tales of a girl in the city

janvier 18, 2004

Finding My....Um...Nemo

A few things keep me up at night. Among these are:

* My pure and silent hatred for the person responsible for the front-page headlines of The New York Post. For example, a recent article on property value assessment, "TAXMAN GIVES HOMES A KICK IN THE ASSESS." Such terrible punning has not been seen since 1984 when seven-year-old Joey Zileski discovered Knock-Knock Jokes and went around asking anyone who would listen, "Orange you glad I'm not a banana?".

* The fact that I had a crush on Joey Zileski and used to think--each time he asked this stupid, stupid question--"Yes, Joey. Yes! I am glad you're not a banana. If you were a banana, who would there be for me to love?

* This. And again. Everybody now!

The last and most recent addition to this list (MOM, STOP READING HERE) is this:

* The fact that I had my only non-self-induced orgasm with a guy who I met on an on-line dating website.

God, I know. And I didn't even like him.

All those years in college with soft-lipped, golden-tongued lads who spent hours trying to work out the complexities of their womb-envy issues with their heads entrenched firmly between my thighs. All those dear, dear ex-boyfriends (except for M. He's sexually inhibited.) armed with honeyed words. And actual honey. Prepared to dig in and last until I came, or lose their lives tr--well, hold on a second. I mean we musn't get too overdramatic about their sacrifice. Blow jobs, after all, can be an awful pain. These boys just gave their tongue a little workout is all. And their egos got a tad deflated.

But anyway, what I'm trying to get at is that much time and man-power (and even a bit of girl-power that one semester) has been put into trying to make me come. And what did we all get for our efforts?

We know that honey is still both sticky and sweet.




Even after all this time.

Meanwhile, after seven years of trying. After some hundred-odd nights or so of me ooohing and ahhhing and moaning, squealing, sighing and (after yoga once) quietly concentrating on the image of a single candle burning brightly in my mind's eye. After making out with boys I lusted after and idolized and loved and hated and envied and just generally felt a whole smorgasbord of feelings about. After. All. That.

Along comes this guy who uses "LOL" a lot.

And he makes me come on the first try.

Five times.

....So. ANYway. Back to what I know is on all of our minds.

Uh-huh. He uses "LOL" all the time. Right? I know. I hate it too.

And curiously, as it turns out, my hatred for his use of "LOL" is pretty much the strongest emotion I will have about him all together. Because he's...I don't know. Fine. Normal. Very nice. Rides a motorcycle, so that's cool. He takes me out to dinner several times and is a gentleman (no posing, no car accident photos).

But he also has the following strikes against him:

Strike 1: He is a professional gambler. For real. He plays poker until like eight in the morning at this secret location on the Upper Westside. Kind of sexy/mysterious in a Robert De Niro in Casino way, right? You might think so. In the beginning I totally did. I was psyched and shopping for a red sexual-lady-killer dress to wear as I stood behind him at the card table massaging his shoulders and waiting for him to give me the signal that Shorty was in position out back and we could go ahead with our plan to steal the diamond.

Strike 1 Con't: But then when I actually saw him go to the secret location once, it was a real let-down. Let's put it this way: he certainly doesn't have to get hand-printed or retinally-scanned before they let him into the smallish, crappy-ish regular-old apartment building where he goes to play cards with fat men from Jersey. The sexual-lady-killer dress has been returned to the store from whence it came.

Strike 2: He loves Andrew Lloyd Webber. Really.

Strike 3: He and his last girlfriend used to get up in the early morning on Saturdays and do things like, say, bike to Pennsylvania. He once used the word "triathalon," in the same sentence as my name. It made me belly-laugh.

So, anyway, I wasn't, like, scribbling teeny hearts around his name on all my notebooks or anything. No, Sir. I was definitely keeping the whole thing in perspective. And by our third date I was pretty much ready to call it quits. So when he invited me back to his apartment to play Scrabble, I thought, "How perfect. After all, nothing says 'Let's Just Be Buddies' like a board game."

Incidentally, after arriving at his apartment I was able to add a "Strike 4" to the List:

Strike 4: The majority of his decorations seemed to have been stolen from the kind of hotels that are frequented by truckers.

Our game of Scrabble goes well, but I am so busy trying to get rid of my "Q" that I decide to forgo the "Friend Speech" for now.

After Scrabble, a movie. Which is fine, I think, because I make him watch Finding Nemo and the only thing that says "Let's Just Be Buddies" more than a board game is a movie about a funny cartoon fish.

But this is where my "Friend Boundaries" get a little hazy.

When he tries to hold my hand during the movie, I am firm. Friends do not hold hands. We're clear on that.

When he tries to kiss me, I am firm. Friends do not French kiss. Clear.

But then he gets down on his knees and says, "I just want to taste you."




Ladies and Gentlemen, I ask you, "What is a friend?"

