Nothing about the sex was bad, but after a month or two, I still hadn’t, you know . . . arrived. (Mom, I’m sorry, but I told you not to read this chapter! If you’re seeing this, it’s your own fault!) Obviously, in my pitiful state, I wasn’t disturbed by this orgasm drought for myself, but for HIM. I assumed that if I wasn’t enjoying myself enough he’d end up feeling discouraged and less interested in doing it at all. If he was rocking my world, he’d want to do it more, right? For all I know, he wouldn’t have noticed if I’d turned to stone mid-thrust, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. So. No masturbation. Cut out all solo activity. I just won’t climax for so long that eventually he’ll have to make me.
Six weeks went by. SIX WEEKS. And I was getting nothing supplementally speaking. I was sticking to my guns. I was the master of my domain. Finally, I went to his apartment one night and I knew it was going to happen. I was on a hair trigger. (SIX WEEKS.) Oddly enough—or not odd at all since I hadn’t come in six weeks—I got there during actual sex, which had never happened before. Now, creepy sex checklist aside, I was pretty damn inexperienced at this point, so this wasn’t some huge accomplishment, it was more like a statistical inevitability. As we lay on his futon, I thought I’d tell him.
“So hey, first time I’ve had an orgasm during that whole situation.” I raised my hand for a high five. “Up top!” He chuckled sardonically and shook his head.
“You know, you could say, like, ‘Wow, I’ve never had an orgasm from doing that before, you’re the first.’ It should be a nice thing to hear.”
Was this dude using his therapist voice to tell me how to better stroke his ego after sex? I should have said, “I haven’t come in six weeks. A mammogram could have brought me to screaming orgasm, so you really shouldn’t be smug.” But instead I clenched my teeth and scolded myself for ruining this moment I’d worked so hard for.
As the weeks went on, I alternately gained and lost ground. He had some setbacks professionally and he opened up to me about some of his fears and insecurities. This is awesome, I thought gleefully as I held him.
A couple of weeks later he was still feeling down. I offered to come over early one morning and cook him breakfast. This was partially a gesture, something to make him feel cared for, and partially because he was so strapped for cash I knew he’d appreciate a free batch of groceries. He’d taught me how to make his favorite breakfast burrito and I went to the Gelson’s Market by my apartment to pick up everything we needed. Normally, I walked to Gelson’s every morning to buy a lone Power Bar. But today the checkout girl saw my basket: the tortillas, the eggs, the spices. She noted the change in my purchase and commented, “Trying something new?”
“Oh! Yeah . . .” I paused. “I’m making breakfast for my boyfriend.” What was the harm in saying it, right? It felt like Connor and I were probably heading there anyway, and as far as she knew I was perfectly deserving of having the guy I’d been seeing for months accept the title of “boyfriend.” Unlike, say, all my friends, this girl had no reason to believe I was kidding myself. She smiled back at me and nodded conspiratorially. Yes, I thought, it is adorable. How quaint am I, clumsily attempting to cook breakfast for my boyfriend? Like something out of a movie, I’d burn the first batch, he’d laugh, and I’d smack his arm. Yes, Gelson’s lady, that’s exactly what’s going on here.
I made the breakfast and he was grateful, but it wasn’t quite how I’d pictured it. We fooled around and he made another helpful suggestion for how my post–blow job behavior could be more affectionate or make him more comfortable or some shit. He had somewhere to be that afternoon, so we both headed out. I was in the car, waiting to make a left-hand turn, when my phone rang. It was him! He never called me first! Especially not so soon after saying good-bye. I snatched the phone out of the cup holder and answered. “Hi, stalker, just can’t leave me alone, can you?” Nice one, Anna, perfect play.
“I was just behind you. You’re doing my most hated thing. When people turn left onto Sweetzer but don’t signal, so no one knows why you’ve stopped. I just had to go around you.”
I thought he was calling to say thank you for breakfast, or tell me something funny he’d just seen that made him think of me, or maybe just to say that it was nice to see me and could we hang out again tonight. He was calling to critique my driving.
Why was I trying to spend more time with this person?! I didn’t even enjoy his company! What is wrong with twenty-year-old girls?!
I debated even telling this part of the story because I hate admitting that I forgot to signal. But on the upside, it shows what a spineless doormat I was shaping up to be, so it stays!