“What is your most extreme sex experience?” The question was waiting for me in my Twitter DM box, and I knew I was going to disappoint the tweet flirt on the other end. I had invited him to ask me anything he wanted, and although I was curious if he would go for the obvious (a sex question), the controversial (crime and violence), or the emotional (depression, deaths or broken hearts), I knew beforehand there wouldn’t be a lot of interesting stuff to tell. No gang-bangs. No attempted suicides. The furthest I have come to killing my neighbor was throwing a shoe at my own wall, when he had the volume up. I always go to bed before midnight, barely drink enough to make a mouse tipsy, and carefully evacuate anything with wings or 8 legs. And only after it has stopped raining. There is very little interesting to tell. For me, inviting people to ask me anything they want, is more casual conversation than it is a sign of true love, or too much alcohol.
Meanwhile on the other end of Twitter, I had already given love advice (always follow your body, not your ratio), launched a new idea of taking on a 1-year-lover, and blog about it, and confessed to everybody I had bought a Yoni Egg but was a little afraid to use it. Because who would help me retrieve it, in case it would get lost? (If you think this was a reference to Easter, it’s your cue to Google). All in all probably one of the most orgasmic mornings in my Twitter existence. Ten new followers later, I realized that all my questions, had the same answer. Every topic the same underlying emotion. That every advice stemmed from the same very recent experience. And that I couldn’t blog about it. Or that the moment I did, the last hope would vanish.
Three months ago. He drinks more coke than a small school class on a trip to Disney land, but otherwise he’s a lot more sane than I imagined. Not shy, nor overly talkative. Not pushy, nor is he absent or stoned. The personnel of the bar greets him, and I make a mental note that he’s not hiding me, despite the age difference. He doesn’t flirt. Instead he smiles his wicked grin before answering the 349 inappropriate questions I’ve been saving the whole year that we have known each other online. His black hair is half long, the eyes a piercing green. We don’t talk about why it took a year to meet, and I’m careful not to touch any scars, don’t even breathe on open wounds. But when he confirms the stories I’ve been hearing about his sex life, he feels me withdrawing. He accepts my hug as goodbye, as easily as my rejection to come over to his house. It’s midnight. On my way home I realize how lucky I am to have escaped being fucked and dumped within 8 hours. And that’s counting on the fact he would give me breakfast.
He doesn’t respond to my suggestion for a second date. At least not immediately. He won’t answer properly ever, and will turn out to be just as slippery as our mutual friend warned me he would be, but I didn’t know that then. The first 24 hours after the date I feel caged in my own home, eyes fixed on email and phone. Nubian Prince contacts me, with who I have an in-between-relationships-arrangement to make love (yes, his words) occasionally. The occasion was planned for that night. I explain that although things are still very unclear with Michael, I feel uncomfortable keeping a lover. He reads between the lines, offers to come, and takes me in his arms for one last time with him. My body craves and clings.
Then – nothing. The great nothingness of weeks, and months, until ultimately I hear Michael is dating someone else. It doesn’t even come as a shock, nor do I feel pain. And maybe that is when I should have gotten worried.
It’s a Saturday three weeks ago. Michael is on chat. I open. He writes back. I give the third sentence. That’s all I remember. That there were three sentences. I don’t know the content. Nor who started what. I just remember that within three sentences, out of the blue I’m suddenly dying to see him, and he me. We know who has condoms. We know who has a house. We know who has opportunity. Both. Both. Both. And we both crave to do this, out in the open air on a warm Spring night, not even in a proper bed. But my ratio says no. You’ll get fucked, and dumped. You will feel more horrible and used than you have ever felt in your whole life. And again, I beat the odds. And again, the next morning, I praise myself lucky. But that was three weeks ago.
Because by now? I know I just play innocent, and that even though I may fool Twitter with my questions, I already know the answer. Who I want as a lover. Who my body demands. Who I would trust with my most intimate parts under the most stressful circumstances. I know. I know. I know.
I even know what my most extreme sex would have been. And that I passed, because I just couldn’t face the trauma of letting him go the next day.