That was a week ago, a lifetime ago. I had since imagined a number of scenarios for our date, and they were all variations on the same theme: I win her over with my charming personality and/or sense of humour and/or unexpected sensitivity and/or impressive knowledge of wine. These fantasies all ended with a stellar performance in bed, but now, facing the gloomy reality of all the ginormous penises she was used to, my enthusiasm began to wane.
I tried steering the conversation towards areas in which any shortcomings could not be readily proved with hard empirical evidence, but she was relentless. She told me about her second boyfriend, Jan, who had a body to die for and was from Sweden or Denmark; her third, Peter, who was just a rebound and a bad idea; Clayton, with whom she stayed with far too long; Brett, who was so cute but so stupid. Then there was Malone, her most recent boyfriend. They'd broken up only a month before, and she wanted to forget him as soon as possible, which was why she was "putting herself out there."
Even my usually useless radar could detect a strong possibility of sex in the near future. It seemed I had lucked up on that rarest of God's creatures: an attractive, over-sexed date for whom dinner and drinks are merely a precursor to the real stuff. Most men live their entire lives wondering if such a woman exists outside the pages of Penthouse, and here I was with a real live specimen.
I should have been ecstatic, but I wasn't. I know my limits. I was swimming in deep, deep waters. As she rattled on about her sexual history (they were all 'ginormous' and incredible in bed) my natural disposition took hold, and I began to worry.
Even my usually useless radar could detect a strong possibility of sex in the near future.
I worried that my own equipment, which had never let me down and in fact had put in exceptional performances every now and then, would not be up to her usual standards. I worried that my one signature move was too conventional even to qualify as a move.
I worried that I'd disappoint, and she'd tell her friends, who would tell my friends, who would, because they are true friends, ridicule me forever and ever. At this point, I did what all civilized people do when they are faced with such a situation: I smiled my broadest smile, ordered another round and told our waitress to keep them coming.
There are a lot of awful stereotypes associated with black people, many that we would happily fight you over if you dared utter. The one involving larger-than-average penises is not one of them. I have yet to meet the man who will put up his fists and demand satisfaction if you inflate his vital statistics. We are happy to live with that slight; although personally, I do not encourage it, not because I am particularly unfairly endowed, but because I'd rather expectations be exceeded rather than merely satisfied when it comes time to unleash the proverbial dragon.
As it was, I decided that if the opportunity presented itself, I would in fact sleep with her because a) I consider it a matter of principle to never turn down sex and b) the alcohol was working its sweet magic and I was becoming defiant. Why couldn't I play with the big boys?
