Dating Advice From . . . Gay Mexicans by Meghan Pleticha Q: My girlfriend laughs a lot during sex. What's her deal? A: Sex is like an Adam Sandler movie. Some people laugh and some people walk out of the theater and ask for their money back.
"I don't know why I'm cold," I tell him. "I usually sleep in a cave full of icicles." Christopher touches me everywhere. I allow it, but can't seem to move any part of my body.
He has my big toe in his mouth. I gawk at him, tensing.
"This doing anything for you?" he asks, much as you'd ask someone if they'd like you to change channels on TV.
"No," I say, the word suddenly acquiring multiple syllables.
"Cool." He repositions, lying on top of me, kissing me with his whiskey maw. I turn my head so that he's kissing my neck.
"You don't like kissing much," he marvels.
I don't like kissing you, I think.
"You smell so good," he breathes in my ear. "How do you smell so good? Your skin is so soft. You don't even know how sexy you are." He nibbles my shoulder.
"I smell like lemon verbena perfume and Chanel No 5," I say. "Chanel from a tester at Sephora. I use lots of orange body butter." He doesn't really want my beauty tips; I decide to ask the question I've had on my mind for the last few days.
"Why do you own the full box set of Sex and the City?" I told my friend Bill this fact, and Bill started referring to Christopher as "that gay guy."
"Why do you own all of Sex and the City?" I told my friend Bill this fact, and Bill started referring to Christopher as "that gay guy."
"My ex-wife bought them. They were a couple thing. Now I mostly lend them out."
"Good. This means you're totally not gay," I say. He smiles and moves lower. I stop talking for a good five to seven minutes. I feel light and pretty — alert, but not as excited as I should be. I try to reposition his head, and he ceases his effort and moves up to my breasts. His knee is between my thighs. I feel body heat and the prickle of hairs on his stomach.
He rolls over for a second to put on the condom. He makes a face.
"Next time, tell your mother to buy lubricated," he says. I don't correct his misapprehension. He's inside me. Sort of. He's gamely fucking my thigh. He repositions.
"You're really flexible," he tells me. My ankles rest on his shoulders. I resist the urge to tell him about all the swimming and water aerobics.
"I am," I reply. "And not just morally."
He adjusts for a deeper angle and meets resistance in the form of my ancient and entrenched hymen. I feel like he's ripping me in two, and my whole body goes rigid. I try not to cry, but can't help gasping. It hurts so much more than I thought it would. Given all the years of horseback riding and multiple falls onto the bars of various boys' bicycles, you'd think I'd be spared this pain. Apparently, all the abuse has only made my hymen stronger and more determined. It won't die. Christopher rolls off, and looks at me wonderingly.
"So how long has it been?" he asks.
"Thirty-five years, two months and...what's today's date?" I ask. He laughs bemusedly and gathers me into his arms.
