Chapter Five – The Single Life
by Christine Wild
A while back, after a semi-long dry spell, my girlfriends made it clear that they had had enough of my whining. I have always discussed every detail of my sex life with my friends. They probably did not need to know everything but I think it has brought us to some very intriguing conversations. Everyone needs a little widening of horizons, don’t you think? To remedy this dreadful situation, a couple of the girls and I went to a party. It was not the best but enough alcohol was consumed and the night was not half bad. I picked up a guy and decided to bring him home. After a month of sexual inactivity, I just needed a good pounding. You know, the kind that just leaves you clueless as to where up is anymore? I wanted to play with that line between pleasure and pain, so as to lose myself in the moment completely. Unfortunately the guy I had picked up turned out to be sweet and gentle. I could not be more disappointed! While he was slaving away, trying really hard to show me a good time, I was just saddened by the whole ordeal. What a spoilt bitch! You are thinking, after a dry spell, any sex is good. Well, sometimes you just need a big dick. His was not the smallest; he knew he had to work a little bit harder than other guys. It just was not what I was in for, and there was no making up for it. Sometimes you just need a good pounding.
Do not misunderstand me. When I say pounding, I mean good old unemotional, raw fucking. By no means does this entail porn sex. For instance, I was hooking up with this actor for a couple of weeks. It did not last because he had this unbearable habit of narrating our sexual encounters. He would say things like: “Oh yeah, tell me you want my dick inside your pussy; tell me how fucking wet you are when I’m fucking your pussy.” EWW. Again, do not get me wrong: dirty talk can be sexy. In this case, it was the absolute worst. First of all he did not even try to make me wet. He assumed I was just in a constant state of wanting him. (Really?) Second, he was under the impression that it was up to him to fuck me. Fucking should always be mutual. Guys here is a hint, if you are not even a little bit concerned for the body underneath you, there is a high chance she is not having a good time. And who knows? She might write about how bad it was in a book some day. In any case, porn-inspired sex is bullshit. Unless it was a scenario agreed upon beforehand, you need to know where my clit is and pay attention to it—close attention. As far as my “pussy” is concerned, don’t use that word unless explicitly asked. It is one thing to have Miguel ask me to dedicate my vagina to him in those words; it is another to objectify the source of your pleasure.
I am not going to sit here and tell you that objectification is not part of our everyday sex lives. I once picked up a total stranger in a late night chip-place in Dublin doing just that. He was sitting at a table close to the counter. As I was approaching, actively appraising the specimen that was in front of me, I exclaimed: “I like the size of his arms.” I said this in my best, drunken slurring voice, to my friend who just burst out laughing. We had sex in his friend’s apartment’s bathroom that night. The summer before that, I chose to sleep with this guy I met in a bar in Croatia because his shirt matched the pattern of my skirt. I do not even remember either of those guys’ names. They just happened to be biologically endowed with tools that I needed for myself. However this furthers my point. The memory I have of Big Arms is quite similar to that of the actor: objectification = cheap gratification = measly sex.
Actually, I remember an exception. I was sleeping with a friend of mine for a couple of months. The sex was good. Not exceptional, but really good. He was funny, attentive and so beautiful. Yes, I mean beautiful. The intentional objectification of his body and handsomeness lead me to wake up unexpectedly pretzeled, as I say, around him. Being usually averse to cuddling outside of emotional relationships, with him, I just wanted to be a part of that hotness, time and time again. His skin was soft; so was his personality. I remember laughing a lot with him. It was handy to have someone so easy going fulfill my single girl’s needs. We remain friends to this day. We probably know way too much about each other. Strangely, he is the one human being who has become a part of my little family, like a little brother, that I would still sleep with, were I given the chance. It just feels like tapping into an already existing intimacy, if that makes sense. When he drunkenly grabs me around the waste, I feel tingles. Yet I want him to experience the world’s best and build his own bridges.
I say this is strange because I usually differentiate between my friends, who I will not or am done sleeping with, and my hookups. The pretty one willingly lies somewhere in the grey zone. I will never forgive myself however, for sleeping with one of my “strictly friends ”—let us call him Jerry. I live my life on the motto that remorse is far better than regret. I would rather be on my deathbed thinking, “wow, I did a lot of random shit”, than thinking what if? Jerry, I should have never slept with. Our relationship has never been the same since. We had a very good dynamic; we went on friend dates and consoled each other in all matters of our depressing love lives. That night I got exceptionally drunk, perhaps the worst I have ever been. The pits about my being blacked out that night were the flashes. I remember distinctively—I kissed him. I started it, I furthered it and I ended it. We spent the day after on his couch, watching a movie and eating pizza. It only dawned on me, what had happened, when I was on the bus of shame home. I called my friend and freaked out. I realized I had crossed my own line, broken my own rule. When you have as little traditional no-no’s as I do, it feels especially bad to know you cannot even respect the lines you drew yourself. To this day, I cannot distinguish between the sex and the transgression. I cannot objectively and honestly tell you what the sex was like. I just know in my heart that it was wrong.
When you are single, the star does not point north. It points towards sex. These stories entertain my coupled-up friends. They live vicariously through the excitement. Well bad sex itself, unlike the stories it produces, is not so exciting. It leaves you frustrated and lonely. I realize I seek comfort in other people. It makes me feel less alone. I set myself up for failure sometimes, like with Big Arms. In cases like those, I was consciously entering in unsatisfying transactions. There is that expected disappointment again. It is so philosophically contradictory, yet so instinctive. In other cases, with the pretty one for example, it was the comfort of a friend, a lover and a penis. The object, the role and the affection of the other coincided into making all loneliness disappear. It eventually rears its ugly head again. That is why we seek love. I think perpetual bachelors and single gals suffer from this equally. That is why we consistently make the mistakes our loved-up friends so often warn us about. We know we have no control over our love lives. But sex, sex you can control. Being single in college gave me the stories I am sharing with you today, and I would not change them for the world. All of these experiences taught me more about myself. For better or worse, my stories shaped me, and my friendships. They taught me about the infamous degrees of coexistence of emotions within me. They made it easier to cope with real heartbreak, when it eventually came back with a vengeance.