This week’s Turn-a-Trope Tuesday was an interesting one – good people have good sex. And I couldn’t help myself. The voice, the story just happened and I’m not going to apologize or take it back. I will, however, do a warning that it has an adult rating (because sexy talk) and some adult language, so if those two things bother you, then you don’t have to read it. I won’t be offended, I promise.
I present 999 words, flipping this trope on it’s head (I think):
The Not Ideal, Mighty Fine Work Around
My name’s Eve and I feel cheated. Not in the way you might think. No one robbed me or swindled me, but I’ve been cheated just the same.
The thing is, no one tells you what to expect. They just assume you know. How that’s even remotely possible, I’m quite sure I don’t know. But I’m here to say that I didn’t know and I’m thinking it would have been only fair if someone had taken the time to tell me so I didn’t have to puzzle through it on my own.
Not that my parents were going to tell me. They wouldn’t talk about sex to save their own life much less mine. Pretty sure their sex life was (is?) about as much fun as getting cat piss out of the carpet. Not that I want to know. Nope. They can just keep their sexy secrets behind closed doors, thank you very much.
See, growing up you watch TV and no, it isn’t porn or anything, but you wind up with certain expectations. Have a glass of wine with a gentleman; wear a dazzling outfit; smooch a bit; everything polished to a perfectly pretty shine. Then the door closes and the scene fades to black and your imagination takes over. And boy could my imagination take over!
It probably didn’t help that I found my parents’ book porn hidden in their room when I was younger. Now, just to clarify unless you go thinking my parents really had porn lying around their house, hidden in their bedroom or not; they didn’t. It was more like steamy romances, which had the same problems as listed above, only book scenes end with, “He took her into the bedroom.” Regardless, I ate that shit up! Had to make sure I put the book back so they wouldn’t notice, but when they were at work, I was in my bedroom poring over lustful words.
So, you might say I had some idea what to expect. But, boy would you be wrong.
There I was, the ripe old age of eighteen years old and me and the sweetie had been dancing around it for a few months. Now, keep in mind that we were both raised in religion, so it’s not like we were excited about this new experience, this sharing of sex with each other. It’s more like we were scared shitless.
But it didn’t matter what we did or how much we tried to stop it. Somehow our hands just ended up all over each other and soon we were lifting clothes and kissing more and farther down…
Well, you get the idea.
It’s not like we talked about it either. There was no “you’re going to do this” then “I’m going to do that” and “I really liked that” and “keep doing that” or “stop that right now!” In fact, I seem to remember an absence of words – like the first one who spoke would die a horrible death, or something.
So there we were, getting in on and before I knew it certain clothes had been removed and I was staring at something that I knew would not fit where it was supposedly going. And yep. I was right.
That’s another thing I never really learned about. Lubrication. As stated above, it probably would have helped to have some sort of words from someone on the subject and how to do things the best possible way.
Anyway, long story short, we kept at it and eventually managed to go all the way. But then another thing happened that continues to happen to this day. Once the thing was where it needed to go, it’s like it couldn’t help itself. Being surrounded by all that moist heat, pumping in and out, it expended itself within a matter of moments.
All that build up for a few moments? Because it’s not like things continued. No, once he was done, so was I apparently. And for some reason I did this thing where I smiled and acted like things were great when I was really feeling, well, I guess the appropriate words would be let down.
Which brings me to feeling cheated.
At this point, those moments have turned to minutes and sometimes we get a full ten, but other than that, it’s pretty much over as soon as it begins. I’m not sure he even realizes it, but it just doesn’t happen quite that fast for me. I mean, sure, I enjoy it, because all the build up is nice; but it should lead to that moment, you know the one – seeing stars, fading vision and languid, limp body.
Just in case you were wondering, we aren’t much better at the whole talking thing. We can’t even say things like, “Yes, I absolutely want to fuck tonight!” No, it’s more like we do another dance. I look at him a certain way and he’s supposed to just know that I want to; or he leans into me and puts his hand on my knee and somehow that is the magical symbol for “I want to fuck”. Things could be so much easier if we just opened up and said what we wanted, you know, with words.
Needless to say, we haven’t had that conversation. The one where I tell him I’m walking around most nights like a sex crazed maniac, throbbing and wet with hunger.
But to be perfectly honest, since that’s what I’m doing here, bearing my soul to anyone who will listen; I’m not really walking around like that because I discovered something – a work around; and a mighty fine one too. It’s not ideal, I suppose, but in the absence of actually communicating with sweetie to get shit done, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
And when I say that, I do mean it literally.
Funny how you learn pretty damn fast where your own buttons are and how to pop them.