couple. In summer, we went on outings together. I had no problem lying next to him by the lake, soaking up the sun toplessly and cuddling up against him, practically naked. We often hugged and sometimes we held hands. Once, on a journey, we even shared the same bed and I fell asleep in his arms, all warm and comfortable. It never occurred to either of us that there might be anything more. Everything was perfect just the way it was. He had just split up with his girlfriend and I had just split up with Number Five. We had both had it with relationships, so to speak.

  Of course, every so often the question arose just how far we could take this and what might happen if, but we never took it all the way. Until that evening. Summer break. Both of us out on the town again. This time we wellied it up some, aided and abetted by lots of alcohol. Dancing together, the atmosphere between us grew more and more scorching. Our dancing was lascivious, most exciting. After sharing a giant cocktail meant for four people and hitting a few more clubs, we staggered back to my place. I had no doubt that Number Nine would stay with me, he was so drunk I wouldn’t have let him walk anywhere by himself if he’d tried.

  Which is how we ended up cuddled together in my bed. I couldn’t sleep. All that alcohol and all that heat between us. Suddenly, I felt really randy for him and so I asked what would he do if I were to start seducing him. He whispered that he would probably melt with lust. That was all right then! We got started immediately. Number Nine had a beautiful wiry athletic body that I loved to touch. His smell, though, still bothered me. I simply didn’t like it. Which was why we didn’t kiss. It was the only time I ever had sex without kissing. A new kind of experience. We tried to get going, he was well aroused and very well endowed. He had a picture book Greek cock. Perfect size. And completely shaven. Another thing I’d never before seen on a man. We managed to reach the in-and-out stage, but after a while our strength deserted us. Somehow, we couldn’t quite manage to turn our immediate lust for something new and unknown into lustful action. Also, everything had started to spin around me, the merciless effects of all that alcohol.

  Apparently it was like that for him, too, and by mutual agreement we stopped and fell asleep, snuggled together. What was astonishing is how entirely relaxed I was throughout. Even this miserably failed attempt at having sex was perfectly familiar and not remotely embarrassing. I didn’t feel ashamed and I didn’t worry at all whether this would wreck our friendship. It wouldn’t – I was sure of that, especially since I knew that I wasn’t in love with him, which drastically reduced the potential for emotional disasters. When we woke up next to each other in the morning, we burst out laughing. We made a lot of fun of one another and our miserable attempt at sex. And that was that. We resumed our relaxed and easy friendship just where we’d left off, without bitchiness or drama. If anything, after sharing this bizarre experience it was even more intense than before.

  Some years later, during my one year of singleness, we tried again. Again, we’d spent a brilliant evening together, went out for a really posh dinner, drank lots of wine and, for dessert, went back to his place and a nice fat joint. Which reliably rocketed our sexual excitement sky-high. We sank into his waterbed and, drug enhanced as we were, let the music draw us in. We even kissed this time, but the problem with the smell was still there and I just couldn’t really get into the mood. Of course you have to ask yourself again why you’d want to do things when you already know that they won’t lead anywhere. Not a clue. Maybe you just like to keep chancing it.

  Anyway – this time we had real sex. Not that easy in a waterbed, but we managed surprisingly well, even different positions. Sadly, I was so doped up that after a while everything began to spin and it became strenuous rather than lustful. He came, I didn’t. I spent the remainder of the night hanging over the toilet bowl, freezing my butt off. Too much wine, too much joint. And somehow the thought that the sex thing had been entirely unnecessary. Luckily Number Nine didn’t ask any questions and, comfortable as ever, we eventually snuggled up together and fell asleep. When he started to fiddle about on me again in the morning, I gently but firmly moved him away and that was the end of the matter.

  We’re still friends. Very good friends. And, as ever, things are wonderful and relaxed. But I sincerely hope that, in future, we’ll keep well away from all experiments of a sexual nature. After all, we’ve tried it often enough now!

  Number Ten: The asshole, this time me

  Writing about Number Ten is hard for me. It was a long time ago, but my stomach still cramps up whenever I think of him, and I have a terrible feeling of guilt that just won’t go away. Number Ten is one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met. And what do I do? I screw things up time and again. I lie and I cheat like crazy. I cheated on Number Ten nearly six times. Why? I have no idea. I thought I could just keep taking whatever I wanted, without any consideration for the one person who had given me the most valuable gift of all: his heart.

  The thing with Number Ten started rather without me intending it to. It happened right in the middle of the final thrashings of my separation from Number Five. In fact, I had a crush on someone else all together at the time: Mister X. And Number Ten was part of Mister X’s crowd. Mister X wasn’t remotely interested in me and I was soul-crunchingly frustrated, destroyed and disappointed. All in all, I was entirely out of it during that time, no longer in love with Number Five who was all the more in love with me, me on the other hand wildly in love with Mister X who had no designs on me whatsoever. That’s how it sometimes goes in the chaotic market place of love. And suddenly, right there amongst all that chaos, there was Number Ten.

