why the committed sometimes ought to be committed
Ah, l'amour. You meet that special someone and breathe a huge sigh of relief-the hard part's over! Think again. The ins and outs of a relationship can lay bare monogamy's monsters: expectations, jealousy, dependency, insanity. The pressures of love can test even the strongest of unions: Adam and Eve, Catherine and Heathcliff, Pepé Le Pew and the cat…sometimes it just stinks. Whether it's the type of bond that even death cannot destroy, or one you were not even aware you were in to begin with (poor cat), sexual missteps often take on greater significance with a significant other.
HOW HE BECAME MY NUMBER ONE BY TAKING CARE OF MY NUMBER TWO
by Erin Pineda
I'm a very lucky girl. I have fallen madly in love. His name is Steven, and he is the kindest man I have ever met. He is my better half, he is my soul mate, and all that crap. Which brings me to my story. We were blissfully happy up until a few weeks ago, when we moved in together.
You see, during the entire course of our relationship I have never pooed in front of, in back of, or anywhere near Steven. I have refrained from all things scatological. So much so that this conversation actually occurred:
Steven: "You don't poop."
Me: "No. I don't poop."
Steven: "Where does it go?"
Me: "Um…it evaporates."
Steven: "What?"
Me: "You know, kind of like photosynthesis."
I don't remember what photosynthesis is exactly, but it sounded plausible. More importantly, I got Steven to stop talking about "number two."
Now, you're probably wondering why I put so much effort into hiding my deuces. Many people would argue that it's human, and therefore beautiful. It's what connects us all. Everybody Poops, right? But not so much when it comes to love, especially romantic love. Poop and all its cousins-diarrhea, farts, and sharts-don't really fan the flames of passion or ignite the fires of desire, no matter how many matches you light.
In college my boyfriend decided it would be cute if I started tooting in front of him. I obliged and let 'em rip. He labeled them "low rumblers" and broke up with me less than a month later.
My relationship directly before Steven was based largely on a student/teacher dynamic; he was a much older man who was accomplished and distinguished, and I was really horny and easy. In essence he turned me out and not too much later turned me off. It happened one day in a phone conversation when he informed me in great detail about an epic bout of diarrhea he caught while traveling to Greece.
"I'm peeing water!" he exclaimed. Which I thought was a good thing, until he said it was coming out of his ass. Sex was never the same.
Which brings us up to date. I had succeeded in maintaining sexual desirability with Steven by a complete absence of doody. According to him I was clean and pure, like a lily. And then came moving day, and a whole bunch of grapes. And granola. And then coffee. I just had to poo! I thought to myself, I can't hide this forever; we live together! This is my place too! I should, I would, and, heaven almighty, I could!
And I did. Oh my God I did. It was like the dam had broken, and a year's worth of self-repression burst through, and I felt good; I felt light and I felt free and then I flushed….
The poo would not go down.
I fought with the poo for half an hour, pleading with it, imploring it, trying desperately to rid myself, the apartment, and Steven of my shameful baggage. I even recited three Hail Marys, to which I knew only the first line, and flushed again. But the waters began to rise. Would the levees hold? There was only one person I could turn to.
So a few moments later I faced what I had worked for years to avoid. Down the hall and a little to the right, my boyfriend was plunging my poo. I hid under the blankets, leaving him alone to wrestle with the monster. I couldn't watch. He was face-to-face with my inner demons, a part of me only my mother had seen. Laid out before him was evidence of the mess I could make. I heard him holler from the bathroom, "A log is resurfacing!" Is that a good thing, I wondered?
I started planning for what would of course be the end of our relationship. He would break up with me in the next few days. I'd probably move in with my friend Ross; he has two bathrooms, and one even has a fan. Losing Steven would be painful, but I would survive. I'd be a shell of a person, but…
No. No, I can't think like that. I will not accept defeat so easily. He is the love of my life, and I will fight for him.
So after I heard a flush and Steven's voice proclaim, "Hooray! Bye, poo!" I called him into the bedroom and did what any desperate, humiliated girl would do. I started touching myself and talking dirty.
"My pussy is wet," I told him.
"So is the bathroom floor," he replied.
I ignored this and writhed around on the bed, grabbing my bathing suit parts. He stood nearby, looking at me like I was a three-legged dog, a pitiful creature. He suggested I take a shower. A long one.
