4 Tries Equals, Lesson Learned

Four Tries Equals Lesson Learned

All for B.J.

I couldn’t cum.
Goddamn it that
is so frustrating.
Why couldn’t I?
One simple answer.
It wasn’t good.
I have no grand
illusions of sex,
it doesn’t always have
fireworks exploding
in the background—
lots of
satisfied panting,
the simultaneous
climax of the pair
doing the act—

But this was just
boring—
and I’m being
semi-nice
about the whole thing.

I literally said,
Go ahead and cum,
it’s not going to
happen with me
tonight.

(Did he have to
on my stomach?
It looked like I was
five and had gotten into
odd-colored frosting.)

He begged in
frustration,
What do you
want? Need?

I couldn’t put
my finger
on it,
but it definitely
wasn’t the beached
whale that was thrusting
on top of me.
It was like I was the sand
and he was scraping
his fins against
me to get back to the
ocean where
he belonged.

That said,
I did get a lot
of mental
to-do lists
started in my head
while pretending
to actually enjoy
myself.

I wonder,
and still to
this day,
How can a man
be so good at kissing,
but so awful in bed?

I yearned
only for
multiple-hour
make-out sessions like
we were still
high school students
with raging hormones.

Honestly,
I’m guessing
it’s because he was
with the same
beer-bellied,
white-trash
ignorant
woman
for
five years
before meeting me.

Back-story—
seeing him with me
sent her into hellish
rages full of
crass name-calling
shoe-throwing,
and ninja kicks
against my car.

He must be so
used to making
a woman—
whose future consists
of getting knocked up
by some illegal alien,
(blind, most likely)
who then
leaves her
after he finds out she
is with child
because he can’t be
with a woman
the definition of
low-standard,
cum—
that he has no idea
it takes more
finesse,
a little sexy
foreplay,
some actual
mental connection
to get a woman
going.

I should have known
right away
this was
going to blow up
in my face
because we only
had things in common
when we drank—
like lust, or an affinity
for…
I’m actually drawing
a blank on anything
besides lust
at the moment.

Otherwise he
enjoyed conversing about
cartoons like Southpark
or television shows
like Cops.
(His uncle was on it—
big fucking deal,
he isn’t anymore
and
he still
watches it.)

Not to mention
stand-up qualities like
his previous
meth-addict
days
multiple
DUI’s,
arrests,
and
the only skill he
is able to put on
his resume is summed
up by the fact that he can
pour a decent
gin and tonic.

Here’s the kicker,
he tells the world,
I’m bad in bed.
I’m sure it’s to cover his
own ass.
I’m not going to tip-toe
around it and say
I was so amazing.
I wasn’t due to
the preceding mentioned reasons.

I’m not that great of
an actress either
so he most
likely could tell
I would rather be
pulling my
fingernails off
one by one
than have him
try to devour
me like
the greasy,
cheap,
fattening,
fast-food
he is so accustomed
to consuming
on a daily basis.

More than ever I
miss good old-fashioned
playful,
spontaneous,
sex.
The kind that happens early in the morning
resulting in faint bruises
in the form of handprints
etched onto my thighs.

Now I still believe
in second chances,
so many things
can go wrong during
a
first fuck—
but after that,
move on,
that shit ain’t
gettin’ better.