How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel

by Sorgen, Monique

  He smiles sweetly at me, and my heart turns to mush. This is getting to be a very predictable pattern with us.

  Chapter 15

  The table is set for a candlelit dinner for two. The food is being kept warm in the oven. John is going to be here any moment, and I’m running around like a mad woman, trying to hide the fact that I’m a naturally messy person. Was he right? Does my messiness mean that I don’t respect myself? Or does it just mean that I’m too lazy—or rather too busy—to clean up all the time? I mean let’s face it, even if you spend two whole hours scrubbing and cleaning and putting everything in its place, it only takes about fifteen minutes before you need to use the things you just tucked away so neatly, and then it all instantly returns to disarray.

  I live in a standard one-bedroom apartment, where the bathroom is in the bedroom, and the kitchen and living room are only separated by a counter top. It’s basically just two large rooms. It shouldn’t be that hard to keep clean. But the smaller your place is, the less room you have to store things. And things just have a way of piling up!

  The phone rings, it’s Lacey. I don’t have time to talk, but I want to run some thoughts about this date by her, so I pick up.

  “Hey.”

  “I can’t believe you gave Marty my real number! Now he won’t stop calling me. I couldn’t figure out a way to blow him off, so I agreed to go to his book signing tomorrow. But you’re not off the hook, you’re coming with me! That way he’ll know it’s not a date… Maybe I’m just too nice.”

  While she talks I have time to smell some of the bras I have airing out on my doorknobs. It’s kind of a gross habit, but bras are expensive and fragile, which means that you can’t wash them too often or they’ll fall apart, and when they do you’ll have to pony up the cash for new ones, which may not fit as well, or make your breasts look as nice in clothes. One might advise me to simply buy the same bra again, but one who gave that advice might not realize that fashion designers stay in business by regularly discontinuing everything good that they make, in exchange for something new and different. The only real solution is to buy like 20 of them at once, but that would be a few hundred dollars investment, and eventually you’ll still wear them all out, and be stuck having to find a new style that you can live with. I’m not into it, so I try to go longer between washes by hanging them on doorknobs to air them out. Anyway, these bras smell fine, so I put them back in the drawer.

  I also have another semi-gross trick I use for when I’m having company but don’t have the time to fully clean up. I hide all of the clothes strewn about my room in the living room closet. Some of them are clean, some of them are dirty, and some of them have been worn briefly, so not dirty enough to wash, and not clean enough to put back in the closet. I don’t have the time to figure out what’s what, right now, so I shove it all in there. I’m aware that the bedroom closet would probably be closest and therefore more convenient, but it’s stuffed to the brink already. I have too many clothes. Or maybe my closet is too small. Yeah, that’s probably more likely what the problem is.

  “I’m available tomorrow. No problem,” I respond.

  “Good. Because this is your fault.”

  Obviously it’s not, but I don’t have time to debate that right now. I have to get to the point.

  “John is on his way over, and I think I’m gonna sleep with him tonight.”

  “No! It’s too soon. You can’t yet.”

  “But you said the third date was okay.”

  “When did I say that?”

  “On my birthday.”

  “No, I didn’t. I hardly talked to you that night. You spent the whole time with John—if that’s really his name. I still think you already knew him and that whole charade about bumping into each other was just some story you guys made up so that you could pretend to meet him on the night before your 30th.”

  Oh, that’s right, Lacey wouldn’t remember telling me about the third date rule, because that was on the birthday that got erased.

  “But I don’t think I can wait much longer. I’m so into him.”

  “Exactly. The more into him you are, the more you have to wait. It’s called manipulation!”

  “But I don’t want to manipulate him into liking me.”

  “Fine. Do it your way, but don’t come crying to me when you sleep with him and he never calls you again.”

  “Do you really think he would do that? You saw how attentive he was to me.”

  “Well, he did seem really into you, but he’s still a guy, and they’re squirrelly! You just don’t know how they’re going to act from one day to the next.”