I wondered if he was inferring that I had crapped all over myself, which I found a bit patronizing. But I let it go, figuring he had been through enough. When I got out of the shower, I found him passed out on the bed; like kryptonite, my excrement had weakened him. But I was not about to let this go, so I turned on my "sexy times" playlist and saddled up.
But everything was different. His hands were tentative, careful, especially around my derriere. I sensed avoidance. I made a move to flip over, but he delicately held me in place, resisting doggy styling. My mind was spinning; was he looking at me through poo-colored glasses?
The sex was boring. It was the kind old married people have, or Republicans. And because I was having that with him, it was the worst sex I'd ever experienced. So I decided to step it up and really go for the gold. I started humping him desperately. After the third or fourth time he said "ouch," I eased up.
His penis looked like Sylvester Stallone at the end of Rocky-his one good eye swollen shut. Finally, in a soft, polite voice he asked, "Erin, could we please stop?"
I felt like sobbing. "Of course we can, sweetheart," I said, and he conked out. I lay there next to him and wept into my pillow.
The next morning I woke up early to try to catch him, but he had already headed to work. I was miserable and angry. I even refused to drink my morning coffee, believing it was the evil catalyst that had doomed my relationship. I swore to myself to always take anti-diarrheal medicine and maintain constipation for eternity. Never again would anyone see the monsters inside of me, and never again would I go to the bathroom in anyone's presence; from now on I would keep my shit to myself.
But right now I was alone, so…
I walked into the bathroom and went to sit on the toilet, but something caught my eye. There in the bowl, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, was the kindest, most loving gift anyone could have ever offered. There was Steven's poo. He had left his shit out for me to see, unguarded, uncovered, vulnerable. So that morning, happily, fearlessly, I plunged his poo.
To this day he claims it was left there because he was in a rush and forgot to flush. But I know the real reason. He was making a point: When you truly love someone, you have to deal with each other's shit.
And now I can again happily envision our future: waking up on a Sunday morning, enjoying breakfast in bed, loading up the minivan, and dropping our kids off at the pool…together.
MY FAST BOYFRIEND
by Mary Lynn Rajskub
I was wearing extra-large green army shorts, a large white T-shirt, black suspenders, very short hair, red lipstick, and, of course, combat boots. Sex was not really something I was advertising; nevertheless, this was the look that drew Todd to me like a foxy magnet. I was treading water sexually and personally. I had no confidence and only a very limited sense of street style. He said he thought I was a very cute lesbian-a lipstick lesbian! Todd had longish hair, a southern California accent, and a chunk of wood in his ear, stretching it out like an aboriginal citizen of the world. He's a free thinker, I thought, and super unique. Todd also mentioned that he wrote poetry. We were perfect for each other. This was very exciting indeed.
It turned out we were meant to be together even more than I thought. I worked at Double Rainbow ice cream, and he worked four doors down at the Good Earth grocery store. He cares about the environment and works at an organic health food store to prove it. I have got to get to know this guy, I said to myself. So I immediately invited him over to the apartment I shared with my roommate, Sharon. Sharon agreed to cook her now-famous eggplant Parmesan, which she had never cooked before, but I'll tell you it was delicious-very thin, baked cheese browned on the top, and perfectly cooked to the bottom of the pan. I should've known something was wrong when he didn't eat it. How could someone not like Sharon's eggplant? It was so delicious. I guess I forgot, because twenty minutes after dinner, I was showing him the rooftop of our apartment, and we began to furiously make out. Todd fell on top of me, pushing me down in an incredibly passionate way. I know it was passionate because my back was being ground into the gravel and I still continued to make out. This was very exciting to me. This was what I wanted in life: romance, excitement, vibrancy.
Soon after, Todd was pushing me around and making out forcefully with me every chance he got. One particular afternoon, while I was the only salesperson working at Double Rainbow, he pushed me into the back office, pressing his tongue into my mouth. Yes, I thought, this is how it's supposed to be. Except-wait a minute-I wasn't enjoying this at all. In fact, the real me was floating up near the ceiling trying to get the attention of my body. What are you doing? the bodiless me tried to yell. Stop! This isn't fun!
You're right, it's not, I thought back. But, hold on, shut up. This is my fast-track romance; I've got to get into this quickly or else I'm going to miss the boat. This guy digs me, and he cares about the environment. I need this. He supports Food Not Bombs, and that says it all right there. I think they feed the homeless. He has stretched out his ear by wearing a wood chip in it-that shows commitment. This guy knows what passion is. I have got to get with the program or else San Francisco will chew me up and spit me out.
