How Not to Get Laid

(Not every story has a funny punchline. I like this one for that reason. A bit more explicit than our standard fare, but also more risky and revealing. Check it out. — SF)

Submitted by Chuck Morgan, 46, Putnam’s Landing, CT

My wife rarely wore a bra and when she did, it was a flimsy sort of affair, not like this push-up thing Rachel wears. Or at least that’s what I think this contraption is because I’ve never felt anything like it. It has metal rings about the cups that do a fine job of holding up a breast to maintain an inviting and sexy shape, but it’s also prevents fingers from slipping in. I try from the bottom. I try from the top, but those breasts are sealed in as if they are under the protection of Homeland Security. We’re still kissing and there’s no way to maneuver about for further reconnaissance, to spot a weakness for entry.

I opt for a change of tactics and reverse course to her back where I find familiar technology, the old-fashioned metal clasp. I pride myself on the ability to unhinge with one hand and thankfully I haven’t lost this talent. The clasp unfastens. The suction-cups release their hold from her chest and I’m free to roam at will. Rachel’s breasts are soft and silky, like the inside lining of an expensive coat, but they lack firmness. This is surprising, and not in a good way. She pulls away from my mouth and nips at my ear, breathing harder. She pinches one of my nipples and it stings and startles and I’m hard. One of her legs is against my crotch. She must know of my excitement.

The opportunity to break twenty-one years of monogamy is at hand, but I didn’t expect to return to Rachel’s apartment on a first date (honest). I don’t have a condom, and besides, she doesn’t know anything about my background. I’m disease free, but what’s her story? And even if I had a rubber, I’m not prepared. I don’t know the rules regarding STD’s. I don’t even know if you can get AIDS from oral sex. If she gives me a blow job won’t I have to reciprocate?

Despite this panic, my outward appearance remains calm. I caress her breasts. We kiss. I mull options. Her hands massage my back, my stomach, my chest and now she’s rubbing me down below, but if this doesn’t slow down, I won’t be able to stop. I try a few delay tactics. My hands revisit the breasts and my torso twists in such a way to distance her fingers from my crotch. This works, but then she pulls away and starts crying. I lean into the sofa, yanking my shirt down to cover my gut.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“I’m not doing this right, am I?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You feel far away.”

“No, that’s not it, it’s just, well, I haven’t been with another woman in a long time. I wasn’t expecting to come back here.”

“You don’t want me?”

“Of course I do. I’m just saying that this is all new. You’re the first woman I’ve been with since my wife left.”

“It’s okay,” Rachel says. “I haven’t been with anyone in three years.”

She’s sobbing again and the only way to quiet her is to take her in my arms. We sit like this for awhile. “Want to smoke a little more?” I ask.

“Sure.”

With a fresh buzz we kiss. She whispers that my touch is driving her crazy. She laughs. “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

To hear such words while in the embrace of a woman is to have found nirvana, and given what I’ve been through over the last two months, I’ve earned the right to receive such generosity. I need the practice. But I’m a small rodent frightened by my own shadow. I know that this is just a test run; it doesn’t matter if I come too fast or I can’t keep it up. I’ve never had problems in the past, but with all the stress I honestly don’t know how I’ll perform. I probably just require a few dress rehearsals. It’s like riding a bicycle, but what if she’s expecting some sort of commitment?

I stop kissing and say, “We need to talk.”

She’s crying again. “You don’t want me.”

“That’s not it, please.” I explain that I’ve just gotten out of a marriage and that I’m not looking for anything serious. I want her to understand that it’s okay if she just wants to be friends.

“It’s all right,” she says wiping away tears. “We can be friends with a benefit plan.” She cocks her head with a mischievous smile and we kiss again.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, “but I’m going home now. I’ve got to get up early anyway.”

She turns petulant and pouts.

“Look,” I add, “how about coming over to my place this weekend?”

Her face brightens and her lips are on mine again. She tastes salty from those tears and she hugs me tightly. I untangle from her embrace. We hug and kiss again at the doorway. I say good bye and leave.

Once in high school, Caroline, a hot shiksa-cheerleader, cornered me in the basement of Ricky D’Amato’s during a party. Caroline was into jocks, but occasionally she’d go for a freak. She had a narrow, turned-up nose, pale, creamy skin, and irresistible pointy breasts. She was so out of my league, the clubhouse laundry attendant was ahead in the pecking order, but somehow we ended up in that basement smoking some hash I’d scored from my Jewish fraternity pals. Sometimes heaven truly is on earth, and for those first kisses, it seemed as if I’d crashed those pearly gates. I could do no wrong. Caroline panted and groped like I was the last man on the planet. I got so excited that I came in my pants before she’d even touched my belt buckle. I tumbled out of the clouds, embarrassed beyond belief. There was nothing I could do except bolt. Rachel’s look as I walk out the door is reminiscent of Caroline’s when I dashed up those basement steps.

Outside I breathe easier despite a subzero temperature. I hop into the car and the dashboard clock reads 3:30. I can’t believe it’s this late. I crank the car heat, shivering. I’m a chicken-shit. What sort of man is afraid to ask for a blowjob?

The kind who’s broken.

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