I was having a conversation with Zoe, of WinkWinkWink.com fame, and she noted that I was one of the few male bloggers not to really talk about sex directly on my blog. That got me to thinking; why hadn't I written on the topic of sex? It's not that I don't have a lot to say on the topic, however, it's so well covered by my male contemporaries, Mike Masters, Jeffrey Platts and the like. If you want to read something about the male point of view regarding sex go read them. I'll wait for you.Okay. Good! You're back. First off do any of you really care what think about sex? I'd like to think you don't, but I know better. Running this blog has made me revisit my thoughts on the subject frequently. Perhaps it's better if I just tell you how the young Urban Dater really got thrust (no pun intended… okay, maybe it was after all) into the exciting world of sexual goodness.
I've mentioned before that I grew up around many strong female personalities, most of whom were type A, alpha personalities. Needless to say, from a young age, I was brought up to have a healthy respect of women. I learned to treat them no different than boys. That means I pretty much never let a girl win at anything; forget about it! Now, this wasn't such a bad thing as, even today, I feel that if a woman wants to compete in contests or social venues typically reserved or dominated by men then I'm all for it. Treat her as an equal and see if said woman will sink or swim.
This line of thinking, while great and progressive, really f#cked with me as I begin to realize that I liked girls… A lot. First of all, I had no first clue of what I should do. After treating girls the same as I treated Tommy Howell down street for years and years, it was becoming more and more difficult to stop staring at the newly noticed breasts of my friend, Carla, from the block. I had sex on the brain and bad all throughout high school. Yet I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I mean, I had a lot of things working against me. First off, my sense of humor, while I'd like to think was witty, came off as creepy and disturbed (editor's note: His humor is still creepy and disturbed). The art of cutting and dry humor hadn't quite developed yet. Think of Steven Wright's jokes but told by Crispin Glover; I was a special kind of creepy. Oh and not mention I was saddled with pretty much the most awful haircut at my high school. Even as I looked through the yearbook no one else had this type of haircut. It wasn't even close to what was in style at that time… No, I was the only guy that had a hair cut from a kid that looked like Ronald McDonald's wife's failed abortion. I imagine this last phrase will get me some booes. What were you expecting? Jack, from Brooklyn, were you? Moving on…
Graduating high school I managed to kiss all of two girls (not my mother) and that wasn't exactly getting to first base, kids. You see, the kisses were so awful and awkward that, instead of making it to first base, I had some how manged to lay down a bunt straight to the pitcher, fall on my ass and break my big toe somewhere between my sex starved teen years and the holy grail that is known as first base.
My problem? Other than looking like an asshole with a jerk of a haircut? I put pussy on a pedestal. Plain and simple. I could hear choirs and birds sing whenever I saw a girl I liked… It was that bad!
I'll spare you all and just fast forward to twenty two. That's when it happened. I bloomed. I took my vCard and lit that effing thing on fire and ran it over a few times.
I lost my virginity to a girl that I'd been friends with for years, her name was Jill. To be honest, this girl was a HUGE cock tease. This girl would flirt with me, cause extremely tense moments by pretty much doing things that you might find on display at the seedy strip joint where your mama works. I'm kidding, your mom is cool.
Jill knew I wanted her, she flirted with me, teased me. She had a power over me and it turned her on. What I didn’t quite understand until much later was that she didn’t want to be in control. She wanted to be taken.
I learned a valuable lesson here. Women, no matter how clueless don't want to GIVE anything to you, not even an STD (or is it STI now?). No; women want to be taken. I shouldn't say that all women feel this way, but, at least, all the women I know, want to be courted and to be taken; they don't want to be in control. They want you to take the baton and beat them with it… over and over.
Without realizing it, one day I did just that. Jill was mid sentence when I grabbed her by the back of her head and pulled her face to mine, her mouth to mine and I kissed her; at first I kissed her hard, as though, years of pent up sexual frustration was erupting through this kiss; it was passionate and feral. Then I kissed her softly, through that kiss I let Jill know what I was going to do to her later and how I felt about her, our mouths locked. Through that kiss, Jill knew that I was going to fuck her with a reckless fervor and that I loved her, painfully so…
I had no clue what was to await me later that night… I didn’t go in with guns blazing, Jill took control and did as she pleased. I was scared, I was a mess; I was no match for this sexually-wisened maven. She thrust herself atop me, did as she willed, dug her nails deep in my chest, gasped and groaned; to be a fly on the wall and see how scared I was as this woman slammed herself repeatedly into me… over and over. My lone attempt to take control was thwarted. She knew what she wanted from me and how she wanted it; she kept that throbbing soldier in formation, at attention. In short, she didn't want me to fuck it up… She was warm, then suddenly cold as she gasped and squealed and collapsed on top of me, heaving with each breath, she was so wet. I didn’t know what the hell had happened, but I was pretty sure I was a boy no more.
After time spent nuzzling one another, I got up to to the restroom. I looked at myself in the mirror, my life had literally changed mere moments before and I had the claw marks and bruises to prove it. It was then that I realized that I really wasn't so different from other guys. I was just like everyone else, creepy as jokes, bad haircut and all. I had gotten laid, in spite of myself. I was that sword, sitting in a fire, being struck, shaped and forged into something purposeful. No pussy would be safe here on out… Or so I thought.
Until next time, don't get your pics taken at Olan Mills. Ever.
Did I answer your question as to why I haven't written about sex? Nope. Pay attention, though, I'll be back with more.