I got it together and pretended to be super into the make-out, although all I was thinking was, This is gross, and what if a customer comes in?
The next time we had sex, Todd informed me that he was going to get his penis pierced, but not to worry because it was for my sexual enhancement, as well as his own. He didn't even ask; he just told me. I guessed this was what a progressive relationship was all about. It seemed like an asshole move, but I thought maybe he knew something I didn't. It would take eight weeks to heal. We'd just started dating, and now we couldn't have sex for eight weeks. And then I'd get to have some weird shit stuck in my body.
During the waiting period, Todd called me late at night and asked me if I wanted to go on a walk. Oh, he wants to see me! I thought. He still wants to see me, and he's had to consider the fact that his penis won't be going in me. He must really like me. Well, we went on a walk starting at midnight; Todd rode his skateboard and I walked behind. Then he would stop and wait for me to catch up, and then I'd end up walking behind him again. We continued like this for three or four hours. I just wanted to see what was going to happen and how long it would go on. I had become quite used to walking in the city, even at night, but I had never done anything like this before. When we finally headed back, I asked him how he could walk this far, and he said, "Oh, I'm on speed."
"Really? Oh."
That was pretty much the end of the discussion. I wondered if this could explain some of the stuff that seemed strange to me. The hyperactive making out and the fact that sometimes Todd seemed to be crawling out of his skin, or not wanting to be touched at all. Knowing this about him made me want to break up, but he didn't seem to think it was a big deal, so I didn't make a big deal of it.
When his penis finally healed, Todd invited me over to unveil his proud possession.
"Look! Isn't it fantastic?"
"It really is something! Wow!"
This is when things started to get really weird. He started hanging objects from his penis and wanted me to start hanging more and more things from it. I frantically looked through his room. A pair of scissors? Sure! Paper clips? Okay! A pen? Go ahead and try. When we ran out of things to hang from his penis, Todd removed the belt from his pants.
"Hit me with the belt," he told me.
"Really?"
"Yes."
So I did. Again and again I hit him with the belt. I have to admit, it was pretty fun, and it made him very excited. It wasn't what I would call intimate, and I wondered if it would be like this every time from now on. Maybe if I was open to his sexual needs, I thought, we would become close.
After sex, Todd proceeded to the kitchen and started to make a healthy vegetarian stew. It was my job to cut up the celery. Suddenly he became angry.
"You're wasting the vegetable," he said, commenting on the fact that I didn't use the entire stalk. Wow, he really doesn't want to waste a scrap of food, I thought. Maybe he's doing speed for the environment, so he can consume less. What a guy!
The next time I saw Todd, which was about a week later, I expected that we would get the band back together for some penis decorating. Then I noticed that he had hickeys all over his neck. And so I asked, "Are those hickeys?" He looked at me like I was the most intrusive person on the planet. He waited about thirty seconds, staring at me in disgust, then finally answered, "My ex-girlfriend and I got back together."
A BEDTIME STORY
by Laraine Newman
It was the early 1970s. I was in the improv group The Groundlings, but we hadn't named ourselves yet. That's where I met Greg. He was gorgeous, funny, and sweet. For our first date, I invited him over to my apartment for dinner. I was going to make beef Stroganoff. I thought myself to be an intuitive cook, so I didn't really follow any kind of recipe. I just used a lot of butter, and if I do say so myself, it tasted delicious.
The dinner was going great. He liked my cooking, and we were making each other laugh. But that went from being a good thing, to being a very, very bad thing. Because at one point, I was laughing so hard that I peed in my pants. Now, I was sitting in one of those wooden chairs that are hollowed out to fit the contours of your ass and legs. Once that had filled up with pee, the urine was then flowing over the sides of the chair and pounding onto the floor like Niagara Falls. I'm telling you it was loud. I was certain he could hear it, but he didn't. As the laughter died down I was like a deer in the headlights trying to figure out what to say. I was paralyzed. There was no way I could hide this. I had to come clean, so to speak. I selected the least indelicate word to describe my condition, and with all the courage I could muster I said, "Greg, I have voided." Greg just laughed and said "It's hard to keep up, isn't it?" He took this to mean that I had no rejoinder for the last funny thing he said. That I couldn't top it.