  I notice that the dishes I compiled cooking dinner aren’t done, but I don’t have time to do them. Plus, the dirty dishwater might splatter on my silk blouse and then I’ll have to change. No, I definitely can’t do that; this outfit took me days to pick out. I put the dirty dishes in the dish rack with the clean ones, which I haven’t put away yet, and take the whole thing to the closet, where I rest it on top of the clothing pile I just put in there, which is already on top of the semi-dirty towels, sheets, and rags that I didn’t have time to wash before this date. I’m embarrassed to say that the pile of clean and dirty junk in my closet is already half as tall as I am.

  “Well if you don’t know how they’re going to act from one day to the next anyway, you may as well do the thing you feel like doing, right?” I’m aware that I’m basically begging her to give me the go-ahead.

  “You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do, so why are you asking for my permission?”

  The doorbell rings.

  “Oh my God, he’s here. I’ve gotta go!” I hang up and suddenly realize that I’m nervous.

  “Coming!” I call toward the door, as I run in the opposite direction from it to give myself the once over in the mirror. Okay. I look okay. I’m not wearing any shoes. Right, I left them by the door.

  I run back toward the door, but take a quick detour through the open kitchen to put back a shot of chocolate liqueur, in hopes of numbing my adrenaline-filled nerves before embarking on this scary high stakes date. I put the bottle away though, because he doesn’t need to know about it.

  I slip into my high heels, breathe deep, smile, and open the door.

  Damn is he hot.

  He kisses me. Yowza. I don’t think kissing a man this sexy will ever grow old.

  I’m already breathy as I tell him to come in.

  He looks around the place and immediately comments, “I like how clean you keep the place.” Point one Samantha.

  “Thanks. It’s always like this.” God I feel dirty when I lie, but never more so than when I lie about being clean.

  John licks his lips, “You taste like—“

  “Chocolate?” I quickly offer.

  “I was gonna say liquor, actually.” Busted. Minus one point Samantha. I decide to come clean.

  “Yeah, that’s a little trick I learned in college to calm the nerves. You know before a test, or a business meeting—just kidding. I don’t usually drink at work—unless, of course, there’s peer-pressure… Or free champagne.”

  He continues smiling, as he always does, but he doesn’t laugh at my attempt at self-deprecating humor.

  “I thought you didn’t drink?”

  Oh, damn it! I covered for one lie while forgetting about the other. This is why I shouldn’t lie.

  “Right…” Time for more clean-coming. “Truth is, I just wanted to stay sober the night we met, because I knew I liked you, and I didn’t want to lose control and have sex with you prematurely. Sorry I lied. But it was for a good cause.”

  His smile goes all the way back into the center of his warm blue eyes.

  “So that means you’re nervous around me?”

  “What? —Oh, because of the shot?” I am just giving myself away left and right here tonight. I am momentarily speechless and awkward. John must have picked up on it, because he changes the subject, for which I am internally grateful.

  “Dinner sm
ells great,” he announces, reminding me to go get the food and bring it to the table.

  “Thanks. I hope you like French food. Personally, it’s my favorite.”

  “Really? Me, too!” John exclaims, not surprising me with this information that I had already acquired on our first date, and am currently using to lure him into my web of destiny.

  “How does this keep happening to us?” I concur, as I join him at the table. “We have so much in common!”

  John takes a bite of my Coq au Vin, which I practiced making so many times since the day he asked to come over, that I can hardly stand the thought of eating it again.

  “Mmmm,” he moans, “I certainly wouldn’t mind eating like this all the time!”

  Expressions like “all the time,” make me so happy when they come from his mouth. This whole experience is sooo the opposite of when he didn’t call me after sex! I’m starting to think it really does matter how long you wait.

  “I’m glad you knew you liked me from the moment you saw me,” he continues, being romantic.

