Bad Sex-1, Elena-0

Sex with Ben was like if I, a petite white chick, were to enter the ring with a prizefighter, or the court against a 7'3" basketball player. Except Ben was a champion of no physical mastery, unless you mean being an expert on how to be a failure in the sack. Like Alexander's infamous Day, my time spent between Ben's (dirty/none-existent) bedsheets was a never-ending path of terrible, awful, no-good, very bad sex that got worse at every turn. As a general rule, I refuse to entertain the idea of a bad time in the boudoir- I will have great sex because I love men and getting' down and dirty with them. Ben, however, came out the winner of our night; even my most valiant efforts of pulling my troops together could never be enough to challenge his heinously heroic attempts to hump me into submission. There was no redeeming what happened that night, and there's a reason it only happened once. But aside from winning the battle, Ben also won the war: my gag reflex is now permanently activated every time the unfortunate re-play of that night pops into my mind.

I first met Ben while doing an opera with a small regional group in the Northeast. He was hired as a director, the company having made some staffing changes. On the night of our first read-through of the script, I was the first singer to arrive. The director was busy making calls which left Ben and myself alone in the room, giving us the chance to talk a bit but also for me to get a feel for Ben before everyone else arrived. Ever since childhood, I have had an instinct that is on-point. Most of the time this gift is wasted on me, since I tend to ignore it and act a fool, but nevertheless I am always right when it comes to reading people. With Ben, my instinct kicked in right away- I could immediately sense that he was interested in me. Maybe it was the way his face lit up when I walked in the room, or his bumbling like a clumsy professor throughout the reading, or his constant dropping and shuffling of his loose script pages, or the way he was checking out my ass. Despite his apparent attraction to me, unlike other situations where this is enough to make me at least think to reciprocate the feelings, I can't say that it happened this time. He was short, on the lean side, with apologetic posture and eyes that turned down at the corners with dark circles and bags underneath- i.e., not attractive. But despite looking like the love child of Woody Allen and Ray Romano, I of course eventually slept with him anyway. I am a girl who isn't too particular about looks on the whole; I thrive instead on a guy who can provide great conversation, intellect, and has a big penis. Ben proved, as we both took the same train home, that he had at least the first two of those things. The commute after each rehearsal resulted in a lot of time spent together getting to know each other, and quickly became quite flirtatious as he was not shy about telling me he liked me. So while the physical attraction may not have been instant on my end, the more we hung out, the more the feelings grew, however reluctant I was to let this happen. I mean, let's be honest here: physically this boy was enough of a hot mess to turn me off, and trust me, that takes a lot.

However, over the next month or so I couldn't help myself; the more we talked, the more I wound up feeling incredibly, insanely and irrationally sexually attracted to him. So much so that I started getting what I call a female version of a boner- you know, when even looking at the guy makes your vag "erect" (read: aching with arduous desire. It's actually almost painful.) When I like someone, I can't keep my feelings to myself, regardless of the outcome. It's just becomes an overwhelming need to tell them. Certainly with Ben there was no fear of rejection since he told me all the time how much he liked me, I just wasn't sure about getting involved with a colleague (god knows I've tried it often enough, with disastrous results), or even if I really wanted to get involved with him at all. But never being one to concern myself too much with consequences, I made my maybe somewhat careless decision. When I revealed my ever-burgeoning feelings were too much to contain any longer, he asked me out on an official date and we met up one night in Brooklyn to hit up some bars.

The second bar we were at was some little sports bar/pub type place in a Brooklyn neighborhood, Park Slope, that he mentioned he used to hang out at a lot when he lived in the area. Park Slope is like the poor man's Manhattan- all the people that live there can't afford city rent prices, but still think they are better than everyone else in the Brooklyn borough. So I assumed to live around there meant he made a decent living, but then he told me he had since moved in with his dad to a different neighborhood of Brooklyn, as Ben was currently getting his opera company off the ground and needed to cut his personal spending to put every cent into his project. I found it a little odd that a 37-year old was living with his dad, but who was I to judge? I was 23 and still living at home myself, getting acclimated to life after to college and figuring my shit out. He was doing something amazing- starting an opera company from the ground up. So I ignored what for many women would have been the first red flag, and we continued talking. I wasn't sure where the night was going to end up to be honest. Oh who am I kidding; we all know.

