All He Wanted To Do Was Cuddle


Don was so sexy. His sandy blond hair and boyishly handsome face made him look approachable and charming. His stupid forearm tattoo and buff body made him deliciously fuckable. He was the physical manifestation of the wettest of my wet dreams. His entire being made me understand why Goldilocks was so finicky about everything being “just right.”

Don came over one night and I had emphatically stated nothing was going to happen sexually. I was on my period and was also rocking the herp-a-lerp lip. As if migraines and sweating like my father weren’t biologically damning enough, my mother passed down the Holy Grail of unappealing: cold sores.

Don says he “just wants to cuddle.” Hey, guys, on behalf of all women: We know you’re full of shit—”just cuddling” is a precursor to you rubbing your boner against our asses like creepy virgins. It starts subtly enough—just a little adjustment that creates friction, a more direct penis rub against our butt, back, or leg, then you whine like a petulant child about how we’re being “a tease.” It’s like turning on the Discovery Channel and watching a bear get pissed at gravity; you look cute and insufferably stupid at the same time.

Don crawls into my bed; literally, he crawled toward me like John Mayer’s ex-girlfriend in every John Mayer song. His back was even arched. Did he think the more stripper-y he acted my uterus would say, “HALT ALL SHEDDING! RING THE COLD SORE CAPTAIN, WE MUST RETREAT!”

Once in bed, he motioned for me to rest my head on his chest as he told the story of his octopus tattoo. Blah, blah, blah he probably had a circle jerk with 8 of his best friends. Here starts the subtle groping, rubbing his hands up and down my back in a gesture that’s supposed to be affectionate.

I close my eyes and enjoy the “stealthy” movement of his hands, the way my back is now warm and relaxed as he graduates to squeezing my upper ass. His hands move down to grab a nice handful of ass, then gently caresses it as if to apologize for his brutish behavior.

There’s no greater stroke of the ego than listening to a man’s breath catch in his throat from the mere feeling of your body. The “just cuddling” façade is over and he athletically rolls on top of me, his mouth strategically avoiding my herp-a-lerp lip and settling for the nape of my neck. Now his hands and mouth are tactically working to bring down my defenses; first I lose my shirt, then my pants, and now I’m all tits and tampon tail. He sucks on my ears, my neck, then the touchdown: my nipples. His strategy is working because I’m so caught up in all the attention that I almost ignore him pulling on the tail of my tampon. Which was sexy as fuck.

There are few things as sexy as a man who isn’t afraid of a woman’s body. There’s nothing more disappointing than when a grown man’s face contorts to that of a fifth grade boy at the mention of anything involving your period. At some point women stop apologizing for their period blood and embrace it; when a man hops on board, he’s usually Thor-like in the sack.

My stubbornness has beat out my libido a number of times and as turned on and wet as I was after Operation Tampon Take Out, I couldn’t give in. Don quickly dismissed his strategy and went on brutishly groping and sucking on my body, which I enjoyed. Eventually he pulled on his V-neck tee and black jeans, admitting defeat. But before he walked out of my bedroom, while still sitting on my bed as I stood next to him, he grabbed me, held me still, stuck his face into my kitty, and deeply inhaled.

As I type this, my nipples get hard and my skin starts to tingle. Don wasn’t afraid of any part of my body. He moaned like a hungry animal after releasing me. “Well, now I know what I’ll be tasting next time.”

Unfortunately for me, there was no next time. I receive a scatterbrained text from Don three nights later about how he got back together with his ex-girlfriend but he “probably has a 3-4 day window” to cheat on her. There was so much tension between us that I’m sure he’d be a sexual sharknado in bed—but he was also a complete and total fucking douche.

Like all great millennial love stories three days later, I’m drunk on the subway. I send Don a text, “Come over.” He says okay. Then in anticipation of his arrival I realize Seamless is really who I want in my mouth, and I order a quesadilla. I politely lie and tell Don a close friend got dumped and I’m on my way to be her side; in reality I’m sitting on the ground of my Bushwick apartment as cheese and sour cream run down my chin.

Don being the suave, debonair man that he is responds with a classy “Lose my number.” Mind you, this guy is 28 and he still says, “Lose my number.” There’s nothing I hate more than an unoriginal dick. If you’re going to be a dick, be creative.

Monday morning I go into work. I’m a nanny, which means I got to sleep away my hangover and grab food at noon before I had to be in “the office.” I get a frantic text from my boss: “Meet me at the apartment, I’m getting the kids early from school.” I’m hanging out in their gorgeous apartment, reading a book and drinking a Pellegrino (because still water is for poor people) when in walk the kids.

“Jennifuh…Ohhhh…Jennifuh…WE GAVE YOU LIIIITHE!!”

I spent my evening getting the little hair I have yanked out of my head by a Russian lice lady. Yes, her job is to comb through people’s hair and look for tiny bugs and their bastard offspring. I’m sure she’s living her American Dream.

Verdict: Lice. I had lice and lice babies, which according to the lice lady means I’d had it for at least two weeks.

I can only hope the night Don buried his face in my pubic hair that I offered my lice the opportunity to board the S. S. Don. After all, we did share a pillow and I rested my head on his chest while he droned on about his tattoo. Poor Don; all he wanted to do was cuddle.