  “Did I say that?” Oh, right, I did, when I was explaining why I didn’t drink. “Yeah, see, that’s just cuz this other time, I did drink, and did stuff I regretted, and—well I—I should shut up now.” I really should shut up now.

  “It’s not a big deal. You had a one night stand.”

  He thinks he’s consoling me about someone else, doesn’t he? Well that’s awkward.

  “Anyway it wasn’t exactly a one night stand. I mean, we ended up seeing each other again through…” Right, how do I explain this one? Through magic? You could say luck… “San Francisco’s not that big.”

  “Tell me about it. When we first broke up, I used to run into my ex-wife everywhere. She probably thought I was stalking her.”

  “Were you?” I tease, a little too grateful that the awkwardness is focused back on his behavior and not mine.

  “How do we always end up talking about her? Let’s talk about you. Are you drinking tonight?” he taunts, holding up the bottle of wine, I stupidly opened and placed on the table.

  “Considering you’ve already smelled liquor on my breath, not drinking now would make me seem like a liar.” More of a liar is what I’m really thinking.

  He laughs at me adorably, as he pours the wine into my glass. Oh, yeah. I’m in trouble.

  Turns out, drinking only makes us both more fun to be around. We crack each other up all night, and the conversation flows almost as quickly as the wine does. I’m feeling totally relaxed, and like everything is happening exactly as it’s meant to. As a bit of a control freak, it’s a rare occasion for me to just go with the flow and be in the moment like this. But hours are passing like minutes, and before we know it, the bottle is empty, our stomachs are full, and all I can think about is how glad I am that this is our third date, and I can finally revisit that glorious naked body of his for the first time.

  “Hey, this being drunk thing of yours, isn’t half-bad,” he says, still teasing me about my earlier fib.

  Then, as if I’ve perfectly timed dinner to my iTunes play list, Les Nubians “spontaneously” comes out of my speakers. John looks shocked.

  “Is that Les Nubians? You know this is from my favorite album of all time?” he asks, not thinking for a second that he introduced me to this little known group, after which I downloaded all their music, so that I could feel closer to him, by listening to it on repeat. He’s right though. It’s not torture. They are very good.

  “No way! I just had my iPod on random.” And by “random” I, of course, mean that I programmed a variety of unrelated songs so that it would appear to be random when this one came on.

  “We have to dance!” he exclaims, as he drunkenly jumps out of his chair, and leads me by the hand to the living room, which is in the same room, about three feet away from the dining room table.

  Yes! I finally get to press his body against mine. I love being here, in his arms. This blissful feeling lasts about ten seconds, until he swings me around—probably because I’d told him I was into salsa—I lose my balance, and I fall toward the floor, taking John down with me. But all hope is not lost! On the way down, I grab the closet doorknob in a futile attempt to avert the fall, and instead, end up opening the closet door from which every dirty dish and piece of laundry I’ve hidden from him falls in a crash to the floor, on top of us. Awkward, awkward, awkward.

  I try to make light of it, “Well… I guess you’ve learned more about me tonight than I maybe would’ve cared for.“

  He just laughs, rolls on top of me, and kisses me gently, “I think we need dancing lessons.”

  We both laugh, and the subsequent longing I see in his eyes matches the way I feel. It’s a powerful urge to get lost in his world, and let everything else melt away.

  We kiss slowly and lovingly for what seems like twenty minutes, stopping every now and then to communicate through our gazes just how happy we are to be right here, right now.

  Eventually though, as can never be helped, it gets more passionate and urgent and animalistic. He takes off my blouse and then his own shirt. Oh, I love his smooth, nearly hairless bare chest. We kiss faster and harder as he takes off my skirt and his pants. Before I know it, we are in our skivvies, and I realize that this is about to happen. I want it so bad, and I’m about to throw caution to the wind when Lacey’s voice resonates in my head, “Fine. Do it your way, but don’t come crying to me when you sleep with him and he never calls you again.”

