The good news was that my attraction to Adam was further proof that my sexual impulse wasn’t broken after all. It was very, very turned on.
One night when Lindsay was wearing a T-shirt, I leaned forward and licked her arm, sloppily, like a dog. I didn’t know why I did it except that I saw bare skin and wanted to lick it. The sexual tension with Adam was making me a total weirdo.
I needed to release my energy before I became even more desperate. Next, I’d wind up on Dr. Phil for randomly licking strangers on the subway.
Luckily, I had weekend plans to attend a birthday party. I couldn’t do another going-nowhere movie night. I had to get out of the house. I spent a lot of time getting ready, picking out the perfect outfit and making sure I looked sexy.
“What do you think?” I asked Adam before leaving.
He whistled. “You look beautiful.”
That was the whole reason I had gotten dressed up at all. I didn’t care if my hair fell down or I tripped in a puddle after that.
I walked into the bar with an agenda: to kiss someone and get rid of some of the weird sexual energy I was harboring. Otherwise I was probably going to confess my adoration for Adam in an embarrassing fashion. I ordered a whiskey on the rocks with two ice cubes, knowing full well that whiskey makes me frisky.
An hour in and I felt magnetic. I was on. I scanned the birthday-party crew and saw some faces I didn’t know, including a cute guy sitting on the couch alone.
I walked over to him and touched his hand.
“Anyone sitting here?”
“No, please.” He gestured for me to sit.
“It’s my lucky night. An open seat next to someone as handsome as you,” I said.
I sat down, a little too close to him.
We chatted for a few minutes about how we both knew the birthday girl and how much we loved her before I touched his arm and said, “Are you single? I want to check before I flirt with you.”
I knew I was being forward but I didn’t care.
“One hundred percent single. And it’s my lucky night that you decided to sit next to me,” he said.
“Oh yeah?” I slowly took another sip of whiskey, looking at him seductively over the top of my glass. “Well then, how about you’re my boyfriend for tonight?” I asked. I still didn’t know his name.
“What does that entail?” mystery man said.
I could tell that he was intrigued, interested, and also hesitant. If I was looking for someone to date, I might have been a little less direct, but I didn’t care if this man wanted to date me. I just wanted him to kiss me. I had nothing to lose by being fierce.
“I’m going to grab another whiskey and then I’ll tell you. Wait for me. If anyone else asks, this seat is taken now,” I said, strutting to the bar, surprised and impressed by my own confidence. I was never that bold.
It was fueled by whiskey and pent-up sexual frustration.
Usually I was the funny, sort-of-awkward sidekick type. Tonight, I was the Femme Fatale. The Leading Lady of Sexiness.
I walked back, second drink in hand.
“Where were we?”
“You were going to tell me what it meant to be your boyfriend for the night.”
“Well we’re gonna start with this . . .” I said, caressing his hand slowly.
“I like that,” he said.
“What’s next?” he asked, rubbing my arm with his other hand.
I scooched closer to him and said, “How would you feel about giving me a shoulder massage? All the best boyfriends give massages.”
He rubbed my back sensually and slowly. It was precisely what I needed.
I was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress, which meant hand-to-skin contact. It was almost too much for my starving-for-touch body to handle.
“Should we talk about stuff?” he asked, pressing his thumb into a particularly stubborn knot on my back.
“What kind of stuff?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but if you’re gonna be my girlfriend for the night, we should probably talk about stuff.” I turned around and smiled sexily, leaning forward until I was an inch away from his lips.
“I don’t think that’s necessary” I said, kissing him slowly and then more forcefully as the floodgates of my sexual dam started to burst at the seams.
I pulled away, but he leaned in and kissed me again.
“At least tell me your name,” he said against my lips.
“It’s Olive, yours?”
“Luke.”
“Nice to meet you, Luke, boyfriend for the night,” I said, kissing him again.
We made out for another ten minutes with very little talking before a friend who lived uptown by me approached us. “Hey, we’re gonna get going. See you soon . . .” she said, implying that I was staying.
I didn’t want to stay. If I got home early enough, Adam might still be up. Plus, I never passed up an opportunity to split a cab back uptown.
“I’m going with you,” I said, standing up.
Luke looked dismayed. It was clear he didn’t think that was how the evening was going to end.
“Bye, boyfriend,” I said with a wink.
“Can I at least get your number?” he asked, confused. He handed me his phone and I added in my number before kissing him one final time.
By the time I got home, Adam had already gone to bed. I sat down on the couch and a text popped up on my phone.
“Hey, it’s Luke. Nice meeting you tonight.”
“You too.” I texted back before falling asleep and dreaming about Adam.
Luke texted me the next morning and asked me out on a date.
We met for brunch the following week. Even though I was massively crushing on Adam, I didn’t want to close the door on other possibilities. Especially possibilities who weren’t in love with their exes.
I walked into the restaurant and saw Luke sitting at a table in the corner.
Even though we had already kissed, it seemed inappropriate to kiss him now. I gave him a hug and sat down.
