In that exact moment I decided to have sex with him. Maybe it was the way he touched my face. Maybe it was the way he was brushing his lips across mine. Maybe there was some magic in the air that only happens late at night when the city is lit up and the windows look like fireflies.
With his arm wrapped around me, we discussed all the heavy topics like God, politics, and whether the correct terminology was “pop” or “soda.” We talked about why we loved and hated NYC before moving on to our morning coffee routines.
“I drink shitty coffee. I buy it at this weird deli by my house, it smells like cats. The deli I mean, not the coffee. It’s one dollar for the world’s shittiest coffee.” he said.
“I use a French press,” I said. “We still buy cheap coffee from a can, but we make it in a French press, so it feels fancy.”
“I haven’t had French-pressed coffee since I lived in Arizona,” he said, stroking my hand.
Without giving myself the opportunity to overthink, I paused, before meeting his gaze. “Would you like to have some tomorrow morning?”
He examined my face carefully. “Are you inviting me over?”
“I am,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“I am.”
He leaned in and kissed me with a kiss full of promise, his tongue nudging and gently circling mine.
We took our time getting home. Simon and I were classic oversharers so there was no mystery about what was going to happen. We talked about everything and covered the basics of having sex and discussed how we liked to cuddle.
Unfortunately, by the time we got to my apartment, I was starting to panic.
He had never been to my house before.
We had never seen each other naked.
Now we were gonna do the thing that I hadn’t done in five years and my cortisol was firing in excess.
I wasn’t sure what the next step was, so I grabbed his hand and led him down the hall toward my room.
When we got there, I pulled off my shirt self-consciously, sucking in my stomach while simultaneously trying to look relaxed.
He took his shirt off, pausing to say, “I should have told you, I haven’t done this in over a year . . . I’m a little rusty.”
Tell me about it. The insecurity radiating off of both sides was palpable.
We crawled into my twin bed.
He kissed me without the ease we normally had.
What happened after that was a blur. There was some sort of exchange of oral pleasantries, but we didn’t fool around for too long. We were both too in need of penetrative sex.
I grabbed a condom and opened it, handing it to him to put on.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I nodded, “Yes. Be gentle, it’s been a while.”
“Of course.”
He leaned down and kissed me. A man of his word, he entered gently.
I flinched.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
“It hurts a little, but don’t stop,” I said. I wanted to enjoy it, but my brain was racing. I liked him so much and I wanted this to be good, but I couldn’t be fully present because I was too in my head about all of it.
We weren’t engulfed in the throes of passion, but we were doing this. He was slow and steady, checking in often to make sure I was all right. We continued this way for what seemed like forever until he increased the pace and force.
His moaning intensified until he finally collapsed on top of me.
We lay there for a long time, him still inside of me, not speaking before he got up slowly, pulled off the condom, threw it away, and climbed back in bed.
I rolled away from him. We didn’t touch or talk, both stewing in our thoughts. We’d just had bad sex and it was all my fault because I couldn’t relax.
I was certain this was the end.
I fell asleep, briefly, negative thoughts in my head. I woke up a half hour later and rolled over to find him still awake.
I was grateful for the darkness in my room and finally worked up the nerve to say, “I’m kind of in my head right now.”
“Me too. It’s been a long time for me as well.”
Silence fell over us again, which was deeply uncomfortable for two people who loved to talk.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
I knew I could lie, but I didn’t see what good lying was going to do if our relationship was on the verge of being over anyway.
“I’m worried that . . . because I haven’t had sex in forever that it was bad. Like I’ve been out of the game for too long and I don’t remember how to do it.”
He rolled over to face me and reached for my face.
“No, no, no, baby. That’s not it,” he said softly. “Sex isn’t about being ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ It’s not about mechanics. It’s about the connection you have with that person. That’s what makes any sex good or bad. Your body takes care of the rest.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure I believed him.
“I’m crazy about you. We did this all wrong,” he said, shaking his head.
He leaned in and kissed me tenderly and with that kiss my insecurity melted away.
I kissed him back, increasing the intensity as he moved from my face to my neck.
He kissed his way down my neck.
He stopped to lick my collarbone, sucking on it as he worked his way down.
He moved toward my breast and gently flicked his tongue across my nipple. Teasing it, taking his time.
“This is what I should have done,” he said.
Perhaps because we were tired or because our brains had just released a surplus of feel-good hormones, we were both more relaxed.
He ran his hands down my stomach, his mouth trailing behind.
This time when he entered me I was ready to go and the pain, while still mildly there, was significantly less.
This time we rocked in sync, both of us moaning, until finally I said, “I’m going to cum.”
He came a few minutes later and we laid there entangled, breathing heavily, aimlessly groping for each other, intertwining our bodies, kissing and trying to get closer before we both fell asleep.
When we woke up, we had sex again in the morning.
Unfortunately, the insecurity was back, and it felt more like the first time than the second time.
