The Champagne of People

*Disclaimer*  This story is, in part, about a blow job.   If you are my boyfriend or my parents, you are excused from reading this.

 

You think you know how to handle certain situations.  Situations that, when presented hypothetically, have a very obvious and correct way to handle them.  I certainly like to think that I have good judgment and make generally good, if not great, decisions when it comes to myself and my own happiness.  

 

I spent 23 years observing, intently, the people in my life make all kinds of decisions about love and relationships, while I stayed single on the sidelines. I thought I would at least be ahead of the game when I finally had a relationship of my own to navigate.  I didn’t have any real-life experience, but I’m a smart cookie. I saw (or I thought I saw) what clearly did and did not work when it came to relationships. And when I saw my friends mistreated by partners I knew that it would never happen to me.  I wouldn’t allow it.

 

But we don’t know.  Not really.  We don’t know what it will be like when our hearts are on the line.  You can’t know how foggy and fragile you’ll become when you’re naked—emotionally and physically—and someone you trust breaks the rules you assumed you were both following.  You can’t put any faith in the actions of those who came before you. There is no concrete guidance because, when it comes to love, even our shared experiences are unique.

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“You can’t know how foggy and fragile you’ll become when you’re naked”

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A few years ago, I went on my first online date.  He was just my type. He was funny and sweet and a little chubby. We spent our first date drinking wine and laughing at each other do different accents and impressions.  He kissed me in public and I didn’t even mind. This was the first time in my life I felt like the normal, single girl I had always wanted to be. 

 

At that point, I’d lost about 75lbs.  I was an entirely different person, physically, than I had ever been.  I was also an entirely different person, romantically, than I had ever been.  I was the girl out on a great date—and I was thrilled.  I had been telling myself for the longest time that I was a catch and it felt so good to have that reflected back to me by this very cute boy.

 

I should also mention that at that point I was a virgin.  I can’t remember when I disclosed this to the cute boy, but I am an open person and I think I disclosed it fairly early.  Like, first date early (didn’t want him getting any ideas). It’s not that I was opposed to sex, but the opportunity had not yet presented itself, and it was important to me that I be in control when it eventually did.  

 

So.  Date one: great. Date two: great. Date three: Oh, date three...

 

I was living at home, my parents were out of town, he was going to be in the area hiking with some friends and I invited him over to hang out and watch a movie.  You can maybe see where this is going.  In hindsight, I probably could have orchestrated the situation better.  When someone says “wanna come over, my parents are out of town”, it’s not unheard of for sex to be an implication.  But (a) I had already vocalized my expectations (or lack thereof) for how much sex would be had that evening, and (b) we are not in high school.

 

So he comes over.  We’re making out. I reiterate that there will be no hanky panky, but, being the thoughtful date I am, there *were* other things for me to do.  While I may have been a virgin in the technical sense, I was not entirely inexperienced.  I had, in fact, even received some very positive feedback on one particular thing that boys tend to like.  So I did that thing. I did that thing for two. hours.

 

TWO HOURS

 

I know.  I KNOW. I’m partly to blame, I know. But this was my first time out the gate!  The first time the person I was trying to woo was not a former friend, someone who already knew how great I was in a platonic sense, where it was just a short leap to romance.  This was a stranger. And I had not yet established my boundaries. Clearly. The worst part of that is that I felt that it was least I could do, having taken sex off the table.

 

No.  That was not the worst part.  The worst part was, about an hour and a half in, no closer to completion:

 

He asked me to make him a sandwich.  

 

Now, this is the moment where I’m supposed to know what to do.  Experienced be damned—when a man asks you to make him a sandwich when you are already servicing him. I was supposed to say “absolutely not, put your pants on and get out of my house”.  But, as we’ve learned, there is no way to prepare yourself for when the naked boy in your bedroom askes a naked you to make him a sandwich.

 

“I was supposed to say 'absolutely not,

put your pants on and get out of my house'”

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So, not yet possessing the proper tools to handle any of this, on my third ever date, I took his penis out of my mouth, went to the kitchen, and made him a goddam sandwich.

 

When he had finished the sandwich (the only completion that day), he asked me to set an alarm to that he could take a nap before he drove home.  Once again, I obliged. Partly because I was still in shock at the events of the day and didn’t have the strength to argue, and partly because I just *needed a minute* and I couldn’t wait for him to get up get dressed and go to take it.  So, while he slept in my bed, I sat in my parents living room and watched Amy Schumer.

 

For 45 minutes, I thought about what had just transpired.  I will admit, with mixed emotions, that there was still a part of me that was pleased. I had spent the day naked with a boy.  For a fat person who never thought she could be sexy and comfortable and naked all at the same time, that certainly counted for something.  But I had given so much of my power away.  I knew I should have sent him home hours ago.  When I woke him up from his nap and he suggested that he stay the night, my answer was, finally, a firm no.

 

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This is a story that I frequently tell at parties because of its lunacy.  It is hilarious in so many ways: the length of time, the length of the penis, the fact that someone actually asked me to make them a sandwich, the fact that I actually made it.  It’s all insane. But it’s more than a funny story. It’s an important milestone in my sexual identity. I handled that situation so poorly. But I did learn from it.  I'm not sure I can articulate the specific things I learned or ways in which I grew, but I know I did.  I felt an immediate change the moment I closed the door on him that night. I knew I would never give someone that much power ever again.  And I haven’t. While I went on to date a bunch more meh guys, I never felt that powerless again. 

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“we let things slide that we would otherwise address

because it's not really worth the effort”

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I think it’s really easy for women to make concessions, sexually and emotionally, when it comes to men we don’t really care about.  We run into issues with flings or one-night-stands, and we let things slide that we would otherwise address because it’s not really worth the effort.  If it’s not going to grow into a relationship, what's the point in muddying the waters by being “needy”.

 

It’s ok to sleep with guys whom you don’t want to date, or whom you don’t even particularly like.  Sex is great. You learn so much from being with different people. But it’s not ok to compromise your body or your morals or your comfort just because you’re not in it for the long haul.  

 

I’ll leave you with this:  suck as many dicks as you like, but don’t make the fucking sandwich.

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