We were sitting on a couple of barstools against a wall, facing each other and chatting. The bar wasn't what I would call conducive to romance- fluorescent lights should be reserved for stadiums and prisons. Even though Park Slope is on the whole a fairly upscale neighborhood, this bar was way more lowbrow. This normally would make me feel self-conscious and wonder about how crappy I must be looking in lighting that could make Angelina Jolie look tired, but I didn't mind because I was feeling so strongly towards Ben that even these little otherwise mood-dampening surroundings didn't phase me. In fact, we talked at great length about how we were both into each other, and finally he leaned in to kiss me, right between the scratched up pool-table and ESPN halftime report.

It was all happening like I had fantasized- except for the actual kissing part. He had leaned in and gently taken my face in his hands, but then he landed. His breath was ehhhh and his lips were oddly soft; there was absolutely no pressure behind them at all. I imagine it's what kissing a dead person is like (except he was alive.) Luckily it didn't go on for too long, because like a guy without a condom I was ready to pull out. Except I was ready to vomit, not come. Anyway, we went back to talking for a bit longer, and then he excused himself to use the bathroom. I figured he had to break the seal but he was gone for 20 minutes. As I sat there, waiting, I tried not to make any assumptions, like that either this boy was dropping the kids off at the pool or jerking off; either way, not good. When he came out of the bathroom, I had to refrain myself for making a poop joke or two, pretend like almost half an hour hadn't passed, and when he asked if I wanted to go back to his place I ignored red flag number two and agreed. We finished our drinks and headed to the train station.

On our walk to the train, he kept pulling me towards him to make out. I was drunk-ish, sure, and that usually carries me through situations like these where the guy is the worst kisser ever. But even now, with my inebriated lips and my attraction to his personality, it just wasn't enough to silence my doubts (and the "throw up feeling" was in full effect. It's a term I named in college- you know, when you're with someone of the opposite sex and for whatever reason, whether you are hanging out with them or just thinking about them, you feel the overwhelming urge to throw up.) My sensible brain was screaming at me to go home, go home NOW, if he's a bad kisser how can he be good at anything else, we've been through this before and have you learned nothing?? But do I ever listen to that brain? Lucky for you, dear reader, I don't. So I suffered with the PDA, and with sitting on his lap on the subway (where I pretended my position made it too difficult to continue kissing him), and hoped that maybe things would get better once we got down to the business...serious sex doesn't leave much room for lip action. Right?

He had warned me on the train that his place was a mess but I didn't think too much of it; I mean, everyone says that to excuse the fact that their room may not be to the other person's standards. I figured, what, it's not vacuumed, bed unmade, clothes on the floor- who really cares??? But I was completely stunned when I walked through the doorway. Just...wow. He had told me the place was being renovated, and the boy was not kidding around. It didn't hit you right away though; first you had to walk past the kitchen and down a short hallway, which both looked relatively normal, maybe a bit dingy but this building wasn't exactly a Manhattan high-rise condo. But then... we got to the what I assume in a normal life was once a living room area. It was now being used as some form of a bedroom. What a nightmare. There was chipped and peeling paint coming off the walls, windows on one wall with dirty, ragged curtains, garbage bags filled and overflowing with clothes all around the corners of the room, loose piles of laundry stacked 2 feet high all around the bed which was in the center of the room, strewn papers everywhere. The bed itself was a bare mattress on a bed frame, covered with a crumpled-up sheet and some dirty pillows. There was no furniture, except a dresser and table with a laptop right by the head of the bed. And I genuinely feared for my life when I realized I had to pee, because I didn't know what was waiting in the bathroom. Imagine a beautiful, pristine, tile-lined bathroom with white marble sink and toilet, fresh flowers perfuming the air, and a gorgeous gold-gilded mirror. Now take that image and move it to a deep south bumblefuck town gas station that had been burned down, peeled away, and pissed on by a troupe of homeless men with syphilis. That was the bathroom. Everything just looked, for lack of a better word, grimey...never before had I squatted above a toilet in a private home before to keep my ass cheeks off the seat.

Fast forward about 10 minutes- as I tried to find some spot to park myself in the "living room" that didn't look like it would give me a disease, he found clean sheets to cover the bed, lit some candles, and put on some opera to listen to. We spent the next fifteen minutes or so just lying down while he showed me some stuff on his computer for his opera company and checked some emails. Finally, before I inhaled too much asbestos, he made a move (thank god, because my buzz was fading FAST.)

