UNTIL RECENTLY, I had been - give or take the random drunken mistake - consistently sleeping with one person for quite some time. We were enjoying all the comforts of familiarity. We knew how to pull off the quick orgasm, the protracted one, the filthy one, the romantic one. Costumes were used and discarded as if Halloween was a weekly holiday.
Then, THWAP! Chapter closed. New scene.
This is how sex lives work. If I think about it too much, it completely boggles my mind. You go from sharing the most intimate moments with a person to having her scream in your ear that she hates you. And just like that, she becomes a memory, a past to cling to until the finer details fade to a vague recollection. One day a stranger's perfume might tug you right back into an imagined naked entanglement, but it evaporates as quickly as it had overwhelmed.
Then suddenly you re-emerge single, cast paranoid, insecure, and vulnerable back into the teeming world of dating. What does my butt look like from this angle?, I now wonder, straining to catch a glimpse in the mirror over my shoulder. Where did that wrinkle come from? I've got to get to the gym, read more, better myself, and catch up on all that lost time spent growing comfortably numb with someone. While I might share the average girl's insecurities when it comes to intelligence or body image, I think I'm hypersensitive when it comes to sex.
"They probably think you're some kind of expert!" my friend laughed, mocking this miscast journalism job of mine.
If you think I'm displaying some sense of false modesty, allow me to recount the 24 hours of my first post-relationship sexual foray, told by my subconscious mind. You tell me if you're not a nervous wreck.
***
"Sorry, my place is a mess." Just close your eyes and go directly to the bed. "My roommate's away." Roommate. I'm such a loser. Total revelation of poverty way too soon. At least there isn't any underwear on the floor. Well, at least they're mine.
Wow, these lips feel good. Different, but good. No teeth clacked together on initial contact. Always a good sign.
"You're tired?" I should totally respect that and let her go to bed. But I won't. Who knows? This could be a one-time opportunity. I should tell her how good I am in bed. That usually works.
"Really good?" she asks.
"Yeah, really good." Wait, you're rushing things. Too late. (Awkward wrestling of tight jeans from over knee caps.) "Yeah, I'll let you do that."
Huh. That's different. She must really be enjoying herself. I am good in bed. Wait, I'm not even touching her. Is she getting off on the sound of her own voice? My God, I'm totally silent. I should start making some type of breathy noises. Breathy noises, good. I should tell her that's hot.
"Freaky?" she asks, her brow furrowing in response to my botched compliment. Holy shit! Did I really just call this girl "freaky" in bed? She's gonna leave. What's the complete opposite of freaky? Quick. Recover.
"Quiet and demure?" she says, just as dumbfounded by my feedback. Why does the stimulation of my clitoris cause the complete dulling of my brain? "No, like, freaky good freaky."
"And this is me tired," she laughs. I will be destroyed.
"Water? Yeah, I'll get you some." I really need to quit smoking. My mouth probably tastes like an ashtray.
My God, that stupid chicken carcass is still in the fridge. I am a bachelor. Water, water. Oh, I know! Ice cubes. I love ice cubes. I hope she likes ice cubes. Wait, are ice cubes like the 1997 of sexual apparatuses? No, she'll like ice cubes. Just be inconspicuous with them.
(Her eyes bulge nervously as I remove a cube the size of Rhode Island that I've nearly dropped down her throat.) "Oh my God, I'm sorry!"
Wow, I don't think I've ever slept with a girl with this much hair on her head. It seems like it's multiplying by the gyration. Actually, it's sort of getting in my way.
"Really?" she asks. "Most people say they like it." Most people probably aren't getting it caught in their permanent retainers at 31 years old. I should really get that removed. I'm sure my teeth wouldn't move at this age. Or maybe they would and then I'd look like . . . oh! What's she doing?
Should I tell her I like that? Should I tell her I don't like that? Maybe I do like that. Ride it out. I do like that. I really like that. Oh my God, Jeannie. Breathe. She's going to think you're a piece of cardboard. Say something. Okay, okay. Too intense. Bring it down a notch. Say something sexy and sensitive.
"Call me when you want a good time."
"So, no strings attached?" she answers. My sensitive sounds more like a raunchy Prince lyric. No, that's not what I meant. What do I counter with? "Strings attached"? That's just creepy. Aww, fuck. Just let her sleep and worry about it tomorrow morning. And afternoon. And evening.
"Bye."
"Bye."
"Have a good day."
"You, too."
(Bolt door. Grab hair in fists. Pound forehead for being such an awkward and insensitive idiot.)
***
Most people tell me that their first sexual encounter with someone new is usually a little uncomfortable. If you think about it, you've probably spent a cumulative six to 12 hours with the person before you find yourself wondering which of his or her orifices are off limits. But personally, I tend to overthink things until I kill them. I needed reassurance.
"Honey, I know this is going to sound so stupid," I pathetically confided in an ex-girlfriend, "but . . . would you say I was good in bed?"
"Baby," she laughed. "We had amazing sex. I thought our first time was sweet and nice. You're the one who freaked out. Just calm down. She'll call."
***
Oh, look: a text message. "Blah blah blah blah loved last night blah blah blah." Loved last night? What does that mean? Does that mean she loved last night? Or does that mean she's texting because she doesn't want to pick up the phone and have to discuss our encounter? Go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day. If she doesn't call, she doesn't call. At least you can laugh about the one that got away because you called her freaky in bed.
Work. Stop looking at the phone. You have a busy day ahead of you, Miss Greeley. Focus. (Phone rings.)
"Oh, hey, Mom."
(Phone rings.) Ugh. Not getting that one. Finish that article. Form sentences on the page.
(Phone rings.) Breathe sigh of relief. That's the newly familiar number I wanted to see. Let phone ring a few times. Act completely composed, self-assured, and confident. That's the impression she might once have had.
"Hey there!"
"Hi!"
And so it begins. Or it doesn't. @
Jeannie Greeley is an emotional train wreck of a freelance writer who might get tossed on her can after this is published. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.
[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]
