Bad Sex: Bigger is Better

For her, size really did matter.

By Ssagala Ndugwa

The date was going well until she told me how big her first had been.

The actual word she used almost made me choke on my pasta primavera. "Gi-noooor-mous," she said, facing her palms towards each other in a gesture usually used by self-aggrandizing fishermen. "It was really painful the first time, but I got used to it after a while. I had to."

As a general rule of thumb, one should never discuss the size of an ex-lover's penis on a first date. Actually, one should never discuss the size of an ex-lover's penis ever, unless it's to say how puny and unsatisfactory one found it. It is a matter of basic decency, for a man's ego is a fragile thing. I thought every woman knew this, the same way all men know not to bring up an ex's giant breasts. I didn't know what to say. How do you defend your penis' dignity without sounding like an insufferable brag? Or worse, an insecure brag?

"I thought that was how big all guys were," she continued, pushing her food around her plate. "I thought that was, like, normal. Plus he was into all this kinky stuff. He had me doing all kinds of crazy things 'cause I didn't know any better. I guess that's why I'm so free sexually. If I like you, I'm open to almost anything."

I wondered whether I should follow her down this rabbit hole. Was she flirting with me or challenging me? I could not tell. I remembered that thing teenage girls tell teenage boys about women deciding whether they'll sleep with you within ten seconds of your first meeting, and tried to recall if I'd been that impressive in the first ten seconds after we'd met. It was doubtful. Had I written something appealing in the two e-mails we had exchanged before our date? Nope, they were all business: let's meet here, at this time, I am looking forward to it, that sort of thing. As far as I could tell, I'd done very little to warrant this level of candor.

"Well, if we ever get together I am sure I will not disappoint," I stammered. Sheesh.

"Play your cards right and I may give you a chance," she replied.

Now that is how you flirt.
 

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We had met a week earlier at a dinner party. One of those dinner parties that starts off with the best intentions — a group of recently graduated twenty-somethings get together to share a meal, discuss politics and religion and who got voted off what this week — and soon descends into a puerile game of spin-the-bottle once wine-sipping turns into vodka-guzzling.

She spun and got me twice; I got her once.

She called it destiny and told me not to fight it. Our last kiss lingered longer than it should have, and might have gone on indefinitely had there not been catcalls and whistling from the rest of the circle. At the end of the night, as I walked her to her car, she quite matter-of-factly said that since I had already reached first base, the least I could do was buy her dinner.

"Next week, Saturday, I'll be free," she said. "E-mail me."

Before she drove off she leaned out of the window and demanded another kiss.

"Mmmmmm," she said, "You taste like a new day."

A new day. It was like she was reading from a script. All I could manage in reply was an uneasy chuckle. She was as self-assured as I was self-conscious; uninhibited and outgoing. I was intoxicated. And way out of my league.