On Tuesday Daniel came over. I hadn’t seen him in over a week, since he’d been busy on the last two times we’d planned to meet.
When he arrived I was distracted – I was making a cake to take to my friend Polly’s apartment for dinner the following night. We went to my room, and kissed and fooled around a bit, but I didn’t feel that usual heat and knicker-dampening Daniel usually causes. During our last IM session (which I claim to loathe but apparently don’t hate enough to stop doing) I mentioned that I’d been “practicing” my blowjob skills (as per my date with Jefferson). I’d intimated that, thanks to my newfound knowledge, he might be the recipient of some unskilled but eager deep throating.
“I don’t think you can take all of me,” Daniel had pointed out. “I’m big.” No kidding!
So now he stood at the edge of my bed and I faced him, at eye level with his crotch. He dick sprang to attention when I undid his pants; very gratifying. I gave his cock a few welcoming licks, and then settled my mouth around him. “Don’t push, OK?” I said. And then I moved my mouth forward very slowly, trying to take him down into my throat. I kept saying to myself “Relax,” just as Jefferson had said to me, and I let Daniel’s cock rest against my tongue while I concentrated on breathing with a huge obstruction lodged against the back of my mouth. Each time I tried to take him further I gagged, but Daniel was enthusiastic, and I was determined. “It’s hard for me not to just grab your head and thrust down your throat,” he sighed.
“Don’t do that!” My poor throat.
Daniel suggested that we switch positions; he said that I ought to be on my back while he leant over my mouth; this would be a more comfortable angle for me. “You’re almost there,” he coaxed, “You’ve almost got me all in.” (He wasn’t totally hard; that might have been a bit much). So with him straddling my face, I opened my mouth over him again, and took him until I gagged: “You took it all, baby,” said Daniel, sounding delighted. “You’re the first person to ever do that.” And the last, I hoped, but that’s not likely.
Then we fooled around, kissing and stroking and chatting and somehow my roommate Jenny was mentioned and Daniel said, “Or we could just invite her up here!” Meaning, we could have a threesome.
“Uh!” I said, grimacing. “That’s in poor taste.”
That bothered me for a few reasons. One: I’m pretty annoyed with Jenny right now over the state of our kitchen. Two: Last week, when Daniel gallantly killed a cockroach (whose appearance I blame on my roommates, who seem incapable of taking out the garbage), she was standing in the kitchen in very tight, very short velour shorts. I guess he noticed that. Three: Though she’s not like this around anyone I’m seeing, she affects (she admits it; it’s her MO, just as awkward charm is – I hope-- mine) ditziness around men and, furthermore, is very open about how she manipulates men. Four: I don’t know, I thought it was in bad taste, I guess.
SIDEBAR Oddly enough, the other night, Jenny had a similar experience. She has what she terms “booty calls” – a stupid but pretty accurate description – with a former neighbor named Jack. And, as she informed me, “I think Jack wants me to set him up with Anna! I was a little offended!”
Anna is our other roommate. She is a nurse. She’s gorgeous and kind and speaks with a heavy Korean accent. She hasn’t had a boyfriend in five years. “Chuh!” I said. “I’d be offended, too!” Also, we both worry about Anna. We are both maximizing sluttiness at this time, and feel that her participation in the effort would enhance female solidarity. Just kidding. We’re worried about her because, like I said, she hasn’t had a boyfriend in five years. As Jenny pointed out, “That’s two marriages in my time.”
Jenny outranks me on the sluttiness factor, as I may have mentioned. In fact, one Sunday afternoon recently Jenny had sex with her soon-to-be-ex husband and then went round to Jack’s and slept with him. I’ve never had sex with two different people in the same day. But anyway. We both think it would be nice for Anna to date someone. But obviously not someone either of us are sleeping with. So when Daniel made that comment about Jenny, it made me think of Jack and Anna, and how I’d congratulated myself that, thank God, Daniel is nothing like Jack, who, in addition to being an emotional clod is stocky and short (but Jenny’s type, as it turns out).
