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Once upon a time (two months ago), I met John at a conference. When I laid eyes on him, both my brain and cooch simultaneously went "homina homina." If he'd suggested hooking-up, I would have grabbed his hand, pulled him into a restroom stall, and insisted his boy parts make squishy noises with my girl parts. Instead, I had to use every feminine wile in my disposal to lure him into my bedroom. When I finally did, there I was, fondling him through his jeans, ready to kick off my soaked panties, when he said:
"Let's have sex when we know each other better."
Ha, very funny. "We know each other well enough," I responded.
"Really?" he said, "Then what's my middle name? If you can guess it in three tries, we'll have sex."
Eh, Rick? Wrong. Nate? No. Steve? Sayonara.
"So why would you want to have sex with me if you don't even know my basic info?" he asked. (Honest answer: "Horniness moves in mysterious ways.") But now I do know John's middle name, and where he was born, and his favorite childhood movie. I've met his sister, and my toothbrush lies next to his in the bathroom.
And still he refuses to have sex with me.
* * *
Many chicks would call John the model of a true gentleman. These are the exact words he said to me: "When we have sex, it'll really mean something. It'll be worth it to wait, I promise."
"What's my middle name? If you can guess it in three tries, we'll have sex."
Yeah, I get it. There have been times when I've considered wearing a chastity belt. And I've had my fair share of Banana Republic sex: not totally casual, but not exactly couture, either. What John offers me is emotional couture — the sort of dreamy stuff that makes a lot of girls breathe hard. And yet here I am, obsessed with the other kind of breathing hard. He merely smiles and says, "Now you know how it feels to be on the other side."
So, to all the boys whom I've given the "wouldn't it be fun to do the 40-Year-Old Virgin twenty-dates-with-no-sex thing?" — I apologize. I didn't realize the cruelty of the exercise. And to all the boys whom I've used as "dicks in a glass case," I beg forgiveness. Through my suffering, I've developed compassion for the intentionally cock-blocked male. Play on, playas.
Now some of you are probably thinking, What team is he batting for? But I can tell you, John is one-hundred-percent about the ladies. When he watches the video to Benny Benassi's "Satisfaction", he gets those glazed eyes that only straight boys get. Nor is he a promise-ring wearer or some anachronistic prude.
I know because the other night, I was wearing my infamously short "hey, you forgot your pants" dress, sans panties (they disappeared at a party — long story). John appreciated that dress enough to pull me onto his lap and kiss me with his soft, soft tongue. Later he bent me over a railing on a quiet New-York city street, lifting up my dress, and touching me...with his hands.