  What if she’s right? I couldn’t handle that again. Especially now that we’ve taken the time to get to know each other so much more. I have to stop. I have to stop myself. I have to stop him.

  “Wait!” He stops and seems concerned. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this yet.”

  He smiles at me affectionately, “That’s okay. We don’t have to make love.”

  You see, Lacey, he does care about me. And I trust him. That’s the thing about John, he just makes me feel so completely accepted and understood. Whenever I’m with him, I just feel so good about who I am.

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  “Of course… Come here.” He pulls me in closer to him and kisses my nose, then my forehead. He smiles lovingly into my eyes. He squeezes me tightly, and when he releases we start kissing again.

  It starts slowly, but quickly builds back up to where we left off, and soon, he is kissing my neck, my chest, my breasts—through my bra. Before long he is kissing my stomach, and slowly making his way to my inner thighs. I’m so turned on by this teasing that my pelvis moves uncontrollably toward his mouth. He takes my unconscious cues and begins kissing and licking me everywhere.

  I should know better. Oral sex for me is the point of no return. I lose all control of what I should and shouldn’t do once it’s initiated, and before I know it, I have given him the okay, and we are making love.

  I feel intense and out of control, like he could do anything to me right now and it would feel right. My emotions are overwhelming me. Thankfully, he doesn’t take advantage of my vulnerability. He simply peers into my eyes, pulls my body into his, and makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

  When it’s over, we relax in each other’s arms, and he caresses me. This feels so good, but I wasn’t expecting it, after we agreed not to. I just hope that Lacey was wrong. It would kill me if this all went away again. And I hate that I don’t get to decide. It’s all on him now. He seems hooked. He seems like he’s all in. No, he won’t pull that shit again.

  “I know a place that does lessons on Saturdays?” John says with his face still buried in our embrace. “You wanna go?”

  My smile grows so wide that I blush at how transparent I must be. Thankfully, he can’t see me, because his face is still nuzzled in my neck, which he kisses lovingly.

  We’ve scheduled our next date. The plan to wait longer worked!

  Chapter 16

  The next day I am walking on a cloud. Even as Lacey drags me to the book signing that Marty roped
her into.

  “It’s amazing what a difference it makes if you wait to have sex!” I extrapolate proudly, as we walk into the City Lights bookstore, to find Marty sitting alone at a table with no fans.

  “Oh my God, what a loser,” Lacey says under her breath, clearly embarrassed to be here at all.

  “Just because no one knows about his book doesn’t mean it isn’t good,” my publicist side automatically consoles.

  She grabs a copy of the book, which is called, “To Know Yourself is to Love Yourself: a guide to discovering self-love and the female orgasm,” and instantly shoots me a “Do you see what I mean about him?” look.

  I do, but all I can think about is my own stroke of good luck, “Well, I don’t have to worry about that anymore. Since I’ve got a helper now.”

  “You slept with him? But I thought you said you were waiting?” She seems vaguely disappointed in me.

  “I did wait! It was the third date. And anyway, you were wrong about him. But we can always ask Marty. He’s the expert.” We are just arriving at his table anyway.

  “Watch out for the crowds, wouldn’t want you to get caught in a stampede, on your way to the author,” Marty jovially announces to us, as we approach.

  I laugh loudly. Lacey seems uncomfortable. She hands him the book to sign, in her effort to get this over with quickly.

  “What do you think, Marty,” I start in, “if I’m going out with a guy for the fourth time this Saturday isn’t it safe to assume that he likes me?”

  “I’m gonna need a little more back-story than that, but sure. Probably,” Marty concurs.

  “Saturday?!” Lacey screams, “But that’s my event! You have plans with me.”

  Oh no, I totally forgot. The days have been getting so mixed up since the whole switch back, time shifty thing.

  “Shit. I’m so sorry,” is all I get out. I don’t wanna have to cancel my plans with John.

  “I could take you,” Marty offers, unable to hide how much it would please him to do so.