Today I'm taking the Bar Exam so I have a guest blogger. Ann Marie, from A Little Bit Stronger, is a ridiculously hot single mom who kicks ass at raising an adorable son while working in corporate America and dating. Enjoy her story and then check out her blog. Ann Marie lives in a place filled with cowboys and country music, of which I am insanely jealous.
So, this is a sad tale of sorts. It's a tale of my last sexual experience, coming up on almost a year ago. That's sad enough in itself, however, that's really not even the worst part at all. Not by a long shot. I'll get right to the point, which is, of course, the matter at hand: my worst ever sexual encounter, without a shadow of a doubt. And perhaps the reason that I haven't been with anyone since is because of the sheer awfulness of this particular incident. Yup, it was that bad.
So I had been dating C for about three to four weeks. It was one of those situations where I just couldn't make up my mind about him. I was on the fence about my feelings. He was a really, really nice guy. He had a great job. He was funny. He was reasonably attractive but had a bit more of a receding hairline than I was comfortable with. He had a great job. He seemed outgoing and ambitious. He was into me but not too into me. All of the right components were there. I enjoyed his company but I had never really gotten to the point where I looked forward to seeing him. I could kind of just take it or leave it. Some people might have parted company but I was determined that I would like him. Because I had told myself I should like him. There was no reason not to. I couldn't find one flaw, fault, or glaring red flag about him. I couldn't see any justification for breaking things off and yet, there was just *something* that was missing that I couldn't quite put my finger on.
After going three and a half weeks with little more than a few mediocre and somewhat passion(less) kisses, I decided it was time. This was a make or break situation. Time to fish or cut bait. I determined that I need to take the plunge. Bite the bullet. Just do "it". And by "it" I mean IT. I was going to hop in bed with him and see if the elusive spark I had been searching for was there.
Problem was that I couldn't get in the right mindset without a little (ok a lot) of liquid courage. As luck would have it we went to a local beer festival, and then to a bar afterwards. And I proceed to drink. And drink. And drink. And then we went back to my friends house and, it was time. Time for the big event to take place. He knew it. I knew it. There was no turning back at that point.
And so we proceeded to get down to business. It started off fairly well and I thought "I can do this, I'm kind of enjoying myself". And then, it began. The talking. Lots and lots of talking. And not whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Quite the contrary. His ramblings were something that would make a porn star blush and turn a (somewhat) good girl such as myself completely off. I tried to ignore him and focus on the task at hand. I really did. But I couldn't tune him out for the mere fact that he simply would not shut up. I'm not sure where he conjured up the idea that it was necessary to give a verbal play-by-play of what he was doing in explicit form, or to inquire about every.single.move he was making along the way. Maybe a former lover had turned him on to this sort of thing. I would actually really like to think that was the case because I'd hate to believe that he dreamt up the crazy idea on his own.
Guys, if you're reading this take note: women generally do not like to be made to feel like a $2 hooker. Especially not the very first time they sleep with you. If you're into the kink that's ok, hey, that's your prerogative, but ease into it. Feel the situation out first a few times. Give it a few test runs before jumping headlong into it. Don't just let that crazy cat out of the bag right away.
As if the dirrrty talk was not enough (and it was) he also had a penchant for jackhammer type thrusting. I swear I know what Carrie Bradshaw felt like on the "Sex and the City" episode where she actually sprained her next because of her lover's over exuberance. Again, guys, if you're reading this please pay attention. Slower is better when it comes to this area. As much as you'd probably beg to differ, you're not actually running a power tool in the bedroom so please keep that in mind and act accordingly.
Even despite all of this, I really feel like I gave it my best effort. I swear I did. I tried tuning him out. I tried being positive and chalking some of the experience up to sheer nervousness on his part. I even closed my eyes and tried to make myself believe it was Brad Pitt I was twisting sheets with. I really have to give myself an "A" for effort. But, alas, nothing seemed to be working. There was no way this was going to end well and I knew it. So I finally used my drunken state as an excuse to hit the "stop" button, rolled over as far onto my side of the bed as possible, and attempted to go to sleep, all the while wishing, hoping and praying that I would wake up and it would have all just been a bad dream.
Unfortunately for me, not only did C have a mouth on him like a sailor, he also was a big fan of cuddling. Or at least trying to cuddle. I recoiled like a wounded animal when he tried to spoon in what he probably thought was post-coital bliss. I barely slept a wink that night and was up and ready to leave at an ungodly early hour. I sat on my friend's couch not knowing what to do, waiting for him to wake up. And wake up he finally did. This is where the story goes from really bad to far, far worse.
Apparently the previous night's activities hadn't set well with C's stomach, for whatever reason. Maybe it was all of the booze. Maybe it was the late night snack we had of pizza and bread sticks. I'll probably never know. But whatever the case may have been, if the nail hadn't already been in the proverbial coffin at that point, he really drove it home with his next move. C, unfortunately could not wait until he got home to use the bathroom. And use it he did. I was sitting on the couch, trying desperately not to run for the door, when I heard the bathroom door click. Then I heard not one but five explosions. Yes, I counted. I am not exaggerating when I say that it sounded like there were small bombs going off in there. My friend M and her husband, B, also heard it, loud and clear. In fact, it was so alarmingly loud that B covered his head with his pillow.
I determined, in that very moment, that the only thing worse than having an extremely awkward sexual encounter with someone, was becoming keenly aware of their intimate bodily functions the next morning. If there had been one shred of doubt in my mind that things were done and over for us before then, all reservations went out the window at that point in time. I broke things off with him not an hour later and, thankfully, have never seen or heard from him again.