  I’d always thought he was cute, but I’d really only noticed him because I thought he was so funny. And now, suddenly, that funny young man was interested in me and I, completely out of my depth with all the heartache shit going on, I just let him. I went on dates with Number Ten and it was nice. There wasn’t any erotic tension for me, no butterflies in my stomach. It was like meeting up with an old friend. I couldn’t possibly imagine having sex with Number Ten. But it happened, of course. We kissed. Maybe I thought that would make sparks fly, at long last. No such luck. Even during the first kiss I thought, “oh hell, now what have you gotten yourself into again.” He was a terrible kisser. It wasn’t disgusting like with the crumbly-mouthed dope head. It simply wasn’t any good. Maybe that was largely due to the absence of butterflies in my stomach. And, as is the normal course of events, a bit of kissing is followed by a bit of sex. It was no different this time. Although, truth be told, I didn’t really feel like it. So why did I go through with it? No idea. I really don’t know. I was so out of my tree with everything, I didn’t want to have to think about whether this was good or not, I just let it all happen. I was quite sure that, some way or another, I’d get out of it again.

  Our first attempt at sex was a failure. He couldn’t get it up. This had never happened to me before. And I had no idea how to handle it. What do you say? And why does it happen? Is it my fault or did he maybe feel inhibited? Comforting him and whispering a compassionate oh-that-can-happen-to-anyone would surely make it even more frustrating for the poor droopy-rodded victim. We tried it a few more times but each time, the same thing. Number Ten was visibly embarrassed. He didn’t make any comment. He didn’t know how to handle the situation either. I interpreted his failure as pure excitement and fear of not doing right by me. Some failed attempts later, I ran out of patience. I just grabbed a hold of him, got going rigorously and without further ado, and before he could react, I’d imposed myself upon him, so to speak. I simply bowled him over. All that understanding and pity stuff got us nowhere, if anything it made it more embarrassing for him. But after my sex attack he was where th
e action was and he didn’t have any choice other than to join in and remain upstanding. No room for fearful thoughts! And that put paid to the droopiness once and for all.

  Number Ten and I were together for some years. Our relationship was harmonious and full of fun. He was very sweet and, although he walked about like a mischievous Huckleberry Finn, he in fact had a very mature personality. There was a deep calmness about him and he approached everybody with a big heart and a generosity I had never experienced before. In spite of the doubts I felt in the beginning, I very much fell in love with him. But in spite of all that, what was missing was the feeling of having reached him. That, and passion. All was harmonious, clean, cute. Even the sex.

  But sadly, sex and cute don’t really go all that well together. We had sex, lots of sex and very good sex, even extraordinary sex (at 11 degrees centigrade in a lonely bay with the surf thundering in, for example) and I almost always came. For a long time, it did turn me on, but in spite of all that, it was never really “hot” or wonderfully kinky and wicked, the way you’d want sex to be. He never let go, even during sex he remained the good little boy, clean and nice and decent, and he never lost his composure. He didn’t moan or groan or say anything and his eyes were always shut. Sometimes I wondered whether he even really noticed me. It’s hard to adequately describe how it was, sex with Number Ten. In a particular kind of a way it was very good, but also very strange.

  Technically speaking, the sex was entirely satisfactory. But I was always left with a perplexed and dissatisfied feeling in my belly. Sex with him was always at a distance, with the handbrake on, lukewarm. I often felt that he didn’t really want to, or maybe didn’t really dare, but would do it anyway because maybe he thought that’s what I expected of him. Number Ten and I never talked about sex. And because he was so terribly nice and cute, the whole sex thing didn’t even really suit him. It didn’t feel right. Almost as though you were seducing your beloved little brother into having sex with you. Sometimes I really wondered: “Were we siblings in a previous life, or why the hell do I always feel kind of vaguely not good when I have sex with him?” Number Ten was small and compact and his body was cute, too. I was absolutely besotted with Number Ten and how cute he was, I even thought his feet were cute. And his cock (just using that term in connection with Number Ten feels uncomfortable because it simply doesn’t fit – but neither does any other term; the whole thing with Number Ten is kind of jinxed) was cute too. Back then I was certain that he had the most beautiful cock in the world. And yet, even being endowed with such a beautiful specimen couldn’t make up for me feeling “just not turned on”. Number Ten and sex just didn’t go together, at least not for me and not the way I’d imagined.

  Back then I couldn’t possibly admit this to myself, of course. I had put Number Ten on a pedestal of cuteness. He delighted me, I was very much in love with him. We had a deep and meaningful relationship, but with hindsight I know that’s not enough. The secret of a good relationship is a mixture of intimate friendship and lust – that’s pop-psychology for couples, part one. Without lust, it’s just a question of time before the whole thing comes crashing down. Relationships without sex are a load of nonsense. Couples who haven’t had sex in months or years are kidding themselves. It does not work, period! Kidding yourself is incredibly easy and can keep you going for quite a few years – I know this for a fact, having had several years of it with Number Ten. I kept thinking he is perfect for me, I could imagine a brilliant future with babies and everything, the whole nine yards.

