What Happens When You Connect With Your Missed Connection

The bartenders are keeping their distance, though clearly listening in on the conversation; which only eggs me on to describe what happened the last time I went out with Dick in graphic detail to the girls:

After dinner he took me back to his apartment, pouring me a large glass of whiskey and handing me a tall can of Budweiser — original, not light. I alternated sipping them both, quickly finding myself in a hazy state that made turning down his advances more work than it was worth. I lay on his bed afterward, my head on his stomach, wondering if this time was better or just more familiar since I had already known what to expect. I am undecided on the quality of this experience, but he doesn’t know that.

“I like you.” He says this so simply, before reaching over to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. Using his palm, he smoothes the flyaways back from my face. I can feel him studying my hairline, the widow’s peak and “five-head” I spent years covering with blunt-cut bangs. I wonder if he’s judging the micro-zits I scrutinized in the mirror before meeting up with him. We lay quietly, breathing still heavy. I’m not sure if it’s wrong of me to take faking it to this level; pretending I am winded from pleasure when actually I’m wondering why he can’t just get it right.

I look to the girls and they insist they’ve done this before, too. I go on, taking a peek at the bartender and his accomplice where they’re standing a few feet away. They’re no longer bothering to pretend they aren’t listening, and I pick up where I left off in the re-telling of my last date with Dick:

He kisses me and I feel him getting hard against my back as he asks if I’ll use my mouth on him again. I oblige, occasionally looking up over the roundness of his belly to see the awestruck face he’s making, his mouth opening and closing silently. When he starts to make low noises in the back of his throat I marvel that it’s taken ten minutes for him to enjoy himself enough not to be self-conscious about the sounds he’s making. Dick places his hand on my shoulder, keeping me back from pushing my mouth back down over him. Rolling back onto the balls of his feet, he struggled to put on the condom and I lay back and wait, legs spread. I am praying the blowjob pays off as he leans forward, adjusting the height of his hips.

He pushes the tip of himself inside me, then, “Does that hurt?”

I try not to roll my eyes as I shift my hips; caught up in wondering if I can discreetly maneuver my way to an orgasm I don’t have to fake. I know he is trying to be considerate; to be sweet; but his gentleness is off-putting. I am a woman, I think, biting my tongue lest I say the rest out loud. This is my pussy, not fine china; it’s okay to fuck it up a little bit.

“Nope.”

“Good, because I don’t want it to hurt.” My stomach tenses, and I cringe.

“You’re not going to break anything,” I reply. It slips out before I can stop myself, and I know out of context it might sound like I’m belittling his manhood. He continues thrusting, his breathing heavy with small grunts — the pre-orgasmic spurts of undecipherable noise — before he shudders and stops moving. We lay there in silence, and he rests his face on my chest.

“Sorry I just…” He stops, raising one of his hands to make a fist. “You just… started squeezing on me so hard… down there.”

Inwardly I smirk at this expression of what it feels like when I tighten the web of inner-pelvic muscles around him. His gesture makes me think of the way people pantomime milking a cow and my lip curls up slightly. I struggle to keep the annoyed look off my face, though he’s still facedown between my breasts, panting.