So that comment about inviting Jenny to my room stuck with me, even when we started fucking, which was, as usual, lovely. I slid on top of him and almost immediately my legs were shaking as I struggled to come, stretching my legs around his long limbs. “Are you going to come for me, Lily?”
Hearing him say my name was almost unbearable. “Say my name,” I panted.
“Lily, come for me. Lily.”
I came then. “But I can do it again,” I promised, cause I wanted to work a bit more. But then that delicious post-orgasm lassitude swept over me, and I was content to rock back and forth on top and watch his face.
“I want to paint you,” he said. “On canvas.”
I smiled. “I want to be all over your pages,” I said. “I want you to look at your sketchbook and see me naked all over it.”
“And I want to take some pictures so I can look at you when you’re not around…”
“We could do that…”
He clutched at my breasts and kneaded them, sucking my nipples and bunching them up with his hands. Now that I don’t find terribly erotic, but he obviously does, and I’m glad to provide this pleasure.
Then he sat on the edge of my bed with my legs wrapped around him and I bounced up and down on his cock. “I like being close to you,” I sighed, because even though I find coming easiest when I’m on top at a certain angle, I love, love, love being thisclose to his skin and being wrapped up in him.
“I love being enveloped by you,” he murmured, and I thought fleetingly of college women’s studies classes: enveloping!
“I can feel you right here,” I said, pointing to a spot on my lower belly, where his dick fit in me.
I lay on my back and he fucked me more, and I kept urging him to come. Oftentimes he pulls out and I finish him off by hand. He has is paranoid about pregnancy, despite never having had sex without a condom (!) and is, I think, much more comfortable getting off via handjobs, but this time he came in me. I repeated what he’d said earlier: “Come for me, Daniel. Come for me, baby.”
Afterwards I made dinner, cause I was starving, and Daniel napped for a bit. While we were in the kitchen, with me at the stove, and him nuzzling the nape of my neck, the picture of domestic happiness, he told me about the other women in his life. Including Robin, and some woman he’s never met, who lives across the country.
“Robin told me that she likes to have three guys at a time,” he explained. “One she’s crushing on [his words], a regular boyfriend, and a fuck buddy [also his words, I hate the term ‘fuck buddy’ as well].” I burst out laughing. But then I sobered up, thinking, Uh, I’m seeing three people, though technically they’re all “fuck buddies”. The hell with “fuck buddies,” Robin and I are Daniel’s Regular Sex Partners, or RSPs. And I thought, I have a crush on Daniel. I want him to have a crush on me. I mean, I know he likes me; finds me amusing and fun and sexy, but I want his heart to race when he sees me, you know? Greedy girl.
So, Daniel went on, he and this girl apparently have lots in common. To wit: she’s had her tubes tied; he wants a vasectomy. She loves vintage clothing; he is Mr. Forties. And, uh, I’m petty -- I couldn’t help thinking, Everyone loves vintage. Big deal. “She sounds great,” I said noncommittally. “Sounds like you have a crush on her.”
“Yeah. Last night on IM I told her that if she were in New York I’d ask her to go dancing,” Daniel admitted. I smiled, wondering if this bothered me, and if it did, whether or not I’d be able to admit it to myself.
When we were done eating it was past 11:00 and we climbed into bed. He asked me about my date with Jefferson, and we discussed how hot it would be for him to go down on another guy while I watched. He keeps returning to this scenario. Then we went back to Robin: “She says ideally she’d like the men she’s seeing to be monogamous,” he said, and I laughed.
“No,” I said, after a minute, “I guess that would be preferable.” Then I said I was, by inclination, monogamous. But what I think I meant was that, by inclination, I’m jealous and insecure. And just now I came across an interesting article by William Saletan on Slate, called “Don’t Do Unto Others.” He illustrates my feelings very well:
“One isn't the number of people you want to sleep with. It's the number of people you want your spouse to sleep with.”
