Who doesn’t like to be touched, caressed, licked or cared for during sex? You might think that the obvious answer is: No-fucking-body.
I know there are people who don’t like sex in the first place (which, just to be clear, I think is perfectly fine), they are called asexual and for obvious reasons you probably won’t wind up having sex with them. To make my point a little clearer: Every person who actually has sex with you would most likely want to be touched, caressed, licked or cared for – and eventually have an orgasm. That is probably the goal that everyone – after some kissing and removing of clothes – has their mind on: an orgasm. Or two. Or three.
And then what? What happens after one person accomplishes said orgasm? Well that depends, most people would say.
1. Does the other person want to / is able to / like to come?
(I’d guess YES but, well, let’s ask them?!)
2. Was there enough time for them to come?
(If you’re asking yourself this question, probably not.
Do you really care?)
Let’s agree on the fact that whatever happens after the first orgasm of the intercourse should depend on both parties. That there should be an arrangement, a talk, an understanding, something similar to: ‘Yes this seems like a good solution for both of us.’
In my recent heterosexual life this has always been the case because I tend to date people who are just kind of decent human beings. Thanks to all of you, by the way, for honouring me with the most basic kindness one can encounter during sex: wanting the other person to have fun, too.
But this wouldn’t be a rant if everything was perfectly fine in the sex universe. Get closer people, gather around because you will not believe what happened that one time it wasn’t fine. I sure couldn’t.
Because here’s what happened after the person with the penis came:
The sex stopped. Not for a minute. Not for five. It stopped for good. Right there. No warning. No excuse.
The person with the penis stopped and didn’t take a look back in case he forgot something. No, he just kept on going to the kitchen poured himself some cereal because he was hungry and, after a short irritated moment of ‘Is something the matter?’, immediately fell asleep. Well, not immediately. After I pointed out that something actually is the matter, that I hadn’t had an orgasm (to avoid any confusion) and still would like to pursue it, he shrugged and said: „Well, one can’t always win.“ – And then he fell asleep.
The sex was over.
I repeat it was over.
There I was, lying naked on said person’s bed in total shock of what five minutes ago was something very close to an orgasmic experience and had now turned into nothing.
He had fallen asleep.
Is that even possible, you might ask?
I rolled over to my side of the bed and my inner Carrie Bradshaw couldn’t help but to fucking wonder: Did I just have sex with an egoistic dick?
The egoistic dick: A person who falls asleep right after climaxing without tending to the needs of their sexual partner. May equally refer to any gender.
Could I have seen this coming? Should I wake him up? Should I find out whether he’s really sleeping? Do I have a right to my orgasm? Like, can I CLAIM my orgasm? Quid pro quo? An eye for an eye? Can I win my case by being annoying? Do I fall asleep now, too? Am I tired? No. I’m fucking horny! Should I…? No. Is it sexual harassment to demand an orgasm after the other one finished? Should I leave? Is this really happening? Should he pay me? Should I charge him for my sexual services? Was that a snore? Is he snoring now, too?
I grab the earplugs he had laid out for me an hour earlier – the gentlemen – and fall asleep into, entering angry dreams that contain me shouting at Jan Böhmermann for not giving me a spot in his late-night show. Upon waking up again the next morning, I lie still. Yes. Still horny. Still needing relief. Or revenge. Both.
I turn around and start being very sexy. Sexy eyes, sexy moves. It takes five seconds and we’re both in the mood. Using the Darnearys Targarian technique I learned from Game of Thrones, I spin him around and get on top of him. He tries to do the same but I won’t let him. This time my way, Mister.
I know I can come. And I do. Pretty easily. Right there, in this moment, I feel powerful. Glorious. Like a Queen. This is what I signed up for. Two naked bodies surrendering to each other. True pleasure.
While the last waves of ecstasy run through my body, I know I could just get up and leave and never look back. I don’t need to care. I could get a fucking bowl of cereal now. It’s the morning, it would actually MAKE SENSE to do that.
But I don’t. I look down at his face. I am not like you. I know pleasure is best when being shared.
I am not an egoistic dick.
We don’t need any more of them.
A month later, after mutual silence and me not even thinking about texting him again – BECAUSE REASONS! –, he writes to me.
Only one day after our encounter he experienced an anaphylactic shock. He’d been in the hospital for a week. It was close, he says. It made him realize what was actually important in life and that he had very much enjoyed our encounter but wasn’t really feeling it. He just wanted to tell me now (one month later!) why he never got back in touch. Because it’s not his style to just „disappear“ without an explanation. Just in case I was waiting and wondering why he never called. He wishes me all the best.
While I read his message there’s only one thing on my mind:
I should have gotten that bowl of cereal.