T__ and I had scheduled our slumber party for Saturday/Sunday. I was hoping we’d meet around lunchtime to spend the better part of the day together, but her invite was for 5:30. She was hosting, and one does not argue with one’s host.
I’d acquired weed and an artisan-baked cake as gifts / weapons of mass seduction. We spent most of the night talking, listening to music, drinking, eating too-rich food, and smoking. In the midst of our party there was a knock at the door and T__ didn’t want to answer it. Maybe she was feeling a little paranoid. Her visitor turned out to be one of her sons, who had forgotten something he needed. I heard him ask whose car was out front. From the first time we met, T__ had emphasized the separation she keeps between her kids and her romances. “My friend J__,” I heard her reply matter-of-fact-like.
There was talk of going out, but G__ town isn’t known for nightlife, and neither of us seemed very compelled to leave. “Or we could stay in.” I nodded and grinned with as much mischief as I could possibly muster.
I wanted to get to it. I knew we wouldn’t rip one another’s clothes off the minute I arrived — that there’s a great deal of pleasure to be had in the courtship itself. The meaningful glances, the innuendo, the stray hand on the knee — all great foreplay when you both know it’s appropriate to think of them that way.
We crawled into bed and cuddled and watched a silly DVD she thought I’d like (It was good-not-great). Earlier in the night, the awkward, adult negotiations had already begun: a rough accounting of past sexual partners, how careful we’d been, how long it had been since STD testing.
I’ve danced around the neighborhood of this topic with women before, though perhaps without as much clinical precision. T__ strikes me as an experienced, carefree, fun-loving girl. When she told me her partner count was mine +2, my instincts shouted bullshit, and as I’ve noted here before, my instincts have been on a pretty strong track-record recently.
It is said that cheaters will often accuse their partners of cheating. Their own indiscretions have made them guilty and wary to the point of paranoia. T__ kept emphasizing both how careful she was and how much she feared STDs etc. I couldn’t help but think this was the sort of fixation I’d expect from someone who’d once caught something. Still, I’m no (complete) fool, and it has become more than a passing thought that I should get tested. I found myself a bit ashamed when forced to admit that I hadn’t yet been.
These negotiations continued even after she turned out the lights out and we quickly encroached on the heart of the matter. I never push intercourse — I have too much fun with everything else to be unnecessarily fixated. So I agreed (with only the slightest disappointment) that we wouldn’t be having sex.
Despite much solemn agreement that oral sex was just as dangerous, soon I was going down on her. Was the downward pressure on my shoulder only in my imagination? It seemed so very clear at the time. I can safely say that the last of her resolve melted there (I could hear it leaving), though I didn’t assume so at the time.
After another embarrassing (if fair) round of questions, she was returning the favor. There is no reliable comparison, but I don’t often find myself able to get off on a blowjob, so I can only say that this must surely have ranked among my best. I wasn’t ready to stop, so I pulled her to me. “Get on top of me; just for a minute. Please.” I genuinely did not mean, “have sex with me now.” It was the body-to-body intimacy I was after, but then soon we were.
She insisted on two condoms, which A) I’ve always heard was both silly and less effective and therefore decreased my opinion of her somewhat substantially B) was a pretty big pain in the ass since the second one refused to roll more than three quarters of the way down my shaft. It wasn’t really working, and the surplus condom was quickly discarded. Afterwards, all was groovy.
We both slept a bit fitfully for the first half of the night, but more soundly in the second and snoozed late into the morning listening to the birds. She made us a delicious breakfast in bed. I wanted to get it on again, but T__ always squirmed away. Neither of us were at our freshest; I don’t feel very attractive in the morning either, but I’m almost always horny.
We showered, dressed, went for coffee, talked, flirted. We went to see the permanent collection at a local art museum. It was a mixed bag ranging from awful to awesome which lent plenty to talk about. We got lunch in a beautiful courtyard. We talked about our plans for the evening and getting ready for the week ahead. She’d made plans earlier in the week to meet a friend around five. I was hoping she’d cancel it, but she postponed to six-thirty. I looked at my phone. It was nearly four and we hadn’t paid the check. The chances for more sex were falling to zero fast.
We went back to her place and had more cake, weed, and alcohol. I was almost instantly more fucked-up than I wanted to be and I think she was too. I let her continue telling her stories just trying to stay attentive. I didn’t really care about what she was saying — another tale about an old friend I’d probably never meet, a narrative apropos of nothing. My lack of attention started with simple carnal desire, but as I tried to keep focus, I kept returning to that old Eleanor Roosevelt quote: “Great minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, small minds discuss people.”
I try to withhold judgement knowing that I’m intoxicated and my conversation partner is intoxicated. Even these articles, which I try to put some thought into, and are usually composed while sober, are heavy on people and events, while light on raw ideas. Still, as my mind wandered, and my inebriated mind took in the wash of her facial expressions and tone of voice, there was the hint of something I didn’t like. The first crack in an otherwise wonderful personality, perhaps the thing I’d look back on with disgust given time, once I’d given it a name.