Then the conversation moved around to whether I liked hearing stuff about his sex life. I hesitated. “Well, I like it in the abstract,” I said. Because that story he’d told me about that nameless friend of his and himself both going down on some guy had turned me on, but when I hear about what Robin and he do in bed I start wondering if he’s comparing us. Also, I think the thought of Daniel being with a guy doesn’t seem like a threat to our non-relationship, whereas hearing about Robin always makes me tense. “I like to hear it anonymously,” I considered. “But, really, if I know it’s Robin, then I can’t help wondering if she’s prettier than me, has a better body, that kind of thing.” We lay facing one another, my fingers in his hair.
“Ohhh…” he said in that “You little scamp,” voice, sort of affectionately chiding.
I shrugged. It’s the truth.
Then he said, “Seriously, you’re the best looking girl I’ve ever been with. I’m constantly stunned that you’re with me.” Item: I’m not great looking. My nose is too wide and I have to the pluck dark hairs on my face, which breaks out. And also, item: when he said that I thought: So, how come you’re with this Robin, eh? If I’m so great?
I smiled and kissed him. “You’re gorgeous,” I said, cause it’s true.
SIDEBAR. Now, a few things. One: I included that he said I’m the best looking girl he’s ever dated in this blog entry. My passion for compliments about my physical features is apparently bottomless, as is my insecurity about my looks. I constantly take off my glasses and unwind my hair for photos, and I’m always aware of how I stand on the thin-fat continuum compared to other women in the room. I am not proud of this; it’s a fact. I used to think I wasn’t vain, just insecure, but maybe I’m both – an ugly combination. I think I’ve always thought I was ugly because my parents never told me I was pretty.
I don’t think they did it to be cruel. I think that a) it didn’t occur to them b) they didn’t want it to matter. They didn’t want me to think that prettiness was an attribute that really counted for anything. But it does, of course. Never mind all the studies that suggest prettier people are better paid, better liked and more successful; it matters because people want to feel attractive. And my parents never told me that I was pretty – they still haven’t for that matter, although of course I do receive compliments along the lines of “That looks nice on you,” and “You skin looks good,” “Have you lost weight?” etc., etc. But never an outright, “You’re so pretty.” Should I have a daughter, I will tell her she’s beautiful every day, until she gets tired of reminding me how looks aren’t important.
The other main reason I never felt pretty growing up was that my closest friends were often noticeable beauties. My very oldest friend (I haven’t seen her in years, though we do e-mail occasionally) was a girl named Brett Hallon. When we were kids, we had matching bowl-shaped haircuts (why? why?), but Brett had blond hair and blue eyes. It was just a given that Brett was beautiful, and in fact she was. When I went to high school I met some people who had known her. “Oh my God, she was the most beautiful girl in the world,” said this guy, who was famed in my class as being the handsomest guy. Another confessed he’d had a crush on her in pre-school. You get the idea.
One day my mother ran into Brett on the street. I must have been about 16. “She looks great,” my mom told me, “Her hair’s really long. She looked really pretty.”
I was livid. “Thanks, Mom. I really needed to hear that,” I spat, as though there wasn’t enough beauty to go around, as if Brett being beautiful meant I couldn’t be pretty. I was ashamed of my behavior, but now I think it upset me because it was the first time I could remember that my mother had ever commented on how pretty someone was. And it wasn’t me. Anyway, in addition to this, while I was in high school (not the high water mark for me, self-esteem or attitude-wise) my three closest friends had perfect skin, blond hair and blue eyes, and were all at least 5’5”. I was just used to being the plain one. It’s like in a group of girls, one of them has to be the prettiest, and one is the plainest. I was used to being the plainest.
So now when I receive compliments about my looks I feel vindicated, like everything I’ve learned in 33 years of living and more than half of that in therapy has made me pretty, like it’s a moral victory. Being told I’m smart or nice cuts no ice with me; I already know that. I crave being told I’m gorgeous, cause it makes me feel like I’m not this freak who’s too short and has spotty skin and dark hairs on her upper lip.
