By Danielle Bauman
In a small bedroom of an over-priced loft in Bushwick, I was in the middle of giving a blow job when the recipient, Michael, an art school grad with a washboard stomach and a penchant for self loathing, said to me: “I haven’t been feeling very sexual lately. I don’t know why. My sex drive is very fickle.”
I looked up, still holding on.
“You can keep going if you want to,” he half smiled.
I thought of Jennifer Jason Leigh’s character in The Machinist. How she was his special prostitute. I didn’t feel special and I wasn’t even getting paid.
But I must admit that I hadn’t been very into it either.
“It’s only been a few days,” I said grazing his chest with my finger tips. “It’s not like it’s been weeks or even months. “
“No, I haven’t been focused enough during our sex. It’s not acceptable,” he said staring up at the ceiling.
With anyone else I would take this response as an insult but with him it was different. Or unfortunately for me, Michael is very similar to several men I have dated in the last few years.
Is there something in the water? Did our hippie parents smoke enough pot to infect their entire male progeny with performance paranoia? Or is our capitalist country’s world power ideology finding its way under the bed sheets whispering better, faster, NOW!
When did sex stop being fun? Remember when we all went to our first boy girl party and the biggest concern was getting rid of your pizza breath before spin the bottle?
These days everyone has a hang up. Everyone has detailed guidelines to how they get off.
He can’t get it up unless…
He thinks she isn’t in the mood,
he’s wearing her frilliest panties,
they’re engaged in casual conversation during the act:
“So what did you do today?”
“Oh you know did some laundry, finished the second season of Weeds- God that feels so good-“
“Sssh! Just keep telling me more about your day!”
This one can’t come during sex because:
It’s too intimate to share,
it’s very tricky and
it’s too much pressure.
Unless…
He’s in a situation where he’s not supposed to come.
“Don’t come.”
“But-“
“Don’t. You. Dare. Co-“
“Shit.”
And then there’s the guy who doesn’t have problems with his performance but needs to be constantly updated on my orgasm status:
“Come on, come on, come on…”
Silence, bedsprings faster, faster, faster. PAUSE. And then: “Did you? Did you?!”
“Uhhhhh…”
It’s like he’s trying to decipher Morse Code: “What was that? Was that it?!”
“Ummmm I’m not surrrre …”
“Well if you’re not sure then. It. Wasn’t it. You would know.” He says, eyes piercing, nodding as fast as he thrusts.
“Oh.Okay…”
“Okay I’m sorry that was harsh let’s just keep going,” He never stopped in the first place but it’s clear he’s in the Orgasm or Die Zone and he’s anything but a quitter.
The mattress slams against the wall. For some inane reason the bed is on wheels.
“Are you coming?”
“Ummmm…ooooooh that’s good. Keeping going. Yes, yes that feels good, right there.”
“Yea here we go, here we go, that’s it. Almost there. We’ll get there together. Almost there. Almost there.”
Almost there…