I don’t usually kiss and tell. Well, actually, I do kiss and tell, but I don’t usually have sex and tell. Unless it’s bad. And then I spill the beans.
A friend reminded me recently of the story of my worst sex ever. It’s a story that he remembers because… well… everyone who’s heard it remembers it.
First, let me be clear that a guy has to be an over-achiever to claim the title of worst sex I’ve ever had. I’ve had a lot of sex. Some of it was worthy of whatever the Oscar for porn is, and some of it was just plain bad.
Before my marriage, my award for worst sex ever belonged to a really nice guy with a really small penis. Now, I’m honestly curious what kind of karmic debt he’d incurred to force him to go through this life with such a remarkably small penis, but it was truly so small that I didn’t even realize when intercourse had actually begun. This dubious distinction won him the cruel nickname of “Phantom Dick” from one of my girl friends. (And, I’m not a size snob; in fact, I am biologically constructed in such a way that a guy has to be pretty darn tiny to not satisfy my size criteria….) But, anyway, Phantom Dick was so nice and smart and sweet that I was relieved when our relationship fell apart for other reasons, so I wouldn’t have to suffer the guilt of breaking up with a guy simply because nature had played a mean joke on him.
Twenty years later I realized that there are far worse things than phantom dicks.
The lover who currently holds my worst sex ever title we’ll call John, because… well, because that’s his name. I dated John not too long after my separation. By the time John and I took our clothes off, he had had a crush on me for several months and had been angling for just such an opportunity. So, the sexual tension was high and the anticipation was thick.
The foreplay wasn’t awful. It was, however, what I like to call “Checklist Foreplay.” (Every woman over the age of 30 is nodding her head right now and going “Ohhh…. bummer.”) Checklist Foreplay, for you young women and male readers, is when a guy seems to move through the motions simply because he knows he’s supposed to. It goes something like this:
- Kiss mouth. Check.
- Kiss neck. Check.
- Fondle breasts. Check.
- Kiss breasts. Check.
- etc, etc. You get the idea, right?
Here’s a good rule, guys: If you don’t enjoy doing something, don’t do it. Sure, we’d probably rather that you did, but doing it without any enthusiasm is worse than not doing it at all. I don’t do things in bed that I don’t like to do. (Okay, in fairness, I’m not sure what those things might be, but if I find one, I swear I’m not going to do it.)
John tried to be sweet, paying me compliments. Some hit the mark — “You have the body of a 25-year-old!” — while others did not — “Nice boobies!” Ahem. Another good rule of thumb, guys: When in bed with a woman, don’t ever, ever refer to her body part by a name that her sexually-repressed grandmother might have used. Go for a porn-worthy reference, or stick with the clinical term. But don’t call our parts by cutesy names. It’s not sexy. It’s just icky. If you doubt me on this, imagine how you’d feel if we said to you, “You’ve got a great pee-pee.” Seriously. Just don’t do it.
After the toe-curling pleasure of our 5-minute foreplay (not), it was off to the races. I felt certain that things would improve once we really got rolling. After all, this was a good-looking guy whom I knew to have no trouble seducing women and more than enough notches in his bedpost to suggest the development of serious artistry in the sex department. So maybe foreplay wasn’t his thing. It was bound to get better, right?
Because there are hardly words for what happened next. Basically, he moved his car into the space, and threw it into park. And there it sat, idling.
At first, I was confused. I looked at his face. His eyes were closed and he had the look of someone thinking hard about something. Okay, I thought, maybe I just need to do some of the work here. But that wasn’t even possible — he was nearly 6 feet tall and about 190 lbs. I could barely move my arms, let alone my hips. Not that it really mattered, because, as I was contemplating how to manipulate my body, he sighed and pulled out of the parking place. Job completed.
Then he smiled at me and said lots of sweet things and I got the hell out of there as fast as I could.
On the drive home, I was not only sexually frustrated but absolutely flabbergasted. I mulled over any and all explanations for what had just happened. Perhaps he was drunk and having to struggle to keep the car running? Or maybe he was just so overwhelmed at the opportunity to have sex with me that the engine got too revved up too quickly? (I liked this explanation, personally.) Or maybe this was some Kama Sutra thing that I’d have appreciated if I’d ever been disciplined enough to read the book instead of only look at the pictures?
Well, because I am a
glutton for punishment very nice person, I gave John a second chance and confirmed that, whatever the reason, this was his personal style of sex. To his credit, the second time lasted slightly longer; long enough, in fact, for me to remember that I’d forgotten to take the chicken out of the freezer for the next night’s dinner. Now, I’ve had sex that literally made me dizzy and nearly pass out, so if you’ve got me thinking about frozen chicken while you’re supposedly making love to me, our relationship is not long for this world.
So, before we go on, let’s review for our male audience what we’ve learned:
- No Checklist Foreplay. Unless the checklist consists of “Ravish her body passionately,” it’s just uncool and a buzzkill.
- No cutesy names for our female parts. Not unless you want us to turn you on with references to your “pee-pee” and your “bum-bum.”
- Friction — actually, movement generally — is a necessary element for intercourse. Whatever you do, don’t park the car before taking it around the block a few times, please.
As it turned out, there were ample reasons that John and I did not belong together that are far more important than his claim as my worst sex ever. But he still holds the title.
And, if there is a God in heaven, he always will.