I had fantasized a great deal as to what the sex was going to be like, and again like the kiss at the bar, he started off exactly what I had pictured in my head, but then crashed and burned, horribly. I pictured it like... I'd be lying on the bed face-down, my hands resting underneath my head, and he'd crawl slowly up my body, kissing my back and then my neck, turn me over gently... so on and so forth. But no. He couldn't even get that freaking part right. I was lying down, on my stomach, just like I had pictured. He started off perfectly- at my feet, crawling up my body, but then he launched into doing things that seemed more awkward then arousing. It was like a love scene straight out of a parody movie or an early Steve Martin flick where the girl is literally getting thrown around and the guy is just being ridiculous. I almost wished someone had filmed it because maybe at least someone could have had a laugh; I definitely did not find it funny at the time. Not even now either, really. I'm sure his attempts at love-making were meant to be aggressive and powerful, but his idea of this was to switch back and forth into positions at an uncomfortable speed, press against me way too hard, bend his body oddly so his back was curved in and his stomach was sticking way out like a crescent moon, kiss me constantly in that zero-pressure-lips style; pretty soon my face and neck were covered in his nasty smelling spit. I felt like I couldn't even catch my breath- not that could if I wanted to, I'd just be inhaling the horrible fumes of his halitosis-infused saliva. It was almost a relief to move into the 69 position but that's when things got REALLY bad.

As he went to work with much enthusiasm (but little skill) on me, I made my way down to do the same, at a much slower pace since I was feeling a bit shell-shocked. Generally I'm not a huge fan of 69 on the first date, except for that one time when it was amazing; it's an incredibly intimate position that needs a certain comfort level (or blood alcohol level) to enjoy. But nevertheless, I decided to battle on in this never-ending romp that felt like an asthma attack during a sprint race. As I was bracing myself and about to begin, I noticed something that almost made me throw-up for real: the answer to why he was in the bathroom for 20 minutes. TOILET PAPER IN HIS ASS CRACK. I was lucky that Ben kept switching positions every five seconds- I didn't have to go any nearer to the danger zone than his torso before he flipped me over again.

BUT HOLD ON, TIME OUT, SERIOUSLY- You're bringing a girl back to your place. If you have to shit, you have to shit. Fine, whatever, it's understandable. I'm thrilled that you have regular bowel movements. But at least have the freaking decency to clean out your butthole! Especially if you're expecting someone to practically have their nose all up on your taint!!!! Good god. I thought, as a species, we were all past this as a pre-requisite for hooking up.

Sadly, because he was such a massive failure in every other aspect, this boy was blessed with equipment that I wish I could have molded and kept for my own use. Or at least measured, to use as a standard before heading to bed with any future hook-ups. You know, so I could make Random Guy X whip it out to see if his penis would be worth any of my time. God-dayum! What a colossal waste of a beautiful penis on such an unfortunate man. Ben's dick really was a gift of God. Something to be bowed down to, worshipped, and adored. I'd buy it presents, I'd buy it dinner, I'd be it's goddamn sugarmama to keep it around. It was unbelievable, really; no matter the position, his dick was the perfect size to hit my spot every-single-time. Unfortunately, it was attached to Ben. Not just his dirty, dirty butthole but his arrhythmic hips, stinky spit and skinny arms. As a lover, he was not in tune to me at ALL and despite my valiant efforts to follow and adapt to his style, he was just sloppy and floppy and ugh, AWFUL.

Finally, it was over. He wanted to cuddle and oh god. I tried to turn over so he would spoon me, because his breath was so god-awful, but he got incredibly offended and made me face him, which I gave in to because I didn't want the poor boy to start crying. So now on top of everything else, I was stuck here, being held in his sweaty arms in a smelly room; he was a bad sweater, too, the kind that gets all cold and clammy. Finally, after waiting a decent grace period, I said I should be getting home. He offered to pay for my cab, and when he handed me about a pound of quarters, I declined his gesture and said I would just pay for it myself. Needless to say, I did not ever sleep with him again- even though he tried several times.

As much as I consider myself to be a worthy opponent in the bedroom, Ben had me beat. There are just certain levels of awfulness that are impossible to defeat.