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Friday, August 10, 2007
Recreational Sex
Category: Humor Winners, Issue 8With my work finished for the day and some time to spare, I rested my tired body on a bench and looked out at the garden. It is spring and everywhere there are signs of new life and my mind turns to the mysteries of procreation. In my estimation sex is on a par with going to a restaurant for a gourmet meal and getting Spam sandwiches. Considering how popular it is, perhaps I was just unlucky
On a hot, wet July night in nineteen- sixty-two, in the darkness of the alleyway behind a London cinema, Billy whispered. ‘If you really love me you would.’ We had just seen a sloppy film and at thirteen I was all starry eyed and romantic. We’d been going out for several weeks. Now past the furtive fumble stage the only way forward seemed to be up. He slid his hand under my skirt; I held my breath. My lack of protest seemed to signal the go ahead and before I could change my mind he’d unzipped.
Rain drizzled down my coat collar as I stood against a wall and watched with a sort of detached interest as he positioned his body for the big moment. His breath whistled through his nose and his bent knees trembled as he made a few lunges. Wide of the goal and far too excited to realise it, Billy humped diligently between my moist thighs. I on the other hand, wasn’t too sure where he was, and wondered if this was the great it, why wasn’t I enjoying myself?
Confused, I patted dry my friction pink thighs with the end of his shirt and went home. I would’ve liked to say Billy asked if it was ‘good for me,’ but at the age of fifteen I don’t think he gave a shit.
The next three weeks were spent in a cold sweat, wondering whether I was pregnant. I had a convoluted chat with my best friend, Rita. I considered her to be an expert in sex, as she swore she and her boy friend did it every Saturday when her mum was at Bingo.
‘Can you get pregnant if he just puts it between your legs?’ I said, fiddling about in my school bag as if I wasn’t really bothered about the answer.
‘Oh yes.’ Rita said with an airily gesture, ‘I know a girl who got a baby from sitting on a toilet seat.’
God and I got very close in that three weeks and I promised him life long chastity if he would let me off having a baby.
After weeks of wondering how I would tell my mom and dreaming up ways of committing suicide that actually wouldn’t hurt too much, I found I wasn’t pregnant. After that scare I looked on sex with a jaundiced eye and decided to wait for romance and marriage.
With the swinging sixty’s well under way I was somewhat of an anachronism among my peers, who all seemed to be going at it like it might go out of fashion. Whether my protests of ‘Not likely, mate.’ endowed me with some sort of mystery I’m not sure, but by seventeen I’d received two marriage proposals. With the impetuousness of youth I accepted the second.
My parents were glad to see me enter married life unscathed. Having been sure I’d come to a sticky end with all the male attention I was attracting, they gave their permission with disconcerting enthusiasm. I felt quite smug as I sailed down the aisle, dark haired and petite in my white bridal gown. I must have been the only virgin bride the church had seen in years.
The first night with my new husband wasn’t a success. A five-minute session during which, he lay on my hair and pulled it out by the roots, trapped my skin with his elbows and knocked the wind out my chest when he collapsed with a groan at the end. Things didn’t improve, three years of bruised thighs, breasts and arms, not to mention mashed lips, ended in divorce.
Alone and back with my parents I contemplated the failure. I’m going about this all the wrong way. I should have tried the bedroom first, I thought.
***
Mentally shaking myself up I got back on the dating scene. Barry was a student attending my art class and he was gorgeous. Dark haired and built like an Adonis, with good manners and solicitous ways. I decided to dip my unmarried toes in the murky waters of passion.
We made love in his immaculate apartment where I mentally ticked off his credits. Reasonably well endowed, seems to know what he is doing, didn’t drag my head down by the hair for a blowjob. I relaxed and began to enjoy myself.
‘Hmmm - you’re a sooo good, Barry,’ I murmured.
‘Call me daddy, little girl,’ he murmured back.
‘Daddy?’
‘Oh Yeah! That’s it! - Again – say - Don’t, daddy.’
‘I’m out of here…daddy.’ I said, heaving him off.
One might well think I gave up at this point. But in fact, to find a lover and have the mythical [to me] orgasm became a quest.
Here I’ll bypass the next two, who were too insignificant to mention. Except to say, one cried because his soldier refused to stay on duty, and the other got his knickers in a twist, when his little bird fell out of the nest at inappropriate times.
***
A little disheartened by the hat-full of failures, I wondered if finding a partner was worth all the trouble. I decided to take my time getting to know my next lover. But once again a young man called Alex took me in, big time.
‘I respect the fact that you want us to get to know each other before we have sex,’ he said looking adoringly in the direction of my feet. I thought he’d dropped his head in embarrassment at my forthright refusal of sex on a first date and decided he was sweet.
A few nights later he leapt out buck naked from behind the lounge door, threw me on the couch, lifted my legs and sucked my toes until his eyes popped. I looked down on the foot fetish’s busy head and then up to the ceiling. Why me God? I thought in despair.
I ‘d reached the age of twenty-seven before I finally came within reach of the Holy Grail. Ian was a fair-haired man, intelligent and witty. My preference is for tall, well built men and he filled the bill. As an added bonus, his equipment was also outstanding and fascinatingly, had a left hand kink, which was neither here nor there as far as sex was concerned. I just liked the look of it.
We had the proverbial whirlwind romance and once again I settled to enjoy my married status. It was in the ninth month of marriage that I felt the first misgivings. All fired up, having waited twelve years for the earth to move, I was looking for an earthquake every night. My new partner seemed to be lagging behind, with excuses of headaches, or he was tired. Later he took to watching TV until I was asleep. Although we were having good sex on a regular basis, it was his regular basis, which just happened to be once every three or four months.
I purchased crotchless knickers, leather thongs and bras with holes cut in strategic places. A maid’s outfit, handcuffs and a life size vibrator, oils, creams and incense, all to little avail; although I must admit they raised a few laughs, but unfortunately nothing else. I followed this with, frozen grapes, whipped cream and strawberries. I tried a satin nightie, frilly teddies and delicate underwear. Nothing. Brown paper parcels arrived so frequently I got leers from the postmen, who probably thought I was a sex fiend.
The whole thing came to an ignominious conclusion the evening I stood naked, except for a tiny organza apron, busily whipping potatoes into a creamy froth.
Ian arrived home from work ‘What’s for dinner?’ he said and came into the kitchen.
I turned towards the door ‘Me?’ I said, tilting my head and raising one eyebrow seductively. I watched his face run a gauntlet of emotion and finally settle into one of sorrow.
Ian crossed the room, held me at arms length and looked deep into my eyes. ‘You are the sort of woman that every man fantasizes about – that is - until they find one.’ He leaned forward, careful not to touch any naked skin, and kissed me lightly on the nose. Half an hour later he’d packed his case and left.
Twice divorced was enough, I gave up. Today I sit in the tranquillity of a beautiful garden. The roses are in bloom and the air is soft about my face like a promised caress. I touch the wedding band circling my finger and it comforts me as I remember my past. I wait for the bell to call me into vespers.
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