[dropcap]So[/dropcap] like I was saying…the movie.
He led the way up the stairs and found us some seats. Now maybe I’m just too
horny slutty makeout-in-public-y (under the cover of movie theatre darkness of course) but I found it weird when he didn’t pick the back row. Isn’t that where all the making out happens?
But I guess…
I mean maybe…
I mean…he had just paid for two movie tickets…
Maybe he wanted to actually watch the movie. Which I guess made sense given that he would probably be trying at least twice as hard as I was to hear and understand all the dialogue and jokes. *tiny sigh*
It really wasn’t that big of a deal though. Especially when you take into account that within 20 minutes his hand was lounging on my thigh and then we pretty much spent the rest of the movie holding hands. Excepting when I had to break our lust lock to open up my water and have a sip. Apparently he wasn’t down with making the same kind of momentary escape because at one point in the movie I watched him (out of the corner of my eye I’m so covert), try and succeed at opening a bottled drink with just one hand. I found this awesome on so many different levels. I mean who doesn’t love dexterity and an unwillingness to let go of your hand?!?
The movie was good. He laughed a bit. I laughed a lot. It still ended up having that bullshit romantic plot element which I could’ve definitely done without (mainly for the fact that it was poorly executed not because I’m a heartless monster).
I can’t remember whether we walked the 10 or so blocks back to my place and then I asked if he wanted to come over or if I asked first and then we walked the 10 blocks but just assume it was which ever of those seems more ladylike and endearing.
However, France said no.
I was mortified. Wait what?!?
Not to worry, he was joking. Oh…ha ha ha…gulp…hilarious.
When we got back to my place (and I pretended to use the washroom but let’s get serious I was toweling down and freshening up. It was still ridiculously hot and humid here and buddy had just made me walk 10 blocks in the swelter of it all. Though in his defence he offered to carry me on his back at one point.)
I’m sure there was some conversation. I probably offered him a glass of water. Probably made a joke about only having mugs to give him the water in. Probably made a joke about how we had broken the couch. But in all honesty, I don’t remember much about this part.
What I do remember is that because of the broken couch there were really only 3 other places to sit. My desk chair, which would’ve been weird. My arm chair, which I guess was the most normal. And the bed. When I came out of the bathroom he was in the armchair but then that became a bit weird because where was I going to sit.
I think there were some nervous sounds. Some awkward motions. And suddenly we were testing the strength of my little IKEA bed but not before he did a quick check under the mattress to see just exactly how it was held together. I think this was part cheeky-joke and part realistic safety concern. See…I’ve told you guys many times that I’m a chubby bunny but you know what they say, muscle weighs more than fat. And so while you may be sitting there thinking, Jesus I’m sure it wasn’t that big of a deal, I’m sure the bed could hold her. Yes, the bed can in fact hold me very easily…hence why I sleep in it every night. But France on the other hand. At 6’0 and nothing but solid muscles (SOLID FUCKING MUSCLE!!!) well shit son, that’s a lot of extra poundage (pun intended). All that being said…let’s not get ahead of ourselves here…dirty birds!
So, like I was saying, in no time flat we were flat on our backs pretending like we weren’t about to have the biggest hump session ever. And you can assume that lasted for about 30 seconds before he pounced and I was offering myself up as easy prey.
First there was the kissing. I really like kissing France. I actually haven’t talked about this *erm* problem I’ve encountered *erm* with more than one guy, much lately. But you see, some boys, really suck at kissing. Like, BRU-TAL! Some beyond even the point where I feel like I can reign them in, hone up their skills, teach a master class. And while I feel a bit bad saying it. Sometimes I worry. It’s a small lips thing. Like, there’s not even anything they can do about it, these are the cards DNA has dealt them. But don’t get me wrong, I’m willing to admit that maybe I have fat lips. Maybe it’s not a small-lips-bad-kisser-thing but instead a mismatched-sizing thing. But I digress.
This is not a problem with France. If only I could show you his delicious lips, and they really are delicious. They are big and plump and amazing. They fit with mine perfectly. And he doesn’t do anything weird with his tongue either. He doesn’t jam it into my mouth and then just leave it there. He understands that kissing is a dance and standing on my feet isn’t sexy. And when he does accidentally stub my toe (so to speak)…a little playful nibble and we’re back in the swing of things.
And then the shirts were coming off!
*he did some things*
*he touched some things*
Pants!! (thank god I had on the red lacies…my “lucky jersey” if you will)
*I touched some things*
***See how I keep things nice and clean and kosher for you guys. I mean…you don’t really want all the gory details anyway right???
Needless to say it was a definite France in the Pants situation! A pants off, France off!! (I could go all night!!…just kidding…those are the only two I’ve got…I’ll stop now.) Carry on.
And then it was time for the big event.
And then he looked at me…
I looked to him…
He didn’t have any condoms. WORST!!