I was fucked. Confessing the truth felt like that moment of regret right before you plummet to the ground on Freefall at Six Flags Magic Mountain. It had taken every ounce of my resolve to jump off that cliff and tell him the first time. I wasn't going to do it again. I was in some kind of existential Lucy Ricardo nightmare.
Finessing a cursory mop-up while backing out of the room like a geisha and then making a dash for the bathroom to change seemed about as daunting a task as trying to get from one place to another in one of those Resident Evil movies. The thought of being discovered at any point during that maneuver felt like death. But that's exactly what I did.
Without a word, and in a matter of twenty seconds, I bolted upright, grabbed a dishcloth, soaked up what I could, threw the limp and dripping thing in the sink, and ran backward down the hall into the bathroom, all the while engaging in a banter I only prayed would misdirect his attention. Having made it to the bathroom, the only article of clothing I could change into was my nightgown, which was hanging on the door. I had to be fast. I didn't want there to be enough time for him to discover the remaining pool of piss on the kitchen floor. I frantically dried myself with a towel, then dusted myself with scented talc to try and camouflage the unmistakable tang I was certain was wafting off me. I pulled the nightgown on, and the fact that it was made out of a jersey material combined with the fact that I was still damp made a once pretty but by no means sexy nightie turn into a wet T-shirt version of Elvira's floor-length gown.
I wasn't aware of that until I emerged from the bathroom like I was shot out of a cannon. It didn't occur to me how peculiar it might look that halfway through the meal, I was suddenly dressed for bed. Greg looked at me standing there. No words passed between us, but the expression on his face said, "Okay, I don't know you that well, but I like you and the beef Stroganoff was great, even though I'm not finished eating and I'm still awful hungry. But I really like the way that…uh…floor-length T-shirt gown is clinging to you. Doesn't leave much to the imagination."
He thought I was seducing him! To my horror, at that moment, it dawned on me that if he laid a hand on my naked flesh, I'd still be moist, with tinkle!
Instead of walking toward Greg into the kitchen, I did a sharp, Snagglepuss "exit stage left" detour into the living room. I dropped to the floor and started rolling back and forth, trying to wick the wee-wee from the back of my legs. Greg was right behind me.
So, not only did he see me drop suddenly to the floor, he saw me inexplicably tossing myself from side to side. Now, let's review. The dinner is going fine, and then suddenly I have backed out of the kitchen while mopping something off the floor. Something he's not bothered to question or investigate. I've changed clothes. Right in the middle of the meal, I've changed into a nightgown with no natural segue. Now I'm writhing on the floor. But Greg didn't question any of this.
In fact, with a wry smile on his face, he knelt down to kiss me! I tried to dodge the kiss, but we ended up head-butting as we both tried to stand up. I'm not kidding when I tell you that the sound was exactly like two coconuts. This cracked up both of us. I grabbed his hand and led him into the bathroom and turned on the shower. There was going to be a clean and soapy frolic before the big moment.
The sex was great, and minutes after I was certain he was asleep, I crept into the kitchen to make sure there was no further trace of proof at the crime scene. Conscience clear, I fell blissfully asleep, but around three in the morning I awoke to sounds coming from the bathroom: groaning, farting. "Oh, Jesus Christ, ahhh. Oh man…ahh, ooo. Oh awww."
After twenty minutes of this, a mortified and thoroughly ashen Greg staggered back into the bedroom.
"I think the beef Stroganoff was a little rich. Christ, did you hear any of that?"
I lay in bed with the pillow jammed against my mouth so he wouldn't hear how hard I was laughing. When I finally came up for air I said, "You know, Greg, growing up in my household, we thought farting was an art form. I'm just sorry I poisoned you."
In the landscape of bodily function humiliation, what he went through was vastly more embarrassing than pissing oneself. And the amazing thing is, my fountain of shame was a christening of sorts. For indeed, my friends, this first date was the beginning of our two-year relationship.
Soon afterward, he moved in. Within a minute he pulled out a pipe and strutted around my apartment like he owned the place. It was then that I began to consider new ways to poison him.
Decades later, when my daughters were younger, but old enough to hear an, um, sanitized version of this story, it became their favorite and one they would beg for at bedtime by chanting, "Beef Stroganoff story, Beef Stroganoff story."
"Oh…all right."