We didn’t have time for coffee because he had to get to work. He left quickly and kissed me on his way out the door.
I sat down on my couch and wrapped a blanket around me.
Holy crap, I did it, I thought.
I had actually broken the dry spell. Five years of celibacy and I finally had sex with someone I really, really liked.
I had been waiting for this moment for a long time. It was a big deal to me. I should have been dancing on clouds, but I wasn’t.
I was too busy doing math.
One round of awkward sex.
One round of intimate, passionate sex.
And one round of just-okay, average sex.
I wasn’t great at math, but those odds didn’t seem to be in my favor.
Despite Simon’s earlier assurances that sex was about connection, I was worried.
What if he didn’t like me anymore? What if we didn’t have chemistry? What if our average sex reminded him that he wanted to get back together with his ex-wife? Had I blown any chance I had at being in a relationship or having sex again? Was I destined to be single for the rest of my life?
The questions and worries started to consume me and in about ten minutes I started having a full-on panic attack. I sat on my couch, crying heavily until I couldn’t breathe. I was positive he was going to end things with me and tell all his friends that I was an awkward lover.
I called Lindsay until she finally talked me off the ledge. “You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions here. Why don’t you just call him?”
“I can’t do that!” I protested.
A few hours passed and the more I thought about it, the more I realized I actually could do that.
I took a few deep breaths, put on a fake smile to try to convince myself that I wasn’t nervous, and called Simon.
He answered on the first ring.
“Hey!” he said.
“Hey you. I’m just calling to, you know, see how you are and make sure you’re not too in your head.”
“I’m good.” I could tell he was smiling from his tone. “Are you in your head?”
“Absolutely.”
We both laughed and then talked for another hour.
By the time we hung up, my worries were gone.
Our next date was a day at the beach. Another twelve-hour date by the time it was done.
We headed back to his house and when we got home we showered together, making love as the water dripped down our bodies.
We had sex two times that night, and again in the morning.
When I woke up the next day he was making French toast and potatoes, classical music playing in the background. I wrapped my arms around him while he was cooking, and we swayed together happily.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he said, pausing to kiss me.
“Good morning, sexy,” I said.
We ate lazily, breaking to take syrupy kisses.
As we sat holding hands, I wondered if this is what it felt like to belong with someone.
We stopped in his deli for shitty dollar coffee. He was right; it did smell like cats.
As he walked me to the train, I couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time in my life, I was maybe, possibly someone’s girlfriend.
FOOT WORSHIP, IT’S A THING. YOU SHOULD TRY IT.
Nine times.
That’s how many times Simon and I’d had sex so far. I knew it wasn’t normal to count but when the number was as low as mine, it was hard not to. I was afraid it was all a dream. I’d wake up one day and still be an active member of the celibate circus.
We still hadn’t defined the relationship, but I knew he wasn’t seeing anyone else.
The more comfortable we got with each other, the more we explored. Even though I hadn’t quite conquered the basics, I wanted to make up for lost time and figure out what to try with Simon. After all, I’d had five years to think about sex and now that I was finally having it again, I wanted to try everything.
Or close to everything.
Or at least just master reverse cowgirl for crying out loud. (We still hadn’t done it.)
I also wanted to try some of the kinkier stuff, but I wasn’t sure what.
I remembered my conversation with Barbie. Over a million people watched videos of her feet. That number was too high to ignore. People loved feet.
But why?
Although I was fascinated by it, I still wasn’t convinced that feet were going to be a part of my sexual awakening. Feet were gross. End of story. At least that’s how I felt until I tried it for myself.
On a feisty evening, I kissed my way down Simon’s calf.
I stopped by his ankle and examined his foot. It looked clean and smooth, lightly calloused but definitely not disgusting.
I held his foot with both hands, massaged it, pressing my thumb against the arches, alternating with light touches and strokes from my fingers. I moved to his toes and massaged each one individually, applying pressure the way I liked when I received a massage.
I leaned forward, tentatively, and with some hesitation. I licked my lip and then ran my tongue across his sole. It tasted like skin, as if I had licked his arm. I had heard rumors of a distinctive foot taste, but I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.
To my surprise, he cried out in pleasure.
I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.
“Oh yeah?”
He nodded, surprised himself.
“I’ve never done this before,” I cautioned.
“Me either but that felt amazing,” he said.
That was all I needed. I grabbed his large toe in my mouth, sucking it slowly. His body responded convulsively with whimpers and moans. I ran my tongue between his toes and grabbed for his erection.
I wasn’t thinking about the taste or smell of his feet. The only thing I could think about was watching his body twist with pleasure. It made me feel powerful that I was capable of causing that response so easily. I took my time nibbling his ankle, suckling his toes, and watching his body go crazy. Each moan emboldened me to explore even more.
The next time, a few days later, I didn’t hesitate or offer an explanation; I grabbed his foot and aggressively sucked on his toes, soaking them in my saliva. I nibbled the sole, flicked my tongue across his heel, and massaged his legs. There was a slight “foot taste” this time but it wasn’t bad or distracting.