His excuse was that when he was running out the door to come meet me for the movies he just grabbed his wallet and forgot to bring some.
My excuse was BRING YOUR OWN FUCKING CONDOMS!!!
And here’s why:
1. Well admittedly I once had sex with the world’s smallest penis, broadly speaking, I have generally managed to luck out in the world of big dicks (like if you’re not pulling a gold wrapper out of your pocket I might start to get a little alarmed). That being said, if you’re awesome you’re awesome and while you can’t hope a small dick big, it’s not the end of the world. HOWEVER! Not bringing your own condoms…alerts me right away that you’re not concerned about size, about fit. And that’s not a great opening act.
2. I have to pay for birth control, the least you could do is pay for the condoms. Actually scratch that, next time you come over you better show up with some roses and some chocolates and maybe an iTunes gift card. It’s not about romance, you just need to level this shit out a bit (and no…paying for the movie doesn’t count towards this…that’s half the reason you got to this stage to begin with.)
3. Pretend all you want that I’m a grown up and don’t laugh at dick jokes or hear the word balls (in any context) and think about your man marbles. But no matter what, I’ll still blush when buying tampons and condoms and since tampons are unavoidable, the least you could do is save me the condom blush. Plus, again, I don’t know what size you want or any of that biz. That’s on you.
4. Be a boy scout, and come prepared. See here’s another tidbit you should probably know. I like real men. And you know what real men do? They handle their shit. They don’t go oh I wasn’t thinking or I didn’t know we were going to have sex tonight or any of that nonsense. You should’ve been bringing condoms with you since the first date, just in case. I was promised by the movies of my youth that boys would always have condoms and I am not impressed with this betrayal.
That being said. HAVE YOU SEEN FRANCE!?!?! Okay…so most of you haven’t (Shoutout to my closest friends, relatives, internet buddies, my new colleagues, and maybe a girl or two in bar in MTL who HAVE seen his photo…ya’ll know what I’m talking about!!!) Nonetheless, obviously I handled the situation a bit more gracefully than get the fuck out of here and don’t come back you disappointing bastard!!! Because, obvs.
I smiled. We laughed. There were numerous exasperated sighs. My only consolation was the close proximity and constant touching of his abs. There was more kissing. More laughing. More exasperated sighs. I’m sure we talked about some things but you really can’t blame me for not being able to remember when this hulk of a hottie was still pressing his naked body up against mine can you?!?
More laughter. More talking. More kissing. More pressing.
Now here’s the best part. And while you may not agree with me
Fuck you, I’m right everybody likes things their own way, etc. etc. etc. blah blah blah so if this isn’t how you would’ve wanted things or whatever keep it to yourself that’s totally fine. Some misguided boys would take this opportunity to suggest a handy or maybe a blowjob even if they’re really balls to the wall. But you know what that does? It might get you a handy, but honestly my heart won’t be in it, and you’ve now just sacrificied the potential for 2 years worth of amazing sex (or a few weeks or whatever) for a quick nut that won’t even be that great (because while *cough* I have been told, when my heart’s in it, I can give quite the helping hand…like I said, my heart won’t even be in it).
But not to worry. France didn’t pull any of that shit. He knew he’d be coming back for more, and would bring a whole pack of condoms next time (okay that sounds cheesy or presumptuous typing it out now, but I swear when he said it, it was baby-panda type of adorable). But like I was saying, France didn’t pull any of that pressure bullshit. He knew where the evening’s boundaries were and he wasn’t going to push them. And man, if you only knew how that gets rewarded.
Because here’s the thing. I know, very few guys (almost none really), who can get me off with their hands alone. Sure, I could pull out the vibrator but I wasn’t ready to reveal all that yet. And while boys always think, oh yeah, yeah I’ll get you off too…they rarely do. And so you see, if he had pressed for a handy or a beej, he would’ve skipped his place in line, he would’ve shot one up on the score board and left me trailing in the dust. And while he was still lovely and dextrous, I’m a grown woman not a highschool kid. I want to get off when he fucks me senseless, not the night he forgets the condoms and pressures me into getting him off and finger bangs me till eventually I either tell him it’s not going to happen or I break my habit of not being a liar and fake it just a little.
So hurray for France! Viva la France!! Though he forgot the key ingredient of the evening, he still managed to keep things kosher (and swoony, and giggley, and sexy, and want-want-wanty) between us.
And I guess there’d always be next time, right???
NB: I’m writing this at 4am. I know it’s Vive (not Viva) la France (see picture and text). I was trying to make a language barrier joke. Kind of like when Rachel on Friends says “Au Revoir” but it sounds like OR EV VWAR! and then acknowledges that the people in France are going to hate her. I worry this joke will not go over well and the “grammar” dicks will come out in full force. So don’t. Don’t be a dick. Seriously.