The Scientist: Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 2)

Kissing

 

Continued from… The Scientist:  Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 1)

They say a kiss is worth a thousand words.  Or is it a picture?  What about kissing on a light blue velvet couch while trying not to spill your water?  That’s gotta be worth at least 50, maybe even a hundred words, no?

So there we were, the Scientist and the juggler, making out like teenagers, until I finally broke us apart and said would you mind setting this down for me on the table? like some kind of romantic savant.  We laughed and he set my glass down.  He suggested we move to the bed.  I said I had to go to the bathroom (which is where I whipped off my spanx and replaced them with sexy red lace undies – if you’re not picturing me as a sex-goddess-superwoman-clark-kendra I don’t even know what’s wrong with you).

I came out of the bathroom and within seconds our bodies were pressed together.  We drifted over to the bed and before I knew it we were making out hot and heavy and he had a nipple in his mouth.  Er.  Um.  Okay well actually it probably went a bit slower than that but in many ways it felt that quick.

Though I had changed into the red lacies, I had every intention of keeping it ladylike.

(sidenote:  I use the term ladylike here facetiously, and also incorrectly.  I know that you, my beloved readers, will understand what I mean by ladylike and also forgive my lexicon for having no other word to convey that I wasn’t going to be giving him the goods in a quick fashion…and YET, that you know without a doubt that not only do I use the term without judgment but that I firmly believe women should not be judged by their sexual experiences nor that those experiences are even a thing that is rationally judgable as the relationship between sex and a woman’s value is zero, they are not correlateable.

So we were making out, and the kissing was…mostly good.  You see, men can tend to get excited, and often when they do their kissing goes to shit they can get a little carried away, and like a good puppet master (is that an offensive thing to say?) you have to reign them in, guide the pace, and keep things all good.  After all, if I’m being honest, most men are fucking clueless (at least in the beginning).  And as I’ve said before, that’s why I feel the need to set the pace to slow.

Nonetheless, when the kissing was good, the kissing was good.  Our hot mouths, our soft lips, a lick here, a nibble there, this is what passion tastes like.  And then before I knew it, my bra was off.  With one hand like some kind of clasp magician, a real life Joey Tribiani if you will, he undid the clasps on my bra (which by the way, with these breasts and this body, was a 5 clasper).  All I’m saying is that’s some serious dexterity there, and it was duly noted for the future.

That being said, it wasn’t all smooth moves and hiccupless humping.  I’m all for the dry hump, in fact, I’m a huge fan of a good healthy hump, a sensual slide, a rigorous rub, a body bump.  But, when things get weird is when you feel like a stuffed animal being humped by a dog rather than a luscious lady being rubbed in all the right ways.

While the Scientist may have the upper hand when it comes to academic intelligence and adventure travel, I definitely knew, from very early on, that sexually speaking, I was on top (figuratively, if not always literally).  Now, obviously, sex is no competition, and if anything, this feeling of experiential superiority only made me more relaxed and, for lack of a better word, forgiving, of his misteps.

So like I said, the dry humping, it was often um…detached?  I almost don’t know how to describe it.  Actually that’s a lie, it’s completely just occurred to me how to characterize it.

It’s as if the dry humping was only for him, like there was no concern about my bits and how they might want to be rubbed.  Now, in his defense, I had said I wanted to take things slow so maybe he interpreted that as don’t touch my vagina, but hey…man…I mean, if you’re going to pump and thrust and throb against it, it doesn’t matter if we’re fully clothed or not, YOU BETTER HAVE MY GODDAMN CLIT IN MIND.

And then at some point, after the thrusting gained momentum and then peaked, it stopped altogether.  Had he gotten tired?  Was the ceasing just an awareness that his balls would remain blue?  Or I mean is it possible did he cum from all the banging against my vag?  We continued to make out for awhile longer and at some point I thought, ya know, I’d just take a quick feel, and see what he was working with.  Ya know, just give big ol’ johnson a quick, outside the pants stroke or two to see what kind of fun the future held.

But as I put my hand on what had only moments earlier been the gate to pound-town, I was shocked, he was soft.  What?  What the?  What?  Unacceptable, I thought and immediately began to offer my best caresses, my top notch technique, to bring that sad sailor back to life.  But as I rubbed, and caressed, and smoothly seduced this beast, and it ever so slowly came, what I can only hope is “somewhat” back to life…I thought a lot harder about whether or not he had come during humpfest 2013.  At this point I was actually hoping he had because otherwise I’d just started dating a dude who wasn’t super hard for me (something I’m not at all used to – whether by sheer luck I don’t know).

So eventually he got semi-hard, and I got semi-giving-uppy, because after all what is the point of getting him super hard when I had no intention of even giving the fellow a handy (since boys are the worst at driving the pressure train and somehow a handy way too often ends up with a blowy or a bangy and dammit I like stages and like I said earlier, most dudes suck at sex in the beginning).

So I left blue balls (or not blue balls, depending on) lie and our kissing slowly progressed into a cuddling-ish lie about.  At some point though I swear he was about to fall asleep and it seemed like a good time to make my exit.  We talked about the next day, and he informed me that he had to get up at the crack of dawn to head to the lab.  Now, while totally reasonable, and not being a morning person myself I completely understand in the rational part of my brain, I admit I felt a tad jilted that he didn’t say something along the lines of but you should stay a bit longer.

I went to the bathroom to fix my ridiculous make-out hair, except unfortunately I forgot to bring my purse in with me.  My purse with my spanx.  My spanx which keep my thighs from rubbing (read: chaffing) when I walk.  And I couldn’t very well come out of the bathroom, only to grab my purse and go back in, what am I, a lunatic!?!

When I came out of the bathroom, we talked for a little bit longer, and then he pulled me in for a kiss goodbye, which ended up lasting several minutes (and I must admit made me feel a lot better about his not having asked me to stick around longer).  And then I was out the door.  And into the elevator.  Where I hoped with all my might that in the drop down of 18 floors to the lobby that there wouldn’t be a single person wanting to get on the elevator.  And like Clark Kendra I put my spandex shorts on in the elevator – like some kind of sexy magician (read: hot mess), and then was off into the night.

 

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Victoria Young

Writer. Dater. Masturbator. Don't worry my parents don't think I'm funny either. Grad Student. My breasts aren't ashamed of me either. You and me kid, we're going to change this world.