I think my subconscious is trying to tell me something. It isn’t the usual stress or dormant fears of the omicron variant, but that I’m incredibly horny and as one my best friends put it, “in need of a good fucking.” It’s been a few months since I have had sex or kissed someone, and my subconscious is very much aware. In between family comradery and overstuffing myself over Thanksgiving break, frequent naps were a common theme. Each time I awoke I vividly remembered a graphic sex dream. I’m talking the kind of sex that is so urgent you lift the skirt up and don’t even bother taking it off.
When I arrived at class on the first day of this semester, the person sitting next to me ended up being a familiar face. A face I recognized from long nights rolling around in my sheets and early morning wake ups. Among our 25 person class was a former fuck buddy. The kind of relationship where texts were limited to “what time tonight?” Or, “u up?” And the typical after sex cuddling was replaced with high fives. Things between us ended due to diverging wants.
I have a thing for older guys. I don’t mean old guys — sleeping with somebody’s fifty-something-year-old father isn’t my inclination at all. I’m talking about boys five to 10 years my senior, men in their late 20s and early 30s who have, by now, exchanged their fraternity era alcoholism for a studio apartment, stable employment, some sexual competence and maybe a cat. My preference for men of some maturity is driven by a simple rationale. It’s not that I lust for receding hairlines or deflated pecs years past their prime.
Before encounters with a penis, many of us go through a Shakespearen soliloquy: To wrap or not to wrap? That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to rubber the schlongs and dongs of outrageous proportion, or to take arms against a sea of STDs and impregnation, and by opposing end to them.
My underfunded public high school never taught me how to use a condom, but I managed to figure it out. My partners and I would have to stop whatever foreplay we were engaging in to rip open the wrapper and slide it over the hard banana. For a while, wearing a condom was the default operation, and I’m glad it was.
I have always wanted to peg someone. Perhaps it is my raging penis envy, but I have long desired to be the penetrator instead of the penetrated. My mind raced with all the possibilities of my thrusts as the one in charge of the tempos and the depths like a maestro with her baton conducting an entire orchestra of anal amusement. Even if my provisional penis lacked nerve endings, I would be able to feel every tensing muscle and breath of my partner pulsing beneath me. The role reversal would be enough to make me cum in sync with the boy bent over my headboard.
As luck would have it, I had a friend who wanted to be pegged as much as I wanted to peg.
Do you know that feeling of being in a foreign country where every person around you is speaking a different language, and the world just sounds like a series of noises that you will never understand? That feeling of standing in an advanced math class and seeing asymptotes and non-existing limits, knowing that even if it was explained to you for hours you would never really grasp their concepts? That helpless sense of confusion is what I experience every time I step into a bar or mixer. For me, the language I don’t understand isn’t multivariable calculus, Chinese, Italian or Physics — it’s the dating game. Ever since I was a pre-teen, I have noticed that flirting and boys don’t come naturally to me.
As a rule, upon interacting with him for the very first time, I filter a potential fuckbuddy through a single qualifying question: “Do you have access to a car?” It might seem shallow of me, but if he gives an affirmative response — and if the vibes are right and he seems like a non-murderer and whatnot — then, as far as I’m concerned, he’s made the cut. Because sex is nice and all but, for a car-less college student like me, sex plus a cheaffeured drive to Trader Joe’s and back is much nicer.
The hope is that we eventually settle into a sort of mutually understood trade relationship, where he receives pussy if I receive a ride to pick up my prescription first, or he gets head as long as I can hitch a ride to Wegman’s afterwards, or I provide no oral services until I’ve gotten my weekly bag of TJ’s frozen orange chicken. Once I’ve established this dynamic with at least a couple guys — and so getting groceries, getting some sexual satisfaction and getting anywhere I ever need to go have all fused into one simple task — my life is made much easier. In my case, there is a very blurry line between transactionality and transparency when it comes to longer-term sexual relationships with men. Rather than pretend I came, or pretend that I’m totally happy making him cum without reciprocation, I make sure he’s aware that he in fact did not make me come.
Butt naked and unafraid, I rifle through the papers on his desk and rigorously examine the posters on his walls, the cigarette stumps on his windowsill, the earrings and hair-ties (from past hookups I’d assume) fallen in the crevice between his bed and the wall, the full-sized bottle of Lubriderm on his bedside table. A brief peek into his trash can if time allows. He had finally left the room for his post-fuck piss and I instantly clambered out of his bed — where I’d been pretending to fall asleep until I heard the door close behind him — to begin my ritual investigations of the man I’d just let cum inside me.
The sorts of questions I have when first meeting a guy are ones I can’t ask him on the first hookup, at least not all at once, without coming off as kind of creepy. Creep I am, though, for I decipher most of the answers on my own via a thorough scan of his bedroom. Does he use face lotion or does he use body lotion on his face?
You know what I miss most about elementary school? The Scholastic Book Fair. Walking down to the school library with my 20 bucks in hand, I was pumped. Most kids were ready to blow it on over priced bookmarks and chocolate-smelling calculators but I, and I imagine a lot of us future Cornellians, were hyped for the books. Rows and rows of old classics and new treasures to be found.
A Scholastic Book Fair was where I first discovered the Magic Tree House book series, where I read about the many adventures of Jack and Annie as they traveled through time and space.
The human G-spot is not always in the genitals. Sometimes it is deep inside the ear. The first time someone pushed that button for me, my itch was scratched like petting a dog just right until it starts playing the air guitar with its back leg. Back on the grade school playground, a tongue in the ear was a “wet willie,” used to belittle and bully the nerds. Now it was a sensorial garden of earthly delight, even though at first I was thinking, Why is your tongue in my ear?