I’m Glad You Came (But I Didn’t)

Being single after a dating bout isn’t as daunting as some girls make it out to be. I like sitting in Thai restaurants by myself. And getting hit on by white-bearded men (who are clearly not ironically emulating a sea captain with colored facial growth). And not worrying about what will happen under the covers seven hours after I eat too much broccoli in peanut sauce.

But something less desirable than broccoli gas can go awry under the covers. Something that happens just after the moment I actually want to do more than snuggle with someone else, and that is that someone else is right. there. in. my. bed. under. my. Mickey. Mouse. blanket. with. me.

No, not feeling shy about going Playboy for someone new. He’s in my house. He probably has a good idea what my body looks like because at the very least, he saw me when I opened the door. This is not about wondering if he’ll think any crevice of my anatomy doesn’t jive with his pheromoneic desires. This is about what happens after heavy kissing starts — like, we’re already nipping parts of each other’s bodies besides the lips — and when we’re post-coital in a sweaty pile of person.

What I really want to never have to do again, but inevitably will have to, with a new partner? Tell him, “I’m not coming because this is our first time getting frisky.” Because there is no good way to bring this up until we are already in the middle of the deed.

Yes, I get that as a sex positive person I should probably be having rational conversations before sloppily making out on this imaginary guy’s couch, his pet rabbit’s snuffling providing our soundtrack. But I’m not. We were flirting, our hands dancing around and testing the waters to see if even we wanted to be close to one another and then BAM! Our clothes are off and we’re fumbling around in the dark. Which is weird because of the unspoken fact that we prefer a little bit of light, but we’re trying not to embarrass ourselves or each other.

rabbit8132012So we’re making out. And it’s either before full-fledged sex or after he’s finished. And at that moment he is obviously giving my lower half his all. There’s soft tongue and light tongue, there’s the unexpected roughness and maybe some sort of finger action I’ve never encountered. And the worst part of all this is that I never want to ask a guy to stop doodling around my nether regions because it’s so nice that he’s trying. I want to be like, “Gold stars for effort, dude!” because the explosions he’s aiming to set off ain’t gonna happen.

It’s at this moment that the over-explaining begins. Yeah. I’ll stop him mid-act and say something jumbled, trying to convey my contentedness sans orgasm. I’ll note it’s not a likely finale, that I never come the first time (because guys definitely want to think about how some other yahoo has been right where he is hanging around). Sometimes I’ll stop him and just go down on him because it takes his mind off of me. But then, nice guys that they are, they always turn around when it’s over and try to get right back up in my business. Other times, I’ll even be mean about it. Or God. Once, when this man would not let up, I faked it. Yep. And I’d never even had or seen an orgasm at that time. So I had zero idea what I was faking.


There has to be some better way for single gals sleeping with potential long-term partners/short-term partners/activity partners to explain this all, while still saving face. Maybe the best thing to do is to talk about it like it’s a man-part. Guys always talk about their man-rod* like it has its own persona or feelings. Maybe I should just say something to the effect of, “It’s like a cat. It has to get used to somebody.” Or, is the obvious innuendo too distracting?

Yeah. All this is reminding me why I’m not that unhappy that it’s been awhile since I got laid.

*Whoa, I swear I haven’t been reading that much Danielle Steel. I swear.


And be sure to check out Alicia’s Kickstarter documentary, 50/50, wherein she and cinematographer Megan Pratt experience First Dates in all 50 states.


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About the author

Alicia Ostarello just quit her full time job to be a professional dater. She's also a freelance copywriter and creative writer, and has a still unfounded dream of being an Italian Greyhound owner. Until the pup of her dreams shows up, she enjoys thinking about cinnamon toast but not eating it, discussing types of triangles loudly on public transit, and asking for the opinion of strangers.

View all articles by Alicia Ostarello

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