Sex and the Shychik
One of the things you really start to miss when you’re mired in the sticky morass of a failing relationship is hot, juicy, rollicking sex (unless of course hot, juicy, rollicking sex is what brought about the demise of the aforementioned failing relationship). I mean, there may be the oh-god-this-is-the-last-sex-i-may-get-for-a-reeeeeally-long-time desperation sex, or the one-for-old-times-sake sex, or perhaps even the yes-I-feel-sorry-enough-to-do-you-one-last-time sex (for the altruist in all of us). But let’s face it, sex is so tied to emotion and thought that when we’re bogged down in the mucky details of who gets the CD’s and holiday flatware, sex (or lack thereof) usually fades into the woodwork. Until of course, we are officially single, whereupon the absence of sex, the lack of opportunity for sex, and fevered keep-us-awake-at-night thoughts of sex becomes a raging tornado of longing that is a force to be reckoned with.
What’s a single girl to do? Unfortunately, we are conditioned from the time that we are wee tots, with such confining idiocies as, “good girls don’t”, and “save yourself for marriage”, not to mention, the much despised, “why would they buy the cow if the milk is free?”. So now women are cows to be purchased? Oh no, not all women, just the horny ones. Like me.
Responsive to the conditioning despite my distaste for puritanical norms, I set out upon the dating world fiercely resolved to be a “good girl” (not admitting, even to myself, that such things didn’t exist, although I strongly suspected it). The first date that I had was with a rangy and randy fireman. Here was a guy who worked out every day, and spent his working hours saving lives and solving problems. Sweet!
The first time we met face to face (after being introduced by our good friend the Internet), it struck me that he looked older than his profile picture, but the striking blue of his eyes was an arresting feature to focus on.
After a couple of glasses of super-sweet and fruity sangria (those were all me, he had beer – what else would a fireman drink?), I was drowning in the depths of his cerulean blue eyes. I was drowning in something at any rate. I wasn’t even subtle, I was flirting my little Shychik ass off, with no thought (or at least not any conscious thought that I would admit to, even under oath) as to the consequences or potential outcomes of the situation. Yeah, right.
So here’s the scenario…horny, flirty, slightly intoxicated, newly single, feelin-free-and-breezy Shychik meets blue-eyed boy who’s really good with a hose – you take the brush and paint the rest of that picture.
It’s hard to say whether the sex was actually good, or whether we had both merely fallen prey to “Oasis in the Desert Syndrome” or ODS. I suspect it was the latter, because it wasn’t very long before we realized that kissing each other was really more like kissing a relative of whom we were particularly fond – not exactly a hotbed of frenzied passion. We laugh about it now, both of us having moved on to greener pastures and greater passions. The awesome outcome is that we forged a great friendship. He saw me through the hills and valleys of my dating experience (see Dating and the Shychik), and I helped him figure out the best marriage proposal ever when he bit the bullet and asked for his beloved’s hand.
So where did that leave me? Horny and moving on to datable guy #2. A racecar owner/driver with the largest…ahem… “member” I’d seen in recent history. Living proof that size doesn’t matter. His intentions toward sex were good, but let’s not forget, it’s all in the execution baby. Sweet guy, fun to talk to, fabulous imported wine collection, but no real chemistry there.
Enter guy #3 – there should be a law against guys that gorgeous, it’s just not fair to have to go out with someone prettier than I am. Seriously, this guy always looks like he just stepped out of the pages of GQ, perfect hair, big blue eyes (what can I say, I’m a sucker, so far every guy has had them – strange coincidence for a recessive trait!), abs that one could bounce quarters off if one had the inclination, and a killer smile. I must admit, when our mutual friend the Internet first introduced us, I was skeptical. It was inconceivable to me that someone who apparently had so much going for him hadn’t been hooked, filleted, fried and eaten by some enterprising female. I feared that he had used some supermodel’s pic and was really a 60 year old fat bald guy who needed a date.
But after texting for a few weeks (I’m totally not a phone person, see “Shychik Defined”), he asked me out and I accepted. I will ramble on at length about the nuances, discoveries and realizations that came from my various dates in “Dating and the Shychik”, but for our purposes here (it’s all about sex baby!), suffice to say it went well. No, we didn’t have sex on our first date, but we soon realized after much hot texting, that it was a distinct possibility in the future. In the meantime, I went about my quest to date as many different types of guys (recessive traits notwithstanding) as possible in order to determine what, precisely, I was looking for.
Which brings me to datable guy #4, a Native American multimillionaire who lived 3 hours away, in a major city. This guy had incredible emailing skills, managing to be witty and engaging, practically jumping out of the computer screen with personality. He was much the same in person, but had an energy level so vibrant that I felt eclipsed and somewhat worn out. Sex with him was much like I imagine riding an unbroken pony in the nude might be. Kinda exciting in a fear-for-your-life kind of way that left me chafed and scratching my head wondering what the hell just happened. His body movements were so fast and furious that I wondered if he had a train to catch and if that train would give a better ride than the one I was getting.
