Longtime reader, first-time poster. I thought it would be an interesting change of pace to write about really *bad* sex. So here it is: the story of a grotesque little disaster, a recent encounter so obviously ill-considered that it could have ended no other way. It’s what happens when hunger and loneliness dull your senses and dissolve your standards.
It takes place in Israel. I’m 42, dark hair, reasonably fit thanks to yoga. She’s – well, you’ll see.
To start, it hasn’t been a great year. A succession of romantic letdowns, each “unhappy in its own way”, has left me in low spirits, my healthy libido hostage to confusion and over-thinking. I was ripe for rookie mistakes.
I made this one just after a friend’s music show, to which I’d gone mainly to show support. Sitting outside afterwards, I was joined by this petite, almost minuscule, woman I’d seen inside. She started talking to me, immediately volunteering personal information. She had short red hair and wonky eyes, and something seemed *off* about her. Being tiny, she had tiny breasts, tiny hands, a tiny mouth. Her XS pants had to be cinched around her waist. I admit that part of why I ended up with her was to see whether *all* of her was tiny.
She was overdressed, as if trying too hard. She wore heavy perfume, and her age (35ish?…) was difficult to tell under gobs of makeup that one would associate with older women. Then there was the disquieting way her eyes moved. Noticing her just before the show, I had the gut impression she might be intellectually and/or psychologically challenged.
As we spoke, I found myself rethinking those impressions. Her prescription glasses had broken, so that explained the eyes; and when she told me about her serious-sounding job and further academic plans, I realized I may have rushed to judgment. Unprompted, she told me that she’d recently broken up with a longtime partner, dropping hints throughout: they were sexually incompatible, he didn’t satisfy her, they’d split because she cheated on him with a good friend, she’s not a monogamist anyway, etc. It was pretty obvious.
I was seriously on the fence, but when her ride fell through, I ended up walking her home, still hesitating all the way whether I should go for it, as she continued to drop very broad hints. It had been months since I had sex. We had already passed my place when she laid on something thick about “only living once” and “seizing the moment”. I stopped, dithered some more, and then invited her upstairs. My famous last words were: “Yeah sure, we can try.”
If I had to choose one word for her, it would be “blunt” – not rude-blunt, but in the sense a tool is blunt. She had a crude, unsubtle, ham-fisted way with intimacy. No nuance whatsoever.
It started on my balcony. To ease into it and feel things out, I made small talk and massaged her shoulders. They were pimply and slathered with fragrant lotion. She told me I have good hands, then suddenly craned her neck around and blurted: “Kiss!” It was mechanically impossible, so we had to shift positions first. Then I locked lips with a small, dry, puckered mouth that had all the action and sensitivity of a rusty washer. Her tongue was a twitchy little slug. Often (not always) a terrible kisser is also bad in bed, as I would soon find out.
She caressed my face with her small, pudgy hand. I say “caressed”, but it was how a baby might do it, smacking her paw on my face and dragging it down the cheek. The hand smelled of cigarettes and coffee. I suggested we slow down. “What’s the matter?” she said, and then added impersonally: “You want a hug?” I said something about warming up, taking our time. Then, when I initiated some contact, she escalated, straddling me. The moment we started to make out, she became comically over-the-top, spouting *femme fatale* nonsense straight out of soft porn:
“Oh yeah!… Yeah, like that… I turn you on, don’t I?” she said in the sultry tones of a cut-rate Cruella de Vil: “Tell me what attracted you to me… Oh, yeah! Slap my ass!”
I did, and she wanted it harder, so I went a bit harder. “Harder!” she commanded, and I suggested we move indoors. I didn’t the neighbors to hate *and* make fun of me.
I was beginning to see that my earliest impression was on the mark: there *was* something off about her. Much of what she said and did seemed borrowed, awkward pantomimes of things she thought were sexy or cool. She was a good person, and I don’t mean to suggest otherwise, but she wasn’t entirely tethered to reality. I should have stopped us there and written off the affair as a surreal slip, but we ended up in the bedroom.
As she had done outside, she went straight at the act – no buildup, no dimension at all. I wanted to touch her a bit first; she merely agreed. She told me to get a condom, and then went on top, saying that she liked to be “in control” (I think it’s because she’s petite and needed to feel safe.) She started grinding on the underside of my dick, clumsily and unpleasantly. “Whoa! Look at what you’re doing to me! You’re incredible!” she called out, and things of that sort. “Umm… you know I’m not in you yet, right?” I mumbled, not sure at this point what this person knew at all. I let this unsexy, erection-destroying torture continue for a bit before telling her I needed a little more time.
And then came the guided imagery.
“Okay,” she said, dismounting and taking charge of me: “Close your eyes. Imagine you and me… we’re on a secluded beach… just the two of us… the waves washing over us…”
I don’t know where she picked up this technique. It’s good the lights were out, because I could barely stop from laughing. “Okay… I’m… imagining…” I said through a repressed smile. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Plus, being on a beach alone with her sounded to me like some personal hell. It was all so surreal.
Somehow we got back into it, and she started grinding on me again. It lasted only a few seconds before my head was filled with one big NOOOOOO and I realized that was it, I wasn’t going to continue this farce a moment longer.
“Hold it,” I said. “I want to stop.”
I did it to be true to myself. Women must learn to do this; men must learn to do this.
She rolled off immediately and began to dress herself. “You have a problem,” she said. She was hurt. Watching her back, I tried softening the insult. I couldn’t tell her the truth so I lied: I realize I’m not ready yet; it’s been a rough year; I’ve been hurt; etc. Rather than accepting it, she demanded to know who hurt me, so I had to bullshit some more.
I apologized for the unpleasantness. She tried to sound understanding and progressive – “It’s okay, don’t worry about it” – but also kept repeating that I have a problem, that it’s my fault and not hers, that’s she’s fine and I’m messed-up.
“You should get psychological counseling,” she said.
“Yes, you’re right,” I said. “Thank you.” I was just running out the clock at this point.
Finally I saw her out. Just before she left, she turned around and muttered at me: “Whatever you do, you should take care of your problem.”
I locked the door behind her and thought: “I just did!”
I brushed my teeth and showered, then called a friend to touch base with reality. The night felt like a visit to the Twilight Zone. It was godaweful, but I made a decision there and then not to lay any blame. *Certainly* not at her, but not at myself either. We’re adults, it was a bad idea, end of story.
I learned the same old lesson of trusting your instincts and not hooking up with someone you’re not really attracted to. I was proud of myself for stopping. And I continue to hope for better things. If you’re in the neighborhood, I’m open to suggestions.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/ovqe6c/a_misreable_farce_i_had_to_stop_in_the_middle_or
Well bro, you did the right thing! Sometimes just avoid sticking your dick in crazy.