“I don’t know why my body is so intent on sabotaging my brain when my brain is perfectly capable of sabotaging itself”
– Alma Wheatley, The Queen’s Gambit –
What makes sex awful for you?
I am personally a big fan of intimacy and passion. Many people love to talk shit about the missionary position and call anyone who loves it a boring-ass bitch, but I couldn’t care less about what other people think. If that’s what it takes to get myself some much-needed love and affection, I don’t mind being called a basic twink. What can I say… I’m a sucker for elaborate conversations under a weighted blanket with a semi-attractive gentleman who cares about my aspirations in life. But obviously, this is LA that we’re talking about, a city filled with self-centered people trying everything they can to claw their ways to stardom. Waiting to develop a deep emotional connection with someone in LA is like waiting for Rihanna to release new music in 2021.
That was why, most days, instead of dealing with another big dick with an intolerable personality, I preferred staying at home and viciously flicking my bean to some amateur porn.
Before I bid Los Angeles adieu, I decided to commemorate my departure the best way I knew: jumping on Grindr and creating “memories” with as many local guys as I could. Yes, I’m entirely aware that I just professed my long-overdue desire to settle down and declared my independence from fuckbois in my previous chapter. However, I had scheduled my metamorphosis into a respected, strong, and mentally stable homosexual when I set my foot into the Bay Area, and that wouldn’t take place until the next few weeks. So, while I was still surrounded by guys who were obliteratingly beautiful and inexplicably obnoxious, I planned to revel in the absolute joy of being a ho. Because… you know… I needed to get it out of my system. Mental health? Pfft, that can wait!
My muse for this chapter isn’t really a guy to write a love song about— his appearance was as average as a white guy could get. No pearly white smile, no chiseled jawline, no single digit body fat percentage, nothing. Judging from his Grindr profile, I assumed he was a postgraduate student at a neighboring college with an affinity for beer pong and college merchandise. His most redeeming quality would probably be his GPA. And as much as I consider myself a sapiosexual, I wasn’t actively trying to plunge myself into a committed relationship in my last weeks in LA. After a few R-rated pics were exchanged, it didn’t take long for him to invite me to come to his place in the evening for reasons we didn’t explicitly discuss but mutually understood. Little did I know it would turn into an evening filled with regrets and emotional traumas.
I arrived at the crime scene and noticed a small group of college-aged students playing beer pong at the front yard of a building resembling a fraternity house. I thought, “Oh great, I have to act cool and entertain strangers before I get plowed?” Although I consider myself an ambivert with an introvert tendency, I’m also a fake ass bitch who underwent rigorous training of handling Asian moms at a family dinner. I took a last glance at my car’s rear mirror to eliminate minor cosmetic flaws on my face, put four tic tacs in my mouth, and took a deep breath to hide my social anxiety. Get ready, average white boy… there’s a ho in this house, and he’s about to charm the shit out of you.
For someone who rarely participated in the college party scene, I did surprisingly well at beer pong. I guess months of being a ho paid dividends as playing with balls became second nature. As far as my banter with the average white guy went… well, it could not get more dull. It almost felt like he only talked to me just to be polite. I didn’t know if he’s either nervous or didn’t want to appear overly horny in front of his friends, but zero flirtings were going on that night. His friends did try their best to incorporate me into their circle by offering me some hardcore authentic Chinese liquor, which helped to lighten the mood. But an average person wouldn’t be able to tell I was there for a Grindr hookup. And unlike McDonald’s, I wasn’t lovin’ it.
Alright, let’s remember why I’m here.
Don’t take everything to heart, he’s not gonna get down on one knee anytime soon.
Well, he might get down on his knees later… but for a different reason.
The party started to die down, and I took this perfect opportunity to remind the bland white boy about our pre-arranged adult slumber party. A sufficient amount of alcohol had circulated through my body, which meant one thing: my body was ready for some actions. I didn’t remember the specific details on how I could end up in my date’s room upstairs. For all I know, I could’ve embarrassed myself by giving my boy a sloppy lap dance in front of his friends to express my sexual desire for him. And before you all begin to draw some wild speculations: no, my drink was not spiked —me downing that Chinese liquor and being a messy queen per usual was a conscious decision I made that evening.