  Our relationship was perfect. No fights, lots of fun, one hundred percent harmony. And so I totally blocked out the obvious little sex problem, I kept coming up with all sort of reasons why this was a minor issue. After all, you can’t have everything, right? And sex is completely overrated anyway, right? And after a few years together, no couple on the planet still rolls around on the matrimonial double bed, randy and intoxicated with lust, right? So it doesn’t really matter all that much that the sex factor isn’t right. That’s what I thought. But it does matter. Especially when the sex factor hasn’t been right from the start. What follows now sounds like the feeble excuse of an even sillier cow: maybe that was the real reason why, with Number Ten, I felt I had to cheat as much as I possibly could. Get those missing sexual kicks elsewhere. And so I betrayed Number Ten almost six times. With Number Eleven – didn’t get busted. With Number Twelve – didn’t get busted either. With Numbers Thirteen and Fourteen – got busted both times. With Number Fifteen – didn’t get busted. And with Number Sixteen – got busted, was the final straw and ended my relationship with Number Ten for good. Number Ten and I have had no contact since. When by some fluke we run into each other in the city, I completely freeze. I am still so totally ashamed of everything, all I want to do is burst into tears. I am so very sorry.

  All I really wanted out of all those affairs was this: reassurance. Number Ten displayed the same reserve and distance with regard to expressing his feelings for me as he did in bed. Namely, he expressed nearly nothing. That’s what it felt like to me. In the very beginning of our relationship he once have me a self-made little love gift that was absolutely darling, including his message on the card. He sang songs on my answering machine when I was out. So why could I, silly cow that I was, not be happy with that? He was doing everything I had ever wished for. But when his efforts lessened after a few weeks, I didn’t like it. Like parking meters, women want to be fed around the clock, only instead of cents they require little portions of love. If only we had talked back then, about what we expected from a relationship and how we saw things develop, I’m sure we could have avoided quite a few misunderstandings.

  Two beings, newly in love, will need to settle into the relationship, learn to understand what the other needs and expects. A relationship isn’t a plug-and-play gadget that works without a hitch, even without a manual. It’s up to us to explain to the other what our expectations are of loving and living together. We may even have to find this out for ourselves first. Obviously, there’s no need for a heavy-duty relationship-drama-queen performance during a first date, but establishing a certain framework for the relationship and finding out some basic information about the other’s emotional state makes living together a lot easier. Sadly, in my early twenties I had no concept of this. I thought it was unnerving and naff to talk about it. And I assumed that everybody would love the same way I did. And since I’d always found it pleasant and easy to wear my heart on my sleeve, I automatically expected the same thing from my beloved. I wanted him to tell me that he loved me, and that he thought I was wonderful and beautiful and fantastic, I needed to hear this 24/7.

  Naturally, this was also an indication of the state of my ego back then: I was addicted to reassurance. And since Number Ten was extremely restrained with regard to articulating his feelings for me, I was miffed. And the nasty little devil on my shoulder whispered stuff like “See, he doesn’t even love you!” in my ear. Which was all the justification I needed for cheating. Obviously, stupid Number Ten didn’t love me, so why shouldn’t I go and find a bit of light relief elsewhere? That’s how easy it is to make the world fit your own little plans!

  However, things were very different for Number Ten. Number Ten was a man of action. And by now I am well aware that what counts isn’t words but action and nothing but action. Stupid as I was back then, I had no comprehension of this. All I wanted back then was a Hollywood-style romance with overblown corny protestations of love. Number Ten deeply loved me, right from the start, but I didn’t see it until we had parted. He just didn’t constantly make a big fuss about it. He was with me and as far as he was concerned, that was enough to prove his love. His motto was: I want to fall in love just once in my life, and I want it to last forever. He modeled himself after his parents who’d been happily married for umpteen years with never a cloud to darken their happiness. And so, quietly and without upheaval, he gave me his heart, because I was it, his one and only. But since it happened so quietly,
I missed it. If we had talked about it, I’d have told him that I’d needed a little bit more princess-type romance, and if he’d told me that I was his one and only princess, we could have shared how we felt about love and expressions of love. And maybe, if we had ever managed to talk about sex, that nasty little devil on my shoulder would have had to keep his mouth shut. But hindsight is always 20/20...

  Number Eleven: Screwed sore

  I had in effect only just started out with Number Ten. About five months before. However, Number Ten had gone to spend his spring break with his family. And poor little left-over me, I spent my nights pub-crawling with my friend, having fun, dancing, having a bit of a drink followed by staggering home, completely blotto. Never more than that, of course. Naturally. One night my friend and I went to this swish club in a park in the centre of a British city. Very cool, very stylish, lots of beautiful people. That night I felt irresistible, fantastically self-confident, with ants in my pants forcing me on the dance floor where I gave my all. They had great party music, none of that boring pseudo-cool house-lounge-chill-sleepy-snorey stuff that nobody can dance to, but real proper party music that you’d consign to the “no way!” bin under normal circumstances but, when it’s blasting out at you, propels you to the dance floor. I’m talking about tracks like “Time of my life”, “Sing Hallelujah”, “Dr. Beat”, “Bad” and so on. The club was in a villa and accordingly ostentatious and glamorous: white staircase, marble sculptures, marble pedestals, stone floor. Not that you could see much of it, the place was packed to bursting.