Friends borrow and lend things. They share things--secrets, sweaters perhaps. Gum. If we were at the movies I would let my new friend have some of my Junior Mints or a sip of my Coke. (As long as he didn't have a cold.) I see no problem, then, with his request.

He is simply asking, as a friend, for a taste of my--

He wants me to share a bit of my--

Oh, FUCK THE FRIENDSHIP BOUNDARIES. The guy wants to lick me like I'm ice-cream in August and that's fucking fine with me.

So he whips off my pants and just starts going to town.

And, this next part you may find hard to believe, but I'm pretty pococurante about the whole thing. (Honestly. I am.) I'm not overcome by the throws of passion (like I've been before). His technique is strong, but not extraordinary (like I've had before). It's all just...fine. And since none of the extraordinary, passionate encounters I've had before have done the trick, it seems logical that this totally...nice...encounter will fall flat as well. So I just figure he'll go down on me for a little while, I'll sit here and watch some Nemo (those sharks are so funny) and eventually he'll get frustrated and fall asleep.

After I've rewound the shark scene a couple of times, though, I'm starting to be distracted. I mean, he's still down there, trying to figure how many licks it's gonna take to get to my tootsie roll center. Figuratively speaking, of course.

But where is this going? I mean, I'm not gonna fake it. And I don't want him to feel like I owe him something for his troubles because I'm not gonna sleep with him. Frankly, I don't want to do anything to him at all really. I'd just like to lie here, watch Finding Nemo and have him lick away for a while. (Hey, at least I'm honest.)

I decide I should warn him. Just let him down gently so the ol' ego doesn't get too bruised.

This first part I deliver in my breathy phone-sex voice just so he can feel good:

"Ummm. That feels so good. Really, really...oooh. Really good."

This second part I deliver in my teacher voice because after awhile my phone-sex voice makes me cough:

"But, just so you know. I can't come. I'm broken or something. No biggie. No one's ever been able to do it but me. Just wanted to give you the heads up."

(Last parentheses, I swear. This one's important. Ladies. If you wanna get your man to hustle, My Number One Secret Sex Tip is this. Tell him that no man has ever made you come before. Though in my case it was actually true, whether or not you've had a partner make you come, just tell 'em all you haven't. It's unbelievable how much they want to be the first. Silly men. We wuv you so much, you wittle silly willy guys. Seriously, though I don't mean to make fun. It's really cute. They just try and try. And even if they don't actually get you there a good time will be had by all. So don't say I never did anything for you. Bitches.)

Well. Just as I am finishing my last sentence....WHAM!

Just like that. Out of nowhere. After seven years.



I lie perfectly still while he continues on his merry way, unaware of the miracle that has just occurred.

Wait. Oh my God. Stop. Stop. Oh my God! I just CAME. You made me come!--

Now I just don't get it. I just don't. Though the number of people I've had actual intercourse with is not so high, the number of people I've let go down on me is...kind of up there. And there have been, (as the old Armour Hot Dog jingle used to say) some fat--well, we'll call them well-fed--men, some skinny men, some men who may have, indeed, climbed on rocks. Some tough men. One sissy man that one time in Italy ('nother story, 'nother time). And, as of yet no men with chicken pox, but you'll never hear me sayin' never. (I've already had chicken pox. So, you know. Anything for a sick friend.)

Then, WHAT THE FUCK? Since it obviously couldn't have been this guy, what was it? Something I ate? Or didn't eat? Was it an astorlog--an asterol--was it in the stars? Or was it...the movie?

Wow. That'd be weird. I'd be so weird.

Turned on by cartoon sea life. That Calypso-singing lobster from The Little Mermaid desperately clinging to my nipple as I moaned "Find me, Nemo. Yes! OH, Yes! FIND! ME!".

God, I'd be more weird than those people who like to get dressed up in those huge, ridiculous looking animal-costumes and have sex. What are they called? Furbies or something. Only they at least have clubs and web-sites and things for the furbies. 'Cause let's be honest, ok. Let's not fool ourselves, here. I'd be dealing with a rather limited dating pool. The only other cartoon fish I can really even think of is that goldfish that that black-and-white cat in Pinocchio (?) is always trying to get out of its bowl. And he's probably from a petshop or something, not the sea--so who knows if he'd even do the trick? So I would just be alone in my room watching two fucking Disney movies over and over and over again. And what kind of a life is that? And once I'd gone through all the cartoon sealife in those movies. What then? I mean, really. What next, huh? WHO WOULD FUCK ME THEN? I WANNA KNOW! WHAT CARTOON FISH AM I GONNA FIND THAT'S GONNA ***Bleeeeeeeeeeeeep***


...And, my friends, that is the story of how Jingle The Dancing Panda and her puppy, Button, brought new joy to Cupcake Town.