John and I went out for drinks the next Saturday night.  In my mind, this was finally the sex date.  We’d developed some chemistry, he’d told me about a hundred times that he had a “very high sex drive” and we’d held out for this long.  At this point I was determined to have sex with him.  After a few hours, the conversation had basically run out and he suggested going back to his place.  “I have a bottle of Cakebread we could open.”  Well, good that he’s finally making a move, but I know that he lives with his parents, and I do not want to go to there. 

“Are you sure?” I asked.  “I don’t want to wake up your parents or anything.  We could go to my place?”

“My place is closer,” he said.

“By like, 3 minutes!”

“I have Cakebread.”

“I have…mango sorbet?  And wine?  A sauvignon blanc, I think?  I mean, it’s not quite Cakebread…”

“What, are you scared of my parents?”

“No I just…” kind of, yeah? “I mean, I don’t want to bother them.  And like, I have my own place.”

“It’s a big house, they won’t notice.  It’ll be fine.”

We got to his house and did this awkward creeping through the darkened kitchen and living room.  I felt like I was sleeping over at a friend’s house in high school and we were sneaking back in so her parents wouldn’t realize we’d gone out 2 hours before to smoke a bowl.  We descended into the basement, and it was abasement, I mean, finished, and not gross or anything, but it was a place for children.  The walls were bright blue with kid’s painting all over them, wall-to-wall thick carpet, a big sectional, a dedicated video game area, and big, glaring, fluorescent lights, the kind they have in office buildings.  I didn’t even know you could have those in residential  settings.  He made several furtive trips up and down the stairs, first to placate his mom who called down for him, then to retrieve wine, glasses, and corkscrew, each in a separate trip.   He poured the glasses on the ping pong table and we moved to the sectional, trying to maneuver a way to sit together with wine.  It proved to be difficult, probably because nothing about that space was intended for two adults to sit there with a glass of wine- it’s set up for a 15 year old to spend hours there with a jug of Gatorade, a bag of Doritos, alternating between Call of Duty and internet porn.  

I had been all keyed up for it, I knew this was the sex date,  but I couldn’t keep it up for him.  First of all, why had I conceded to go to his mom’s house?  Why would he want me to see this, to see him this way?  Also, my house is sexy, it’s grown up, and it’s mine.  We don’t have to sneak in under shroud of darkness, we don’t have to hide in a basement, and we don’t have to be quiet.  This shit is a boner-killer.

Somehow we managed to start making out on the sectional.  I was there, the wine was open, let’s give it a shot.  He slid his hand into my jeans, and soon I was recoiling in pain.  I pulled my hips away; his hand pursued even harder.  I tried putting my hand over his to slow him down, or get him to ease up on the pressure. No luck.  “No, that.. that really hurts, that’s too hard,” I finally said. 

“God, you’re so sensitive,” he replied, almost accusingly.  It sounded like he was pissed off that I’d been offended by a sexist joke.  

“Well, that’s like, where a lot of nerve endings are…yeah.”  He did not let up.  Maybe he’d never done this before?  Maybe he was going off of what he’d seen on the internet?  “With girls, you don’t usually need to go so hard, you know?”  This isn’t your battle-worn, kung-fu-death-gripped dick, ok? 

Needless to say, I was not physically inclined to have sex at this point, but the buildup had gone on way too long, I was already there, and he seemed like he was trying to go for it.  I figured I could tell him it was bad and leave that instant, I could quietly wish for death, or I could take over and try to turn things around.  I sent him upstairs to get a condom, and I rallied.  I know I am not bad at sex.  I hadn’t had sex that bad in years and I was going to salvage it, and prove that I was not at fault for this mess.  He came back downstairs and lay motionless on the sectional, fully clothed except for his cock protruding from his fly, and pulled me over so I was straddling him.  Great, I thought, if you just stay the hell still, we should be able to get this done.  Don’t fucking touch anything. 

I hurried through as efficiently as I could, thanking Kettlebell classes for enabling my legs to work that hard.  We made some small talk and I left as quickly as I could.  On the 3 minute drive to my house, I ran through the sequence of events to figure out what could have been different.  Should I have insisted we go to my house?  Should I have pointed out that after a few hours of drinking our palettes were in no condition for an $80 bottle of wine anyway?  Should I have just stopped when it was clear it wasn’t good and said I wanted to go home?  Would I then be wishing I’d tried harder?

The next day he texted to say what a good time he had, and that he could tell I really enjoyed myself too.  Not sure whether that made me hate him or myself more.  Thanks to a business trip and some family obligations, I was able to avoid seeing him for the next two weeks.  We eventually went out again last weekend.  He wanted to go to dinner at a taqueria, at 6:00.  That seemed promising, maybe he had another date after.  (If I was trying to have sex with someone, I wouldn’t start the date at 6:00.  Just saying.)  I dreaded it for a few days, but the thought of delicious tacos kept my spirits up. 

I got there a few minutes before him, and he texted me “wait outside, I have a little gift for you.”  Oh…. No….  It was a basil plant, and it made me feel even worse for not liking him at all.  The tacos were amazing, and we were done well before 8.  He tentatively asked if I wanted to do something else, or if I had to get home.  Relieved that he seemed just as unenthusiastic, and grateful for the out he’d given me, I launched into a rambling story about the leak in my washing machine and how I had just bought a dehumidifier that I needed to go hook up and I hoped I hadn’t ruined my floor, and god, home ownership, amirite?  I  mean, it was not a lie, at all, but it was totally transparent, and he knew what was up.  I was so happy to drive away.