HONG KONG BOTTOM
by Jay Janson
My mother's chemo brought on many side effects: She wouldn't eat for anyone, her legs looked like tree trunks, and her son hooked up with a needy gaysian.* Mom got better and bounced back like a motherfucker, but me? I'm still paying for the wrath of the Hong Kong bottom.
I'm a flying solo kind of guy. Not many friends, not a social butterfly; as long as I have some time to write a few chapters of my novel, I'm kicking it easy in the NYC. But life turned ugly when my mom got sick, and for the first time ever, I felt alone.
Word to the wise, if you're a good-looking gay who needs some comfort: Hug a pillow, pat a puppy, drink detox tea, and breathe…. Do not reveal your pain to a twink!*
I met Julian at my work. I was his waiter. He was a bold gay, dining alone in D&G head to toe to purse. He was a cross between Sanjaya and the middle Jonas brother, if the Jonas Brothers were Taiwanese. A fresh twenty-one, and new to the city, Julian wanted to celebrate. A mixed-green salad and two cosmos later, we planned to meet up after my shift. I'm not a mover-and-shaker, and haven't been twenty-one for, oh, about a decade. But when he said how beautiful my eyes were, I thought to myself, Think beyond "I only date bears";* why not try a soft-spoken Asian? He seemed polite and sweet; the kind of upbeat I'd been aching for.
I love me a good margarita, and after four of them, Julian got my life story as it stood. Mom has cancer. I fly home every month to help out. I love Patron Silver. Julian was moved by my situation, as he sipped his third cosmo through a straw.
He leaned over and said, "I want to take care of you tonight," trailing his nervous fingers 'cross my thirty-something cheek.
I'm not a tender type, and a gesture like that would ordinarily have crossed my PDA boundaries. But I was vulnerable, and decided to let Julian "take care of me" the best he could. Hopeful translation: Give up that ass to some brokenhearted inches.
When we got to my apartment it was clothes off, cocks out, and a nice stick of incense. He sucked my dick so hard I tasted iron in my mouth, like blood was going to burst from my nose. I'm a bashful peaker, but something about the way Julian swirled and twirled my downtown-precious made me feel like the "Man in the Mirror." And I about changed all over his face.
"Oh, fuck. Sorry man."
"It's okay," Julian sighed. "I guess this means we're boyfriends, right?"
Memories of my Vietnam-vet uncle telling me Asian girls move fast so they can get that ticket to America filled my mind.
"Whoa. Take it easy, okay?"
"What does that mean?"
"It means we met five hours ago. Let's play it by ear…okay?"
"Whatever…jerk."
And so began the roles game. And our "relationship." I talk honestly; I'm the man. He pouts openly; he's the woman. Psychologically, I am not equipped to deal with anything feminine in a sexual scenario; it really makes no sense to me. So, if a guy I hook up with instantly identifies himself as a blushing geisha desperate to please her man, I'm done. Call me a prick, call me a player, but I have no interest in a straight woman's mind games. Don't make me have to think about what a blowjob means if you expect to hear from me again.
But I was in a sad state; the idea of waking up next to someone made me feel like a normal person. So I said the two words I knew I'd regret.
"I'm sorry."
"I know, baby. I know." Before my eyes could roll, he tipped that ass in my direction like the green-means-go power bottom I kind of thought he was.
I pulled out my bag of free lube and condoms every gay earns when they get that AIDS test, and started checking their expiration dates. But when I finally found a Trojan with an '09 shelf life, a timid whisper came from the bed.
"You think I'm easy, don't you?"
Yes. "No." Sigh.
"Because I'm not. I just really, I don't know, this is a big step for me. And I don't want to get hurt. Because, well, I think I might be falling in love with you. What do you think about that?"
It was like I was trying to fuck my prom date, and her purity ring wouldn't let her go all the way. So I said what every bonehead high school kid says to get his first pair of panties.
"Me too."
Worked like a teen pregnancy charm. If I had been deaf, this would've been legendary, post-Stonewall anal, but I'm a hearing man, and when I heard "I want to take care of you, I need to take care of you" screamed over and over in a pitch as high as Mariah's early power ballads, I shriveled with every thrust. To stay hard, I thought of my holy trinity: Marc Singer in The Beastmaster, Harry Hamlin in Clash of the Titans, early Columbo. But then, it suddenly hit me: This Hong Kong bottom doesn't know who these people are; he wasn't even born yet. Why am I working this May/December shame spiral? There is only one Pia Zadora, and that ain't me. I have to put a stop to this! (After I come, of course. Fair is fair.)
