I could not „get it up“.
I officially lived most men’s nightmare.
It was the first time, well it was supposed to be the first time and I, the girl in this particular equation, in eloquent man speak, “could not get it up”. Disaster.
We had been dating, we were young. I adored him (still do), everything was going fantastically, we were already friends, already had a much better connection than most of the men/boys/jungs I had played with in that naked play sense.
But, (hate this BUT) there I was on a vintage Danish leather designer sofa, unable to get into the headspace to make, it”, happen.
WTAF was going on? Why me? Why now? Why ever? Why so complicated? Why? Why? Why?
And that is when the problems began. I began to think, think and think some more.
- What is the current hair status of my legs? It has been a long winter after all…
- Am I wearing the non-slutty “period” underwear?
- I am a little bloated today, what if he simply does not like me without well-tailored clothing?
- Is his lighting concept acceptable and flattering to my 3rd degree stretchmarks that only exist in my head?
- What if it is simply lackluster and then we destroy some of the best times I have had in a long time… it was clearly never going to end well.
Ended up thinking so much that I totally psyched myself out of it and let me tell you, “It” on an objective reference standard was surely going to be hot. And I doubt I was going to be given a million more chances.
Here’s the scene, judge for yourself:
Making out like teenagers, dating, wining and dining all the boxes ticked.
An immaculately furnished apartment completely devoid of any Eames chairs in my peripheral vision.
The man was well groomed and wearing a cardigan, a cardigan dammit!!! Nothing makes me wetter and more willing to put out, than a navy blue well-fitting merino wool cardigan (I know, I am weird).
A perfect winter evening with snow falling outside, dressed top to toe in navy blue cashmere and new designer perfume that even I wanted to lick off myself – the perfect not too heavy meal and just the right amount of wine to make me warm and blush.
He touched me the way I wanted to be touch and then he did the hottest thing ever…
He tasted me (like down there), followed by “I have been wondering for a long time what you taste like”.
I thought, I may actually, at that moment, have a stroke. Little does he know that the memory of this comment has taken me over the edge on more than one occasion.
And what did I do? Instead of moan and tilt hips forward – I started talking. Idiot me.
Started totally freaking out, ending in the overwhelming urge to run and run I did. On foot as this was before the days of Über.
Here is what should have happened.
He should have taken my hand, told me to calm down, lead me to the darkened appropriately lit (which I have no doubt he had) bedroom and ever-so-slowly undressed me.
He should have told me to stop talking, demanded I stop, with the addition of my own personal favorite line “everything is going to be perfect”. Followed by – silence, I needed silence. Silence is totally underrated.
I did not think it were possible, but I was unable to perform and the more time that passed the more I freaked out that “this”, horrible state of affairs, was going to continue.
The realization hit me, that there are no drugs that were going to get me out of this one, as I do not have a penis! I believe this may be the first and only time I have ever wished for one, a penis that is.
Wished for the ability to simply have the physical ability to perform even where the mental one was disabled.
Were proper feelings at play here? You tell me.