Two seconds after the bland white boy closed the door, we both launched into the bed Tarzan-style and began to aggressively make out. Sadly, the boy managed to be aggressively average throughout the evening as I continued to be unimpressed with what his lips could do. The kissing felt a bit monotonous from his end— it definitely lacked some peaks and valleys that I usually liked. There were too many tongue actions going on, and he left me with little to no room to breathe. It almost felt like he was in a rush and did what he did to get this whole thing over with. Instead of feeling like a decadent chocolate souffle at a Michelin-star restaurant, I felt like a sloppy crunch wrap supreme in front of a homeless person who hadn’t eaten for five days.
The bland white boy was in such a hurry that I forgot when and how my neon orange Calvin Klein brief mysteriously traveled to his bedroom floor. He was appalled by the idea of foreplay and wanted to go straight to the main event. And a self-proclaimed expert in bottoming, I was nervous as fuck. No matter how many penises had been inside my orifice before (not all at the same time… Idk why I felt the need to clarify that), I can’t stress enough the importance of proper foreplay. The alluring tearaway, the playful teases, the gentle touches, the sultry music… all of them are necessary for me to loosen up my hole. Instead, he did none of the above, grabbed a condom and a bottle of cheap lube, and positioned his penis near my bum. It was not the lovemaking I so desired; it was animalistic sex for the sole purpose of shooting some load on a stranger’s body.
This has more romance than whatever I had that evening
The moment his penis was inside of me, I knew the bland white boy had zero intention of pleasing me. I kept convincing myself, “Hey, maybe it will get better in five minutes?” Except it never did. In fact, things got progressively worse as time went by. The sex started to feel like a chore, and worse, it became painful. It got to the point where the pain I had to endure became so excruciating that it was enough to get myself sobered up. I didn’t even bother to act that I enjoyed it; I just closed my eyes and prayed to God I wouldn’t get out of this with rectal prolapse. And the bland white boy didn’t even bother to check on me. He just kept on doing whatever he’s doing with no regard for my well-being, pumping my booty like I was a cheap sex doll. Whoever deceived this white boy by telling him he’s good at sex, I blamed y’all for my misery.
The whole thing was so unpleasant, yet I don’t know why I didn’t stop and leave.
In retrospect, it was partly my fault. I didn’t show any sign of discomfort or agony, so the bland white boy might assume that I was enjoying his every thrust. But honestly, I wasn’t enjoying it— I wanted everything to stop. While embracing the pain, I ran through millions of ways to leave his place. At that moment, all I wanted were the comfort of my neon orange Calvin Klein brief on my body and a warm embrace from Colonel Sanders and his delicious fried chicken. And when you start thinking about fried chicken during sex, that’s how you know the sex is horrendous.
But more than everything, I consider myself a pathetic people-pleaser. I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing the same guy I took hours convincing to have sex with me, no matter how bad the sex is. I signed up for this shit. My twisted brain felt I owed it to the bland white boy to stick through the pain and took responsibility for getting him so worked up. And I didn’t dare to push him away and told him to his face, “sweetie, you can’t top for shit!” Honestly, I had zero grasps on the concept of self-respect.
The moment he ejaculated, I was ecstatic. It wasn’t the “OMG, I feel so accomplished for making him cum” kind of happiness; it was more like “hallelujah I can finally leave!” There was no post-sex discussion, no goodbye kiss, nothing. I didn’t waste my time indulging in any post-coital cuddle session, grabbed my clothes, and ran for my dear life.
As I was spelling out my takeaway order at the nearest In-N-Out Burger’s drive-through, I thought to myself,
“What the fuck just happened?”
I parked my car in the garage and didn’t immediately go into my room. Sitting down solemnly in my car, I let Lana Del Rey’s sultry voice and In-N-Out’s soggy fries tried their best to heal me. I was engulfed in an endless cycle of self-blame. I should have left the moment he greeted me with a fist bump. I should have stopped undressing myself when he refused to suck my dick. I should have kicked his belly when it hurt. I should not have stayed. But instead, I did nothing. A wise man told me once, “we can’t control everything in life, but we can control how we react to it”. Well, we can all agree that my reaction to life that evening sucked major balls.
Did I delete Grindr after that horrendous evening, you might ask? Of course not! Because who needs a mental break and emotional healing when you’re an acute masochist?
SquirtTale 