Content warning: contains graphic sexual content.
There I was, lying on my bed, rubbing my knee, and faking another orgasm, waiting for him to complete his 6-minute post-coital ritual of masturbating and finishing on my boobs.
He did this every time we had sex. For some reason, he “just couldn’t” come inside me, so we’d have sex, and then he’d jerk off over me while I pretended to play with myself (at his request) until he ultimately ejaculated onto my breasts, without looking at me, without kissing me, barely even touching me.
I wanted to cry. We had been dating for eight months, and he had never finished inside me, not once. Half the time, he never even came. Did he realize how badly this hurt my feelings? We used protection, and I was on birth control — why couldn’t he just come inside me?
Apparently, I was the ninth girl he’d slept with, so he was a self-proclaimed “sexpert.” Well, I thought, if he’s the sexpert, there must be something wrong with my vagina — which was deflowered by him! I’m young, I’m tight … what more could he want?
I know what you’re thinking. He just wanted sex, even if it sucked. Then why would he bother being my boyfriend for eight months, and talking to me on the phone every day when I was studying abroad, and including me at both of his family Christmas celebrations? Would a guy bother to introduce the girl to his dying great-grandmother just to have shitty sex for eight months, interrupted by a four-month period of study-abroad celibacy (unless he cheated, which is possible)? I don’t know, but I doubt it. If this was the case, more power to him.
More power to him, because goddamnit, I was in love with him. He was bad in bed, and refused to do foreplay. He never admitted to being wrong. He called me an obligation, forgot to text me goodnight, and never wanted to cuddle after sex. Sometimes, he didn’t even bother to kiss me before he had sex with me — he just went inside. He said every vagina tastes awful, including mine. He was always tired and grumpy. He said I’d better stay faithful during study abroad, because he’d “managed to not cheat on way shittier girls” than me.
He took me out to dinner once in eight months, but always had money for beer with his friends. He said he liked me “even though” I’m not skinny (size 10, you bastard!). He never picked me up because his license was taken away when he got a DUI before we met, which he lied to me about (his mom told me by mistake). He illegally cheated on a drug test to get his new job.
Somehow, I’m still glad I lost my virginity to him.
It was a perfect night. We were home alone, and we went swimming and watched a movie, and even cooked dinner naked. When the sex part started, he took it slow and got consent at every step. He’s huge and I’m tight, so nothing fit, and it was the most stressful two hours of our relationship. Neither of us finished, and eventually, we gave up.
As I curled up in bed, ready for him to dump me, he left the room. Then, he reappeared, hiding something behind his back, and told me to close my eyes. A second later, I heard a weird noise, and suddenly my nose was covered in whipped cream. I looked up to see him smiling at me — a smile I’ll never forget.
“There’s, umm, something on your nose,” he told me, as he leaned in to kiss the whipped cream off my face. I couldn’t stop laughing.
“What on earth are you doing?” I said between giggles, trying in vain to snatch the can away and get him back.
“Well,” he said, looking up at me, “I knew you were upset, so I wanted to cheer you up.” Then he sighed and flopped back down on the pillow. I knew what was coming — I knew he was about to break up with me because of my anticlimactic performance.
“Connie,” he said, looking at me intently, “I … I think it’s too early to say this, but … I think I love you.”
“You — you do?” I said as hope filled my heart. “Well, I don’t want to jinx it, but I think I might love you too.”
These days, he 'breadcrumbs' me. He’s a news producer, so he sends me the occasional TV clip that he produced. I’ll send back several compliments, and he’ll read them and not reply. My family and friends say he’s an emotional manipulator. I know he is, and I know he knows he controls me. I hope someday I’ll find someone else.
Wait. I know I will. Will he ever change, or will his future fuck buddy be eternally doomed to a cleavage full of cum? If she wants babies with him, will he have to jerk off into a turkey baster and use it as a proxy? Who knows!