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Everyone I've Ever Had Sex With
A semi-wistful look back.
By Samantha Greene
Want to catalog your sex life for Nerve? Send your complete list of bedpost notches to email@example.com.
Mike and I had a relationship for three years filled with tender, close, romantically satiating sex. Our mutual first time can be summed up in a Ramen-sized package: polite, short, and moderately painful sex on a long-sheeted freshman-dorm mattress. The sex was never bad. He had a moderate dick size for someone not-so-tall, and an attentive nature for a novice. He's still, to this day, the only redhead I've ever slept with, and I can genuinely say that fire bush is a phenomenon worth seeing at least once. Looking back, though he did bogart the current majority of my sexually active years, I realize Mike was not the best sex of my life. Still, there was something hearty and fulfilling there, like the sense of anticipation you get waiting with a growling, empty stomach for the bread to come out of the oven.
Jeremy's face was like a creaking step you purposely miss going down a staircase. But he was there with a bony shoulder to cry on (and a long penis to bone on) the month after my first huge breakup. I cannot stress enough that he was working with some genetically-smiled-upon equipment. This was the first time I'd ever felt grade-A fucked. It ended as all underwhelming, illicit-sex-filled relationships do; I left town.
I don't think I've ever even dared to tell a best friend about Hank. We met at a Halloween party and I invited him over my house twice when nobody was around. He talked about his pet rats, and his penis felt like the rude finger jab of someone impatiently waiting in line behind you at the bank. Worse, when he was on top, the tacky metal chain hanging around his neck would fall into my mouth. I feel ashamed to say I came once, and frankly, I don't know why. I might blame this one on Seasonal Affective Disorder.
There was something a little too aggressive about Thomas's horizontal repertoire — a darting tongue, overly assertive thrusts, and grabby hands — but, he had an understated wit and sweet nature that persuaded me to date him on-and-off again for a good while. Each time, in college, I would go over to his room with lofty expectations and misguided hopes, sort of like the first time I cracked On The Road, only to be left just as unsatisfied. Thomas was tall, but it felt like I was in bed with a prodding felled oak. After a few months of being habitually mauled and then charmed (we had an unspoken post-game tradition of giggling through Woody Allen or Judd Apatow films together), I realized what was missing: I just was not sexually attracted to this person. But I enjoyed him very much. We're still close friends, as we should have been all along.
While staying in a hostel for three days in Barcelona, I befriended the Argentinian man working the front desk overnight. I halfway understood his mediocre English, but maybe more importantly, he understood my juvenile Spanish. We had a mutual command of some essential phrases: "You're beautiful," "I like Radiohead," and "Let's drink sangria." Adri lived above the hostel, which was pretty convenient for a tryst with a tourist. Maybe the man couldn't steer around English conjugation, but he knew his way around a clitoris. We hooked up a few times in one of those hastened before-I-go-see-La-Sagrada-Familia scenarios. Upon return to the U.S., we exchanged a few staggered emails, but I was too lazy to navigate the semantics of a cross-lingual, one-time hookup. Google-translating dirty talk gets tedious.
NEXT: "Having sex in a tent in your parents' front yard, as an adult, is weird."