The courtesy shower afterward felt like soft-core lesbian porn. He scrubbed my back lightly, dripped water from a sponge down my ass, and washed my hair with lots of suds and giggles. After we dried off and went back to the bedroom, he pulled out a DVD from his purse.
"This is my favorite movie ever. If you're going to be my boyfriend, you have to love it! I'm totally serious!"
Two hard cocks in a bed watching Hairspray the Musical. Can life get any worse?
I didn't sleep at all that night. Julian held me so tight, the morning after I had gay-hand welts all over my person. As I sat drinking my coffee, Julian put his head in my lap, and pulled my right arm away from my cup, forcing me to hold him. Nobody touches my morning Sanka; I now had grounds to break a heart.
"Yeah, you know what? This isn't going to work out. You need to go."
"Are you breaking up with me?"
"What-?" Oh, fuck it. "Yes. I'm breaking up with you."
And with that, he slapped me in the face and left my apartment screaming, "Jay is gay! Jay is gay!" as if Fred Phelps was nearby, looking to smoke out the local fag and burn him down. I live in Chelsea, NYC, not Hicktown, USA. We all gay!
In the weeks that followed, I heard from savvy online friends that Julian not only wrote a blog called "The Scum in New York City," but also posted my name, face, and work location as one of the most hazardous wastes out there. I didn't know he was creative.
About a year later, life was great. Mom was in total remission, I booked a commercial, and I fucked a porn star. All blessings, in their own right. One night of barhopping found me at some random gay club. In a sea of American Apparel V-neck T's and colored denim, my eyes locked onto the one and only Julian. He was dancing to Beyoncé's "Single Ladies" with a bunch of twink models, throwing hand signals like they were running a limp-wrist competition. Julian saw me, and when Beyoncé called for all the single ladies, he pointed and sang to himself, as if he were liberated from my heinous power. To the left, to the left, Beyoncé bottom-you have cock-n-balls; you ain't a single lady.
Now, look. We all have a touch o' crazy; that's what makes us special. But Julian, once again, took it one step further. As I left the club that night, I felt familiar nervous-fingers tapping on my shoulder. It was Julian, hyped up on Sasha Fierce-ness.
"I just want to let you know, I am so over you."
Silence.
"But we could be friends, I guess."
No response.
"And I still want to take care of you, okay? There, I said it!"
Nothing.
"Can I come over?"
Walking away.
"You bastard!"
Until we meet again.
If you have real problems in your life and you need some sort of comfort, take my advice: Jerk off.
PIE IN THE SKY
by Adria Tennor Blotta
My worst sexual experience happened when I was twenty-two…and lasted for four and a half years. I met Evan at a restaurant in Brooklyn where I was working as a coat check girl.
Evan was a waiter there and ten years my senior. He was quite possibly…no, actually, most definitely, the hottest guy who'd ever asked me out.
When he called me-well, actually he didn't call, he just walked over to the coat check-he said, "Hoh hoh hoh! When are we going to dinner?" (He talked like that, like Yogi Bear.)
After we made the date, I ran to the back of the coat closet and buried my head in a red sheared mink and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Oh my God! I've got a date with a hot guy!"
Evan took me out to a restaurant in Manhattan. He had three Tanqueray and tonics before dinner, and I learned that he was an ex-model turned valet driver turned waiter who was contemplating architecture school. He had two more Tanqueray and tonics and a glass of wine during dinner, and told me that he had ended a five-year relationship with a successful supermodel and Meatloaf video star who made six figures a year because he "just couldn't see himself with her." After dinner he took me home and walked me to my door. I thought he was being polite. He thought he was coming in.
Standing on my doorstep, I knew that if Evan came up it would be to have drunken sex, and I was just twenty-two, from the Midwest, and only wanted to have sex with someone I really loved who was also sober, at least for the first time. So Evan did not come up that night or any night during the three weeks we dated.
At the end of that three weeks, he explained to me in his white waiter jacket next to a ficus tree lit with tiny, insipid white lights that we were "not on the same sexual level." I took that to mean that my level was lower than his level, like I was the mezzanine at the MoMA or something, but isn't that where Monet's Water Lilies is hung?
Not to be deterred, I began wearing my cutest, sexiest outfits to check coats, and within three more weeks two things happened: Evan asked me out again and I fell madly in love with him…. So, we did it.