Moving onward….
I wish I could say that next came datable guy #5, but oh no…before we get to the sweet soul who is indeed datable guy #5, I must confess to the dirty deeds done dirt cheap with UNdatable guy #1.
It started off so well…good food, decent (but not great) conversation, and a nice summer night ride in a German convertible. Yes, I confess, I let my base drives get the best of me, and in a moment of pure sexual desperation, I went for it, although truthfully, the hairy chested barrel body thing does nothing for me, and I ended up with one of the few regrets of my dating/sexual exploration phase. Not only was he selfish and hopelessly inept in bed, he was crass about it afterward. I felt dirty, cheap and used, and these are not emotions with which Shychik is terribly familiar. I’ll dish out all of the gory date details (literally gory, ugh) in Dating and the Shychik, but suffice to say, my misgivings were well founded, the guy was a bonafide jerk. And as we all know, Shychik is not judgmental and loves everyone, but dear god this guy was a piece of work. Lesson learned!
Side note – as I began to have a basis of comparison for the size of male genitalia, I came upon the realization that (with the exception of the profundity of the racecar driver’s instrument) despite the fact that I’ve run into those who tend to run at or a bit below averages, I do believe that dynamite truly can be found in small (er) packages. Pun fully intended.
But I digress. Shortly on the heels of the nightmarish encounter with UNdatable guy #1, my dear friend the Internet introduced me to datable guy #5. Keep in mind please, I texted and emailed with datable guy #5 for a significant amount of time before he asked me out. He was careful and deliberate in his dating style, far from my reckless sense of abandon in that arena. Vive la difference!
I had three dates with datable guy #5, who was a former football player with the demeanor of a teddy bear (he was soooo sweet!), and he never even tried to kiss me. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he was a gentleman and was as deliberate about his dating progress as he was about his dating selection. Unfortunately in the fast paced world of internet dating, I was meeting new people as he was taking his time.
So while #5 was doing the “right thing” and taking the time to get to know me, the sexting with Mr. GQ/supermodel was getting more provocative, and we finally made arrangements for our second date. We’re both horror movie fans, so he invited me to his place for “movie night”. Oh yeah baby, it was ON!
All the right elements were in place, he had my favorite wine in his wine frig, he showed me all of his remodeling projects around the house, tickling and teasing my inner decorator, and showcased the horror movie in his gorgeous den with buttery soft leather couches. He had me at “Transitional Style with Earth Tones”.
OMG, OMG, OMG, I was about to get it on with the hottest guy ever. He was an excellent kisser, knew all the right moves, and had just the right sized and shaped penis attached to his perfect body…lookout heaven, here I come! Pun fully intended…I wish.
The ultimate irony is that I was so nervous about how I looked, how he felt, and dozens of other insecurities that swirled about in my intimidated brain, that I couldn’t get into my groove at all. If I were a man I would have been impotent. Shit. I was so looking forward to sex with him, so consumed with lust, I had been waiting for weeks for that moment, and when it came, I choked. No, not literally, we didn’t do that.
We had sex anyway, and, all things considered, despite the fact that I was way too far into my own head, it was pretty damn good. The view was tremendous. Just stay there and look pretty honey. And it soon came to pass that, when we had the time, we would get together, hang out, satisfy each other’s needs with no strings attached and make no demands other than peace and goodwill. Not a bad arrangement, but not a Relationship (notice the capital R) either. And so I dated.
All the while that I dated Mr. GQ, the Native American, and the Teddy Bear, I was corresponding via email and text with a gentleman who would eventually rock my world like a 7 on the Richter scale. Sexually AND emotionally, although I didn’t know it at the time.
He was incredibly witty and at turns charming and a bit of a smartass. He knew how to play the conversational games that I loved and bantered like a champion. Throughout much of my recreational dating, he had my attention. Details on dates and times with this particular lifequake will be outlined in “Relationship with a Capital R”, but again, our purpose here is to talk about sex baby, and oh the tales I have to tell…
There is certainly something to be said for age and experience. Up until I met Mr Lifequake, the guys I had dated were all around my age. Mr Lifequake looks younger than me, but is actually 8 years older. To my thinking, that’s 8 years more experience.
The first time we met, he gave me a hug initially, and a hug when I left. The thought that echoed in my mind at the time was like a sigh whispering, “warm”. Danger danger Will Robinson.
The 2nd time we got together, we had this amazing intellectual and flirtatious conversation with many a sidelong glance. In the parking lot after, he moved in for the kiss and it was all over. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I was all over him. Or that we were all over each other. We kissed for three hours, the most sensual, juicy, tongue tingling kisses ever, and he reached down my jeans and gave me an orgasm standing up in the parking lot, whispering in my ear, “hell yeah, that’s hot”.
Thus began the odyssey of my sexual awakening…the best is yet to come. Pun fully intended.
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