Once again, I watched his body twist.
This wasn’t about curiosity anymore. I had become a goddamned convert. I was a Sole Sorceress, a Toe Tease, a Foot Femme Fatale. I was excited that inexperienced me had discovered a new way to make his body tremble with something he hadn’t tried before.
While I was busy licking Simon’s feet, I was still trying to convince Barbie to let me be one of her foot models. I wanted to see what it was like to have my own foot worshipped and licked by a stranger. I had made considerable progress in the last few months and spent practically half of my life’s fortunes trying to get my feet in order.
I emailed Barbie pictures to convince her to let me be one of her models. To my surprise, Simon said he was okay with all of it. After all, he knew I was writing a book when he started dating me. Two weeks passed with no word from Bar, even though my feet were ready to go.
By the time I heard back from her, Simon changed his mind. He told me he’d been thinking about it and he actually wasn’t cool with some random dude licking my foot, even if it was for research.
I understood that, so I told Barbie I’d changed my mind and decided I wasn’t interested in modeling.
I continued to investigate on my own. I wasn’t aroused by videos or pictures of feet. I didn’t incorporate it into the porn I watched but I most certainly incorporated it into my life.
I gave my first foot job to Simon one night when I was feeling particularly lazy. I didn’t want to have sex or strain my jaw, so I wrapped my feet around his cock and moved up and down. He watched me with intrigue and excitement. I watched his body contort with pleasure. It was the easiest orgasm I have ever given, a trick for tired women everywhere.
After my repeated successes, I finally understood why feet were a thing. Now I wondered what else was out there.
AN ITCH TO SCRATCH
My friend Ryan was one of my best resources for new, erotic things. He was self-admittedly deep in the fetish scene in NYC. He’d send me articles or connect me to friends of his who were doing cool sex-positive stuff. He kept me in the loop about the sexy comings and goings.
“Ryan! Possibly TMI but I’ve been exploring foot stuff and I’m curious if there’s anything else you might know about,” I messaged to him.
“Girl, you know I’ve got you,” he wrote back.
We met up a few days later at a chain falafel joint in Lower East Side.
I sat down on a bench across from Ryan and admired his goofy T-shirt featuring nineties babelicious icon Mario Lopez. Ryan was a comedian, so his wardrobe matched his sense of humor. Usually he was easygoing and quick with a joke but today he looked apprehensive, anxiously chewing his straw.
“Sooo . . . what’s up?” I said, pouring some hot sauce on my hummus.
“Well, I wanted to tell you about some, you know, sexy stuff,” Ryan said.
“Cool! What is it?”
“Well . . .”
I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to say something. “I love tickling,” Ryan blurted out.
“Huh? Whatchu mean?” I said, shoving a falafel in my mouth.
“I have a tickling fetish. That’s the ‘something else’ you might want to try.”
I had been trying to predict what Ryan was going to suggest for days and tickling hadn’t even been in the ballpark of w
hat I would have guessed. It wasn’t even in the parking lot or on the same street.
“Tell me more,” I said. I had never heard of a tickling fetish or even imagined that was a thing.
He was still chewing his straw so I tried to smile to ease his fear.
“Not a lot of people know about this one, so, um, keep an open mind.”
“Bro, we’re friends and I love you. It’s totally cool,” I said, grabbing his hand.
He started talking quickly, “I remember the exact day I discovered it. My parents were gone, and I typed ‘tickling’ into the search engine. I remember looking around to make sure no one would catch me. That could have been an innocent thing to search for, but for me, it wasn’t.”
I put down my fork and leaned forward. I was trying to understand what he was telling me because this was a huge part of his life that I knew nothing about but also because he seemed embarrassed.
“Wait, hold up. You’re talking about just tickling right? Like wiggly wiggly,” I reached up to imitate a tickling gesture in my armpit.
“Yeah.”
“But like sexually?” I said.
“Yeah, it arouses me,” he said.
I didn’t miss a beat. “Cool!” I said. “You’re always surprising me, you with your damn Mario Lopez T-shirt. Want my pickles?” I said with a grin.
He relaxed and finally took the straw out of his mouth, leaning over to scoop them up.
“Now, go on,” I encouraged.
“There are two roles. Ticklees and Ticklers. Or Lees and Lers. People who liked to be tickled are Lees; people who do the tickling are Lers.”
“Which one are you?” I asked.
“Both, but typically a Lee.”
“So you prefer to be tickled?” I asked.
“Yep!”
I thought about which one I would be. Definitely the Ler, with the whole needing to be in control thing and all.
Ryan confessed that he wasn’t “out” about this particular fetish. He had only told two of his ex-girlfriends, one was into it and the other one said it “was super weird” and refused to acknowledge it, which explained his initial apprehension in telling me. I was honored that he trusted me.
The Coitus Chronicles Page 10