Have you ever had sex so uninspiring that the only title you can come up with is “Meh”? Probably not, not many people are in the habit of writing about their sexual escapades, let alone giving them a title. But yeah, Meh.
So my white friend calls me the other day, and by friend I mean ‘the guy I mistakenly fucked once only to prove that I can’t fuck white guys’. He’s a sweet guy, we actually became good friends once he got over the fact that haha, nope. He’s in a solid open marriage that black guys are a big part of, so when he mentioned his new giant black friend, I was the one who was curious to hear more.
And not because I was missing anything. I was actually feeling great, mentally and physically, still trying to figure out where my previous adventure had put me, in terms of my addiction. I think I wanted to test the waters, am I really OK or am I just lying to myself again? Am I going to get out of control again? I need to know where I stand. It’s easy to say you’re sober when you completely cut yourself off from your drug, but your true strength is tested when you’re around it.
So I put myself around it. I went out and I fucked his friend, and it was boring and meaningless and kind of impractical really because it’s hard to have sex with someone who’s a whole person taller than you. No passion, no chemistry, just absolutely nothing. I could have taken a nap with a 9” dildo and walked away with the same effect. And then he wanted to get to know me and I wanted to get the fuck out of there, and all those awful familiar feelings of shame and regret started creeping in and I needed to get to my car and just leave. The common natural instinct is to want to cuddle the person who just fucked you, and my natural instinct is to inch slowly towards the door hoping that I can just magically disappear and pretend it never happened.
He started asking all sorts of personal questions that I refused to answer, and it made me very angry. Funny how comfortable I am sharing my body, yet how uneasy I am sharing anything else. My mind is reserved for that one special person who can understand it, and you, pshh, you’d probably start running at the first sight of what goes on inside my head. And then came the inevitable question of ‘when am I going to see you again’ and I hate that question because I can never answer it honestly. “Um, probably never, this was an experiment, experiment over”, but I steadied myself and tried to be a decent human being and didn’t say any of those things. I am not a nice person, and what comes out of my mouth in these situations is 30% lies and 70% congeniality, mostly because after this kind of sex, I immediately start resenting whoever is lying next to me.
Back on my couch, I poured myself a drink and dedicated the rest of the night to thinking. Fine, he wasn’t so bad, he’s actually a pretty decent guy, handsome, educated, somebody I may have been obsessed with a year ago, and the sex itself would have made any other girl very happy. But not me, not anymore. I just had this urge to punch him in the dick and walk away, through no particular fault of his own. I have changed after all, and the fact that this night was ‘meh’ actually made me very happy.
I no longer crave the sex, I crave the person. I crave the passion, the chemistry, the heat, the *gulp*, feelings. I think I have feelings again, and this time around, I’m not medicating them with Xanax and weed. I am trying to process them, and I am more honest with myself. I have not touched craigslist in 9 months, nor do I plan to. This opportunity just came up, and I took it, and I have no regrets. I didn’t go out looking for it, I didn’t put myself in a risky situation to get it, and it definitely did not make me want more. It only reinforced my confidence in the progress I had made.
And you can call it whatever you want to, I call it progress. In my head, even though it wasn’t a memorable experience, I was still able to see this person as a person, not as an on-demand sex object that exists for my pleasure. Progress. I didn’t get black-out drunk and spend an hour sobbing and scrubbing in the shower. Also progress. Yes, I resented him for the next 24 hours but it was transient and I understood that it was only a manifestation of my own feelings towards myself and had nothing to do with him… yay, progress. I’m fine. I’M FINE, damn it feels good to say that and really mean it.
Now, how do you tell a 6’8 guy that you won’t be seeing him again?