The Scorecard

by M

The very best sex can happen that of two ways. 1) when you know someone’s body soo well, that you can make them jerk, bend and twitch in ways they didn’t know possible… or 2) when you barely know the person, and all that attraction, passion and desirable uncertainty kicks in and you have the wildest boot knocking session you could ever have imagined. Both have their advantages, but ultimately, the common denominator between the two is letting loose…either with your much-trusted partner, or with the person that you think you may never see again, so you are as loud, kinky and outrageous as you want to be. Regardless, the perfect bed buddy guarantees toe curling orgasms and should be treated with much respect, as a good orgasm is as hard to come by as a faithful prostitute.

It was the night of one of those 20-something birthdays of mine and my beautiful 6’5” boyfriend had just rolled off of me. My knees felt like jello, my heart was racing, and all I could hear was the panting of the man who had just slaved away to ensure that my birthday had ended with a bang. My body was still bucking from the excitement and yet my mind had already begun to wonder. Was this it? Was this as fulfilled as I was going to be in bed? One would think that a woman would be totally satisfied by experiencing the best orgasms of her life on a daily basis- but something was missing. I was bored and immediately realized that I was C.B.D (Cumming By Default.) I was so completely comfortable and relaxed around this guy that it just happened almost automatically…not because he was so fantastic in bed. I was settling. I named this type of orgasm the “suburbia orgasm” because I knew that wives all over suburbia were probably laying in bed doing exactly what I was…wishing they had the freedom to jump out of bed and screw the mailman. I saw my life heading exactly in that depressing direction and knew I had to break up with him immediately.

My plan of action had begun. I had to get out of my comfort zone. In the past, I had always dated the same kind of guy. He was confident, good looking, successful, blah…blah...blah. But I had to wonder—if I wasn’t finding what I was looking for in my “typical type”, then why make the mistake of repeat-dating the same kind of guy again?

While sitting on the fire escape of my girlfriend’s apartment with a bottle of red wine and a pad of paper, we made a list of all the types of men we wanted to date in life. We have this theory that dating is like process of elimination, and eventually you’ll find the perfect mate. Unrealistic? Maybe. But having faith that you will find a good one after kissing lots of incestuous toads is what keeps us going.

There was the P.O.P (perfect on paper) guy-check. The playboy-check. The investment banker- check. The ex frat-boy- check. The blue collar worker- check. The pretty boy- check. The starving artist….hhmm…now there was one that I had yet to experience.

It was only a matter of weeks when I met Sebastian. He came allll the way from London and had the most amazing accent. At first impression, both mentally and physically, he wasn’t my type at all. He was short, blonde, neatly dressed, and had these thin black-rimmed glasses that made him look studious, yet temptingly naughty. The artsy-fartsy type…very sweet and in touch with his inner feelings kind of guy. I figured if anything, he would probably at least be good in the sack, as most of those types (please forgive my stereotyping) are all about deep conversation and sensuality. He was a poet and did some kind of consulting work to pay the bills. And although I usually would never have paid a moment’s notice of him prior to my eye awakening “orgasm of clarity,” I was on a mission. I accepted a date to a Japanese restaurant that next evening. (I’m not gonna lie…I made sure I had extra sexy underwear on and was hoping that I’d get a peak at Big Ben that night.)

Conversation was good, but it was evident that we had very little in common. At one point in the dinner I asked about his work and he started to recite lines from a famous poet I had never heard of-- at which point I got up and ran to the bathroom. As much as I liked the idea of dating a poet, the cheesy dramatization of it all was a bit too much for me and I didn’t want to lose my sake buzz. I quickly decided that he was waaay too nice for me …very polite, soft-hearted and a self-proclaimed “old-fashioned good guy looking for a nice, Jewish girl.” I didn’t want to break it to him then, but I was none of the above. In fact, he had made it a point to say how hard it was to meet women in the city and that he was feeling very lonely. I began to feel bad that the starving artist hadn’t gotten laid on American soil yet. Poor ol chap. Figured I might take one for the American greeting team and decided be his ambassador for the night.

Two hours later we were rolling around in his East Village one bedroom apartment. He was (surprisingly) an incredible kisser and did this amazing thing with his tongue down my neck that made my entire body shiver. With a swift pull of his belt buckle, (much like the guy that can undo a bra with one hand) I had his pants on the floor, and my hand wondered down to scope out the starving artist’s own personal work of art.

Now, rarely am I surprised by what I find… but this was an exception. I was shocked to find a monstrosity of a “cock” (as I believe the Brit gals call it.) It was sooo large, that I didn’t even know if I could handle it without extreme pain. I awkwardly excused myself and ran as fast as I could down the hall and locked myself in the pint-sized bathroom to gather myself. I was still deciding what I was going to do when I looked down, and there… laying in the trashcan, was not only a condom wrapper, but a used condom...He hadn’t even tried to hide it!

What was this? I had been tricked! Dooped! Swindled for sex!? Maybe I shouldn’t have felt so bad for the starving artist after all. I had fallen for the sweet, sensitive “feel bad for me” guy act.

Furious, I crept out of the bathroom into the nook of the kitchen table and grabbed my purse, jacket and shoes. I tiptoed to the door and let it softly click shut behind me. I must say, that I haven’t ever run so fast down 3 flights of stairs (barefoot) in my life.

I never heard from the starving artist again. I imagine he was quite confused, left pondering in bed what could have gone wrong… well, until he went to the bathroom at least. Before I had pulled a Cinderella down the streets of Manhattan, I had used his hand towel to pull out the trashcan into the middle of the bathroom floor, where the condom would practically wink at him when he walked into the bathroom. Maybe at least he would learn to be a little more honest…or at least a bit more discreet for the next gal.

So what is the lesson here? Well, although I still highly recommend dating all “types” of people- doing it just to complete your scorecard is not going to get you anywhere. (okay, so maybe this only applies to me!)

On a serious note: As easy as it is to get into a comfortable relationship routine, make sure your partner isn’t getting bored by robotic-like sex, and forced to leave you for someone with more pizzazz. It’s healthy to get out of your comfort zone every once in a while. I’m not talking extremes, but just getting out of the habitual “suburbia O” a little so that your partner still embraces your sexual relationship. Nobody wants a resentful lover.

I think that some of life’s best stories come out of the unexpected…you just don’t have to date the unexpected to make one for the books.