Not that long ago I made a poor decision. OK, twenty minutes ago I made a poor decision involving half a box of cereal at midnight… but this particular bad decision involved a man (or a really good man-impressionist), a woman (or the part of me that pretends to be a grown adult) and a lack of pants.
We weren’t all that “familiar” with each other but after hanging out a few times, and after our last “hanging out” involved us making out with me slammed against my car, it was inevitable that my ability to have him in my house with his pants on was low. Very low.
Things got nice and warmed up on the couch and the decision to move (the always fateful one that seals the, “I’m going to get laid no matter what she says about moving slow”) to the bedroom was made.
Things were progressing as expected, with a lot of the “no, no, we can’t do THAT!” and some of the famous maneuvers that men have learned to remove a woman’s clothing in less than 30 seconds.
Then came the moment we all know so well, when making out is getting boring and your hands could easily make a plastic mold based on the touchy-feely portion of the evening.
It’s time for some serious foreplay.
Now this is when talking shouldn’t be required. Women will either be compelled to do things or men will. No words should be spoken, as chances are, with hormones at their peak, any words could spook them quickly. This heightened level of hormony, if you will, has the ability to trick the brain, whether into ignoring the fact that he has a tattoo of Gene Wilder’s face or the fact that she clearly has one dramatically larger boob he didn’t notice earlier. Words can release, suppress this hormonic interaction until you’re just a one-boobed weirdo awkwardly hanging out with a Willy Wonka fan without pants on.
As painful as this story is to share, I do it to save others, and as a true humanitarian I report that this (prior to this moment) oh-so-sexiful man-beast decided an appropriate interlude at this very moment would be: “Would you kiss it?”
If I have to tell you what the “it” is, you might want to stop reading this and start watching porn. For the rest of you, stop laughing, this is serious stuff. The moment had come; he had uttered words that I couldn’t even pretend to be dirty talk. I laughed… a lot. “Are you asking me to ‘make out’ with your penis? Do you want me to give it a hug while I’m down there, too?”
Jesus man, I would have preferred you shove my head in the most horrible anti-women’s rights way towards your penis.
His Gene Wilder tattoo was out in the open; in fact it started waving and smiling, even offering me an everlasting gobstopper.
And yeah, I still slept with him. But you can bet your ass my oral orifice went nowhere near his “it.”
Word to the boys: Bring back the subtle head shove, if it means you won’t ask for a peck on your willy.
It’s a good thing I was having a Gene Wilder phase.
This article appears in Aug 20-26, 2008.