That’s what the son-of-a-bitch had left me with.
You’re too frigid for me. You lack enthusiasm in the bedroom. You’re too formal about everything. It has to be your way…it has to be just so… I can’t take it anymore.
And then he got up from the table, leaving a perfectly good, still steaming, cup of coffee in his wake.
A laundry list of faults and a cup of once-sipped coffee. Quite a parting a gift.
So I’ve taken both and am walking home, sipping and mulling over the things he’d said. Was I really frigid? Did I lack enthusiasm? Was I too formal? I didn’t think so, but who was I to say. My perspective is naturally so self-centered; it’s impossible to see myself from his point of view.
I’m considering our last “time” together. Last night actually.
When I have sex with a man, I’ll admit, I do like things to be “just so.” I have a bit of a ritual. I need a little wine before, maybe some conversation or a thought-provoking date. I need to be mentally engaged…brain turned-on well before my physical sex-spots get involved. The better our conversation, the wetter I become. Without it, I’m gonna need lube…and lots of it. My brain may never engage, if a fuck-session begins with having left it behind.
That might have been what went wrong with Charlie. See, he got tired of having to “pave the way,” for sex. He didn’t want to go through all the work every. single. time. And me, being the silly, love-sick fool that I can be…I went along with him. I figured I’d “warm up” eventually…”learn” to “get wet” on command or at least get into a groove and enjoy the sex. But that didn’t happen. Usually, I found myself faking it…poorly. But is that really my fault? I mean, who doesn’t need a little pre-game action to get the ball rolling?
Lighting is also key. I can fuck in a bright room. It’s too jarring to my eyes. I need lamplight, tiny rays of sun sneaking through a closed curtain, a shadowed alley way. What?!! You ask? An alley way?!! Yes. I’m not boring. He said I lacked enthusiasm in the bedroom. Maybe he forgot some of the other places where I didn’t. But then, he was pretty drunk that night, and so was I. We were both playing cards we weren’t used to holding. A few times, we did it in the back of the car. Once in the bar bathroom. Every one of those times is lost in the fumes of tequila. I can’t remember the details, only little flashes of naked skin and shallow breathing.
Maybe that’s what he wanted more of.
Not my candle-lit, wine-and-conversation evenings that started at 7:00 and ended before midnight. Hey, I have to work. And I can’t sleep with him beside me, so either he had to go home, or, on the rare occasion we ended up at his house, I had to catch the last train to my side of town (11:32 on the dot). I did worry that if we ever got married, I’d have to have my own bedroom or just fucking learn to live with another human being breathing next to me, moving at random times, and taking up my space. Maybe I would have gotten used to it. I’m not really sure. But right now, I’m kind of okay with the fact that I don’t have to worry about that ever again.
I do worry about the next man, though. How best to find someone who’ll spank me three times with a spatula (only three…and only the spatula…I like how it’s cold, flat surface bounces, absorbing most of the potential pain) just before I orgasm? I mean, I know it entails that he stop what he’s doing (fucking me) for just a tiny moment, thinking of my needs instead of his greedy prick (men and their insatiability!). And my body can only come in two positions – standing, with one leg propped on a higher surface, his face buried in my bush (I am not shaving that motherfucker…I don’t care what the changing times say is “in” and “acceptable”) and from behind. I’ve never been a traditional missionary girl. Something about that frontal contact…the eyes. It’s too intense and searching. I don’t need someone distracting me with their gaze, their eyes hungry or questioning…me wondering what they’re thinking…worrying they’re about to say the L-word in a hasty, passion-induced coma. They rarely mean it…later. And it’s even worse when they do.
Though I, personally, like best to find the ones in the front of the bar. The expectant ones. There is just something so much more enticing about the eager set. Licking their lips. Hoping. I look like what they want. I even act the part for a little while. But then, the real me bleeds through.
It’s starting to snow, and my coffee’s gone tepid. But that’s alright.
I like the cold.