We ordered food and made small talk for a few minutes before I realized that I knew nothing about him.
He was a science teacher and a movie buff. When I told him I was a writer, he told me I was going to make zero money. When I told him I was happy about losing my job and that I liked freelancing, he questioned my financial stability and commented on how hard it was to be a disciplined freelancer.
I felt like I had to be impressive and quite honestly, at that point in my life, I wasn’t.
I was sleeping on my own couch, for God’s sake.
This is why you should talk to someone before you make out with them.
Halfway through the date, we were struggling to find conversation topics.
At the end, he offered to walk me home. Even though it was blatantly clear that we had nothing in common, I let him hold my hand, because I was lonely, horny, and unrequitedly in love with the boy who lived in my room.
When we arrived at my gate he kissed me. I let him, for the reasons above.
“I’ll text you,” he said, even though I knew he probably wouldn’t.
When I walked into my apartment, Adam was sitting on the couch in our living room reading a book. He had lit two candles and was eating a bowl of orange chicken.
“How was the date?” he asked, looking up from his novel.
It was an innocent question. On any other day I would have responded nonchalantly and moved on, but this time was different. The date was crummy, and it didn’t even remotely matter because what I really wanted was the boy sitting across from me in my own house. My feelings were boiling over, and if I didn’t say something I was going to explode.
“He kissed me,” I said.
“Didn’t you two make out at the bar the other night? What’s the problem?”
It was now or never.
“The problem is that . . .” I paused to take a breath. “The whole time he was kissing me . . . I wanted to be kissing you,” I said.
I
could feel the blush spreading up my face. In thirty seconds I was going to be a deep shade of maroon.
He stayed silent as I turned dark red.
It felt unbearable, standing there visibly embarrassed. I didn’t want him to see it, so I walked over to the light switch and turned it off, mumbling, “I don’t want you to see me blush.” Might as well be honest.
The room was lit by candles now, which might have been romantic if he was going to say something different than what he was about to say.
“I’m sorry, I can’t . . .” he trailed off.
The silence hung between us and in it was everything I knew he wasn’t saying. That he was still in love with Jenny. That he only saw me as a friend.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I needed to say that for me. I mean, it’s not like I’m in love with you. It’s a silly crush,” I said, trying to diminish the situation.
Even though the room was dim I could see his eyes tear up. God bless him and his sensitivity; it was what I loved about him.
“I’m just . . . Jenny,” he said.
“I understand, truly I do.”
I did understand. It had taken me a long time to get over my own first love, and I still occasionally cried about him, more than a decade later.
“I’m a disaster. I can’t date anyone. I don’t even like myself right now,” he said.
As he got more emotional, I felt calmer. Although I was the one being rejected, my self-destructive empathy kicked in and I felt the need to take care of him. If it was anyone else, I might have taken my moment to be angry and sad, but Adam was gentle and kind. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t love me back.
“I value your friendship. I don’t have a lot of friends here and you’re . . . I just . . . I don’t want to lose you,” he stammered.
“You live in my house. You’re stuck with me, kid, whether you like it or not,” I said, gently.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not hurting me. I’m a big girl,” I soothed. “Let’s watch a movie?”
He obliged, and, in some ways, it felt like every other night. In some ways it felt totally different. The sexual tension I had imagined for months was gone. I readjusted uncomfortably on the couch several times, hyper-aware of my body language. He avoided the couch and sat in a chair instead.
We said goodnight and nothing more was said about my confession.
For the next two weeks we were able to maintain relative normalcy, with occasional awkward moments. I was home less frequently and went out on Friday nights. We avoided any more movie nights. I went on dates and made sure to tell him about it. We both knew what I was doing, but it was a way of saving face. We still went on walks and I’d feel my heart twinge every time he said something funny, until I decided it was probably best we didn’t go on walks anymore. When he asked, I made up excuses for why I was too busy. I wasn’t heartbroken, but I wasn’t a masochist either.
His four months were almost up. I didn’t ask him to extend. I’d managed to save enough money to be more comfortable and I was tired of shoving my shit in the closet. I wanted my room back. Not to mention, my other roommates, who were total saints for going along with the arrangement in the first place, wanted the living room back.
Adam moved out and ended up subletting an apartment two floors above me, so I still occasionally saw him but I didn’t come home to the smell of orange chicken.
I finally moved into my bedroom and for the first time in years, had a private room for conducting salacious activities.
My life could have become dangerously sexy. I could have taken my BDSM knowledge and everything else I was learning and put it all to good use.
I didn’t, of course.
I felt like I was back at square one. No exes. No crushes. No prospects.
Single and alone as I had ever been.
* In hindsight, it’s super weird, but at twenty-five, we were just happy to be able to afford living in NYC at all.
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PENIS IN THE WORLD
I didn’t want to have casual sex.
That was the rule since the dry spell began. I hated the idea of going home with someone I didn’t know or trust. Of waking up wanting to cuddle but uncertain if he wanted me to leave. I had a deep fear of being used.