Anyway, I didn’t date seriously until I was out of college and, come to think of it, I was never fed a steady diet of compliments even by men who wanted to get into my pants. I mean, I was confident that these men – some of them, anyway – loved me, and found me attractive. And no doubt they did, though generally not attractive enough to stop what they were doing and remark on it. Daniel seems compelled to tell me I’m gorgeous when we meet up and then before, during and after sex. Maybe this is part of the reason I’m so enamored of him. That’s an interesting idea.
Bottom line: Daniel has a huge cock. No, wait, that wasn’t it…
Bottom line: I’m emotionally retarded and have yet to forgive my parents for things that were finished years ago. SIDEBAR ENDS.
Then Daniel fucked me doggy style. Now that’s when I like to be called a whore, I’ve discovered, so I hinted, none too subtly, that this was what I wanted to hear: “I want to be a whore for you,” I whispered, feeling his torso thrust against my back with that solid, thrumming pump.
“You’re such a good slut,” he breathed obligingly, pushing against me. “Cockslut. You’d like to have two cocks at once to please, wouldn’t you?”
After a while I got on top of him and rode him. As usual, I was soon on the verge of orgasm. But I was so wet, it was like there was no tension between his cock and my cunt. All of a sudden it felt like he’d slipped out, or had gotten soft. But he was still there. I think that slickness might be attributable to my period. Then, with a shudder, I came, relieved.
“You’re so tight when you come,” he breathed, “It’s like you squeeze me out.”
Maybe that was the problem.
Then I lay on my back again, with my legs on his shoulders. It used to be that fucking like this was painful, but now I really like it. I wonder if my insides have become all loose and wanton, eh? Will that make my girl parts less appealing to men?
In the morning I thought I might consolidate my sexual power by blowing him, even though I was pretty tired. It occurs to me that I’m giving a lot of head lately!
“You’re converting me to blowjobs,” Daniel smiled as I worked him over with my mouth, and then my hands. When he came it was just a tiny spurt of thick white gunk.
“I think I’ve wrung most of it out of you,” I observed.
Then we had to get up. “What are you doing this weekend?”
I looked at my date book, and recited my plans. “I’m free on Saturday night… What are you doing?”
“Well, tonight Robin’s moving to her new place in the city, and she wants to break in the bed.” (Hmmph. She has a place in the city now, does she?) “And this weekend, we’re going to Atlantic City.”
I did a double take. “Really?”
“That’s so cool.” But I was thinking, Why not me? Why her?
And the upshot of the whole thing is I’m sure she’s his favorite (like we’re a harem, for God’s sake), and that she’s prettier, sexier, hotter and more fun than me.
Then I got to work and found out that my temp assignment is ending, which means I’ve got to make an effort to find a job. Ken Smith, whom I was fantasizing about seducing, brought me into his office. As soon as he told me to sit down, I knew; I’d never been asked to sit down before. He seemed nervous; I think he was afraid I was going to cry!
This was all so depressing, but then I got some good news: Jefferson has been tested, and he’s all clear. We have a date. Now it’s not 100 percent accurate, because, although it’s unusual, positive HIV results can take up to six months to become apparent in the blood, and even so, well, after we start having sex it’s not like he won’t be fucking anyone else. But I’ve decided that these are risks I’m apparently prepared to take. Also, Adrian, who works with Marc, invited me to their very swanky Christmas party. It’s on the same day as the one at Dor-Oops will be, so even though I have to bid farewell to my chances of pulling Ken Smith, I can still wear my pink dress and drink champagne that night.
Then last night I went to visit Polly, her boyfriend Theo and their new baby, Ginny. Seeing them so happy and exhausted in their tiny apartment, I just thought, I can’t have a baby until I have a decent sized home. Baby paraphernalia has taken over almost every inch of the place. And I’m sure I still have lots of growing up (or living somewhat dangerously, if you like) to do before I settle down.
It was a long 24 hours.