Sealing the DealHooksexup readers thought my boyfriend was crazy to wait. Were they right?By Avatar KooLast night, when I was half-asleep, John asked if I was too tired for sex. Of course not. I immediately took off my T-shirt. "Do you want me on my stomach or on my back?" He said either was fine, so I went on my stomach, softly whimpering as he fucked me, hard, till my hair resembled a gnarly bird's nest. Fucked me so relentlessly that I walked to the kitchen afterwards like a saddle-sore cowboy. It was the third time that day we fucked. Or maybe the fourth? Who knows. He and I have so much sex that I've given up recording the instances on my Google calendar. (What, am I the only person who does this?) Our current sex life is so awesome that I can't think of a less cliché word than "awesome" to describe it. But it wasn't always this way. Last October, I told John I was writing a Hooksexup piece about our sex life. "But we don't have a sex life," he said.
"Exactly. It's about how you want to get to know me before you schtupp me." And then I stopped talking and gave him a blowjob. I emailed him a copy of "He Wants to Wait" just before it was published. The plan was: he reads it, loves it, and then we have passionate sex on the kitchen table. Instead, John called me as I was walking through Union Square. Ambulances were shrieking around me, so I had to stick a finger in my ear to hear him. "It makes me uncomfortable that you assume that you're my girlfriend," he said. I was real cool about it. No crying or drunk dials later that night. Because a cool girlfriend doesn't freak out in public. Maybe she writes an emo-tweet or two, but doesn't admit to perusing He's Just Not That Into You on the floor at Barnes & Nobles. Or to obsessing over skeptical comments from Hooksexup readers, like: "You've already built this up so much in your head, I hope it somewhat lives up to it." "You're not earning interest on this savings plan. Also, buy a vibrator." "This relationship will end disastrously. Run, girl, run!" My sang-froid worked, to a degree. Two days later, John called me back into his bed, spread my legs and desperately rubbed up against me. "You're like a drug to me," he gasped, "I can't function without this daily fix." His declaration should have buoyed me. But even small amounts of doubt are deadly to a canary heart like mine. I needed an unequivocal gesture. "Please, please, fuck me." He didn't. FIND MORE nn commented on 03/23 Dee commented on 03/23 huh commented on 03/23 @AT commented on 03/23 Ben commented on 03/23 Ai commented on 03/23 Dan commented on 03/23 Dan commented on 03/23 CD commented on 03/23 MM commented on 03/23 Sex commented on 03/23 ja commented on 03/23 JJ commented on 03/23 Null commented on 03/23 duh commented on 03/23 NY commented on 03/23 NN commented on 03/23 PO commented on 03/23 hey commented on 03/24 aj commented on 03/24 rd commented on 03/24 duh commented on 03/24 Sara commented on 03/24 Sam commented on 03/24 NN commented on 03/25 jaw commented on 03/25 DA commented on 03/26 Leave a Comment
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