The first time was awkward. I didn't…you know. He did, but that's normal, right? The second time was a different story. We had a romantic dinner, then I slithered into something sexy, and…Evan fell asleep. The third time he fell asleep again. The fourth time, which was really the second time, was a lot like the first time: awkward, and I didn't…you know. He did, and actually most of the time when he didn't conk out on me, our sex was void of any effort on his part to please me.
So I moved in with him. I thought if we lived together it would get better. It didn't, and I started to grow resentful of Evan's indifference to my…you know. Actually, indifference isn't even the right word; he was more like completely oblivious, until finally I stopped pouting and screwed up my courage and confronted him.
"Evan, how come when we have sex…How come you don't, you know, make an effort to, you know…make me…you know?!"
He leaned over and adjusted the volume on the radio.
"Is this Van Halen?"
"Evan!"
"Well, I don't know. I just thought…I mean, it's not like you never-"
"No, it's not like never, but hardly ever, and if it was never, that might mean that there was something wrong with me, but there isn't, or that you don't know how, but you do, but you don't, which is worse."
The next night, Evan went out with his friend Charlie and came home drunk. He subtly tried to initiate sex with me by taking off his pants and waving his…you know, in my face. I thought maybe our conversation had gotten through to him and he wanted to redeem himself. No such luck.
"Evan, what is the problem?"
"Well, Charlie and I discussed it, and women just naturally don't have as many orgasms as men."
"What? Why would you listen to anything Charlie says? Charlie hasn't had a girlfriend or a job in over six years! Haven't you ever heard of multiple orgasms, Evan? Well, who do you think has them? Larry King?"
"It's not my fault if you don't…you know."
"Really? But if I do, you're extremely quick to take credit for it."
"Well, yeah!"
He fell asleep. The next morning he woke up-no, sprung up-smiling like he'd won the lottery and took me by the shoulders in the bed and shouted.
"You're a genius! I had this dream. It was like that Tom Robbins novel, Skinny Legs and All, only instead of a spoon, a dirty sock, and a can o' beans, there was this big, huge, pulsing vagina in the sky! And oh my God! It was beautiful! Glistening! Gorgeous! And I flew up and walked right inside. Yes! It was that big! And I looked around and God! It was beautiful! It was like this big, soft room…like a Bounce-A-Lot, only dewy. A big, huge, all-encompassing moist couch! But it was sweet, like, like, like a huge peach pie…only no crust. And I understood! I understood what you were telling me, Adria. You're so wise, so wise…"
Evan kissed me long and hard on the mouth, then got up and took a shower, leaving me to ponder his epiphany. What the fuck was he talking about? Not only is he a horrible lover, but now he's comparing my pussy to flourless pastry? And everyone knows that's not pie, that's melba!
After that Evan made an effort to please me every time, and it felt like an effort every time, like he was doing me this big favor. Like I was a little old lady and he was taking out my trash. Like it was this chore that he had to perform in order to, I don't know, get to visit the big pulsing vagina in his dreams. I kept thinking it would get better. He'd have another dream, another revelation. This time the vagina would give him his own vagina and make him figure it out or maybe she'd swallow him…although…then where would I be? Or maybe she could make him stop drinking so much and stop hanging out with dumb people. Maybe she could make love to him, I mean all of him, as though he was one big dick. I mean, he was, wasn't he? And then finally maybe he'd see. He'd walk out of the big, moist, peach moonwalk a new man, with a new, healthy, generous perspective on life and lovemaking. Or maybe if that didn't work, she could wrap her big, wet lips around him and squeeze the living shit out of him until he begged for mercy and promised to never, ever make another woman feel like her orgasm was a burden ever again.
I waited four more years for this revelation to come. I felt like she owed it to me, the big vagina in the sky. As a fellow sister, she needed to come through for me and deliver this message to Evan so that we could live happily ever after. Little did I know that the message had already been delivered…to me, not to Evan. It was my revelation, not his, and finally one day it hit me like a ton of bricks after his mother phoned to see if he was in, three weeks after he'd moved out.
With Evan, my vagina was a false hope, a pipe dream, a castle in the air-pleasant to contemplate, but very unlikely to be realized. Evan himself had told me as much…but I was too focused on not getting what I wanted to free myself.
After I told Evan's mother that he didn't live here anymore, I hung up the phone, turned on Wagner's Lohengrin, and made the best peach melba Brooklyn will ever know.
