When I met C, he had just moved to the city. I invited him to meet me at my apartment, and then we’d go to Beauty & Essex, the restaurant/lounge hidden behind a pawn shop. It seemed very New York, and I wanted to give C the most New York experience that I could.
C arrived to my place at 6 p.m., but I’d just gotten out of the shower. He sat on my bed, awkwardly trying to get to know me (“Where do you work? How long have you been in the city?”) while I raced around, towel around my waist, getting ready.
After ignoring him for 30 minutes, I finally sat next to him on the bed. I was very attracted to him: Maybe because he was adorable, or maybe because he was the first boy I’d been on a date with in a few months. Or both.
We talked a bit, and before I knew it I was kissing him, and before he knew it we were taking off our clothes. I said, “I really want to swallow you,” to which he looked at me like I was the biggest slut he’d ever been with. (Not that he complained.)
Despite the fact that Southern belle C thought I was a harlot, we did go out on more dates. Eventually, he took me to Central Park for a stroll and asked me to be his boyfriend. I said yes.
That night we had sex for the first time. That’s where things went wrong. Neither of us is particularly big, but we didn’t fit together quite right. It hurt trying to get him in, and he said the same about me. We were a verse couple that didn’t enjoy topping or bottoming for the other.
A week or so into our relationship, I decided to take another attempt at bottoming. I straddled him, trying to ease down onto it. (And by it, yes, I mean his dick. Keep up.) (Get it? Keep up? …Never mind.) The pain must have shown in my face, because he kept saying, “We can stop,” again and again and again. It started to infuriate me.
“Stop saying that,” I begged. “It’s not sexy. It’s not helping.”
I finally got him all the way in, took a deep breath and relaxed. I was ready to go, when he said, again, “We can stop.” I backhanded him. In the face. While straddling him. While he was inside of me. I have no idea what came over me, but I knew I’d fucked up.
He pushed me off, and we took a few days apart. When we met again, he broke up with me.
Sometimes, things just don’t fit. And that’s okay. The prince went through the whole village before he found Cinderella.
But I hope I don’t have to fuck all of New York to find a dick that fits.
