“Wow, I never realized I had four lights in my ceiling,” is not exactly the thought anyone really wants to have whilst having intercourse, but alas, it was the one I had. He was a very nice boy, an acting major, tall, considerate, with the darkest brown hair I’d ever seen, so why wasn’t I looking at it? He was good too, didn’t mind the cry of my twin sized bed, didn’t mind the roommates gossiping outside about who got into which shows, didn’t mind that my mind was anywhere but between his legs.
I caught myself, several times, told myself, make sure you’re making the appropriate noises, make sure he thinks you’re into it, make sure you breathe into his ear when his lips are on your neck, make sure. I couldn’t though, I just, couldn’t. The boy was trying everything in the textbook, every kiss, every bite, everything and all I could really think about, other than not hurting his pride, was if I had already finished my left over dinner from two nights prior. I had made a beautiful pasta dish with pieces of sliced chicken breast, homemade tomato sauce, some fresh mozzarella cheese, it sounded so appetizing, but I wasn’t having sex with a bowl of penne. Though, I might as well have.
I felt terrible. Had I been feeling this way for the past several weeks? Did it just come up now? Had I been trying to deny the lack of physical chemistry as a type of coping mechanism that was choosing now to keep me from ejaculating? I truly didn’t know. It was one of the only times I was hoping something other than my mind would explode. Pretty rotten lay, neither of us got off, and we spent the remainder of the time holding each other, bare, making conversation about summer internships, obnoxious friends, and musicals. Eventually I told him I had too much work and should probably get started on finishing at least something tonight. He reluctantly put a pair of gray fruit of the loom boxer briefs on, followed by ripped black jeans, and some ironic t-shirt. I thought to myself, he’s got a nice ass and I could continue this for a while if I made the choice to ignore how I really felt. But I didn’t want to do that. In fact, I never want to do that, it’s not fair to either party.
So, I ended things with him the next day claiming that I was too busy, and wouldn’t be there for him as much as I knew I wanted to be. Which wasn’t completely false, but, whatever. The point is, I like being a lover, and as good of an actor as I am, it’s a role that is assigned to you, not one to be auditioned for. As much as I wish people could fully choose who they lusted over, my experience with Mr. Perfect, tall, and hung taught me, you just can’t, and that most of time, people want to be on the other end, chasing, giving, letting someone else say yes to them. I’m not saying it’s right, but in my experience, just the way it is. All I want is someone who can keep me from wanting to fuck a bowl of pasta, is it too much to ask?