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A blunt. Period blood. Come as corrosive to an intestinal tract as battery acid. Vomit. Hangover.
Josh (a different one)
Well-endowed, digitally attentive, and creative, Josh 2 and I had one of those long built-up sexual tensions that lasts for months, and so, when the time finally arrived to make the beast with two backs, the beast was good. Very good. Sex with Josh 2 remains one of my most beloved sexual encounters with someone I really didn't give a shit about. Most notable: we did it on his living room floor, not knowing if his roommates would interrupt at any moment, with Wet Hot American Summer — the guise activity under which we were hanging out — still playing in the background. Only a pro can nail you while listening to Christopher Meloni's triumphant "I'm gonna go hump the fridge" speech. Yeah, I went back for more.
Having sex in a tent in your parents' front yard, as an adult, is weird. Having sex in a tent in your parents' front yard with a virgin four years your junior is weirder. Though he wasn't particularly cute or even my style, my yet-untouched young coworker's appeal was that he seemed like a challenge. Carl fucked like a lost, blind, and hyperactive Golden Retriever puppy. Shooting me frantic, "Is this good?" looks mixed in with stern grimaces of I'm-about-to-come-too-soon, he certainly put in an effort. And he improved. I maybe should have gleaned from his first look of trepidation that he was a little dirty, because after three months and a recurring UTI, I never slept with him again.
Eric, I think?
Don't blame me for forgetting Eric, I think?'s name. He came up to me after I'd been elbowed in the eye while shuffling to a Beastie Boys' song at a bar. After significant drinking that evening, about six of us were stumbling back towards my apartment. I was uncharacteristically gregarious — "Anyone can sleep over," I recall declaring to the street. Eric, I think? slithered his arm around mine and took me up on the offer. I didn't notice he'd taken me up on it until I was standing in my kitchen, caught his eye, and realized he was still there. Spirited, quick sex ensued — the sloshy drunk kind where you sort of dissociate from your limbs. Delicious, fast, sickening. The Taco Bell of sexual experiences. Eric, I think? did us both a kindness by leaving before I woke up (and not robbing me). He was only in the U.S. for two days and had friends to see in Bed-Stuy. The only shame I really feel here is that I distinctly remember wearing a Canadian tuxedo that night.
You know the Fleetwood Mac song, "Never Going Back Again"? That.
He had smelly blankets but fingered well. I stopped talking to him because, though sweet, I felt he had become too attached to me. I was graduating, and really didn't have time to babysit someone's emotions when they were accompanied by tepid, long-distance sex.
Never would I have imagined that some of my best sex would come from a handsome older musician with erectile dysfunction, but hey, some pigs can get air. We were in bed for the first time, and I felt a bit inadequate since I'd never encountered a penis so unobligingly flaccid. Then he sighed and gave a speech he must have had to make with every new lady: "If it's any consolation, a minute ago I was harder than Chinese algebra." (That turned out to be a Tom Waits appropriation.) In a slightly torrid relationship that lasted nearly a year, sometimes we could get it up and things would work out spectacularly. Other times, Frank's mind was on his gigs or on whatever priapically crippling anxieties he could stir up. At the end of the drawn-out relationship, I never felt I'd mastered the light bondage he'd requested, or really the art of dating him at all.
A take-away from a bar, Ethan is probably the only person I've ever fucked without at least one reprisal in the same night. I was honestly too inebriated to give this guy his due diligence, but I can say he was the sexual equivalent of R.E.M. — okay, enjoyable, but I could get sick of this and I'm not buying the album.
Paul was a talented musician who an ex had introduced me to. After sitting for two hours watching him play at a reputable venue, I was ready to invite him into my bed to "cuddle". The sex was probably objectively my best to date — stabbing, frenetic, and soulful, which I guess I should've expected from sex with a jazz musician. But Paul's pseudo-drifter, self-mythologizing Casanova vibe put me off.
The Person I Most Recently Slept With
Writing about this guy seems like handing out a progress report weeks before midterms. Let's just say, I do very much hope he's a repeat offender.
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