From the beginning, I wanted to break the dry spell with someone I trusted. Someone who could possibly come along with a relationship.
Also, ever since I was a child, my paranoid father had convinced me that everyone was trying to kill me. When it came to my physical safety I was excessively careful.
“What if he’s a serial killer?” I said to my friend Nathan after he suggested I go home with a random man eyeing me at the bar.
“Statistically speaking, how many people are serial killers?” he asked.
“ALL YOU NEED IS ONE!” I yelled dramatically. He rolled his eyes as I explained how I was saving my poor mother from a lifetime of grief.
Nathan wasn’t the first to suggest this. Countless people proposed casual sex as the way to solve my problem. “Meet someone at the bar, go home with him, and just do it,” they said.
But I didn’t. Wouldn’t. Because I was, down to the core, not interested in casual sex.
Until I took Ben home.
Then I was very interested.
I was still reeling from the debacle with Adam when my friend Erickson invited me out for drinks. Despite our seven-year friendship, Erickson and I couldn’t be more different. He’s vodka; I’m tea. He parties at expensive clubs while I watch TV in my jammies. He’s the craziest friend I have. I’m the lamest friend he has. It made sense that he played a role in my first-ever one-night stand.
After not seeing each other for months, he suggested we meet up at a hotel bar with “a spectacular view.” He loved pretentious, fancy places. I hated them. My Ohioan sensibility rejected the NYC socialite scene.
The hotel was luxurious with ceilings covered with chandeliers. The flooring was marble. Rooftop seating came with a lush red robe to ward off the cold while eating and drinking.
The maître d’ glowered at us as Erickson requested a table for two for drinks.
“Tables are for food service. You can try downstairs,” he said, dismissing us with a hand gesture. Downstairs, condescending employee number two informed us that tables were reserved for larger parties.
I scowled.
We turned to leave when a confident male voice with a sexy British accent said, “They’re with me.” I turned toward the source of the voice and was not disappointed when I found a boyishly handsome man sitting by himself.
I had never met this man. Neither had Erickson but he pushed past the maître d’ to join the gentleman at his table, all of us pretending we were old friends.
“Are all Americans such jackasses?” the man asked with a hint of a smile after the maître d’ left. “They wouldn’t let me sit unless I was with a group. I’m traveling alone, so I told him my group was on the way. I’m Ben,” he said.
Ben appeared to be about twenty-five. Despite being British, he had an all-American boy look, like a clean-cut model on an Abercrombie bag.
Erickson and I ordered drinks for our new friend, who turned out to be more culturally American than I was. Ben the Brit loved the United States. He played American football back home and preferred beer made in Cleveland. He thought American girls were sweet and funny. He liked burgers and fries. He was backpacking across the United States and was leaving New York in two days to make his way to the West Coast.
We had nothing in common.
He wanted to talk about football. I wanted to talk about anything else. We liked different music, food, and hobbies.
He wasn’t smooth or overtly flirtatious like I expected him to be. On the contrary, he was shy and awkward. The only thing that kept the conversation going was our love of back-and-forth banter. When all other commonalities fail, it’s amazing how far witty British humor can move things forward.
“I hate place
s like this. Let’s go to a sports bar?” Ben said.
All right. We had one thing in common. I eagerly agreed, and we wound up at a generic sports bar down the street.
Ben bought the first round of shots.
I wasn’t a big drinker, but I accepted because nights out with Erickson were some of my only “crazy” nights. Typically, I’d be asleep by midnight, a fact that was often brought up as a contributing factor in my coitus conundrum.
Erickson bought the second round.
Third round back to Ben.
The more we drank the more I was charmed by him. He was funny and the alcohol took away his shyness.
Drinks flowed until two hours later when Erickson announced that his booty call had contacted him and he was leaving.
Normally, I’d leave too.
Normally, I’d say, “It was nice to meet you. I’m heading out as well.”
Then I’d go home. Alone.
Maybe I was fueled by alcohol or Ben’s sexy accent, but even I was surprised when I said, “I’m gonna stay.”
Erickson cocked an eyebrow at me. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said, smirking as he left the table.
“Another shot?” Ben asked.
With Erickson gone, I needed to be more cautious. I had met this man a few hours ago. After all, he still could be a serial killer. I imagined my mutilated body on the news with the newscaster saying, “They met at a bar three hours earlier.”
My mom would be crying. “She never did things like that.”
“I’ll have a water,” I said.
For having such different interests, we somehow managed to have a lively conversation for the next two hours.
Before I knew it, it was 1 a.m. and there were only two ways this evening could end:
1. We’d say “Goodbye, adieu. It was nice making your acquaintance, fair stranger.” Ben would go back to his hotel. I’d go home. We’d never see each other ever again. The end.
2. The opposite of that.
I contemplated the situation, weighing both options in my mind. I tapped my finger on my lip, deep in thought.
“I’m not going to kiss you,” Ben said leaning toward me.
“What do you mean?”
The Coitus Chronicles Page 5