The Greeting Card

She was always just kind of "there," a friend of friends, hanging around with the crew. Nice enough, but meek and not initially captivating. Adequately cute in a tomboy pixie, "always the bridesmaid, never the bride" kind of way. She had a thing for me; I did not have one for her. With our friends, we partook in the usual slate of post-college pre-job activities: potluck dinners, cheap red wine, marijuana cigarettes, and the mining of Bob Marley box set for the choicenugs. Over several months, we went from hanging out in big groups of friends to hanging out alone together. 

I started to really enjoy her company, but on those evenings, it never escalated to anything more intimate than a shared joint. We were comfortable around each other (and often stoned), which allowed her to be a little more open. We had some engaging conversations about past relationships, future plans, and the dismal state of pop music. (Savage Garden and *NSYNC were charting at the time.) Perhaps I should have seen it coming, but honestly thought we were on the same platonic page.

I arrived at her apartment one evening and was promptly handed a card. It wasn’t a typical card-giving occasion, but i was mischievously instructed to open it. The front of the card featured cartoons with cute captions referring to new best buds, and the inside was completely blank save for one handwritten line, “I want to fuck you. Now." I had just been propositioned via a sex card.

As I stared into the card for a moment, images of red flags waving frantically over silver platters collided in my head, only to be vanquished by two little hands pulling me in for her much-anticipated first kiss. We stood in the doorway making out like the plane was going down, until I was escorted into her darkened bedroom nearby. Shedding clothes, inhibitions and a hint of dignity, I threw her onto the bed and proceeded to kiss and lick my way down in between her legs, where I set up camp and went to town.

This process is usually a smash hit; number one with a bullet. Except on this particular occasion I wasn’t receiving any of the usual signals: no moaning, no, "Oh God," no arched back. Absolutely zilch. If we'd been drinking, I would have assumed she'd passed out. Thinking perhaps oral wasn’t her thing, I moved up and began fucking her in standard missionary. I may as well have been fucking a bag of rice. Zero response; no sounds, no words, no movement.

I quickly finished up and to my astonishment she whispered, "That was incredible," into my ear. I was totally baffled. How had this friendship gone so horribly awry? How had I just had the worst sex possible? I was under the impression that presenting a proposition in such a manner would have included bringing something, anything, to the table, even if it was just the cracker packets that rest beside the soup. I was wrong. — Scott