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.
We eventually made our way back to her place. I expected a den of hedonism, whips, chains and all, but there was none of that. It was in fact, quite normal. She had a normal couch and a normal rug; a normal television framed by a normal chest; and a normal kitchen with a normal fridge that thankfully contained a normal bottle of vodka. I kicked my frat-boy seduction technique into high gear.
"We should do a couple of shots," I said.
"Why?" she asked, "Are you nervous?"
"No," I said, a little too readily, "just, you know. . . something to do."
She laughed and led me to the bedroom. "We can skip all that, I have something better to do," she said.
Her room was contained chaos. There were clothes strewn across the floor, her bed was unmade in a well-used sort of way, there was an overflowing walk-in closet and a makeup table filled with stuff. The walls were bare except for one, which had an oversized mirror placed just so as to reflect a full view of the bed. She stuck her tongue down my throat before I could make any comment. There was no mistaking that she was in charge. She knew it and I knew it; my only job was to keep up. I went into autopilot: I caressed the places you are supposed to caress, rubbed the spots that you should always rub and undid her bra without too much fuss. This was Foreplay 101, and I am good at it. So good in fact, I managed to surreptitiously switch off the light without breaking rhythm. Darkness would be my ally.
Before long we were both naked and it was time to get down to business. I had made it through a bout of enthusiastic tugging without her recoiling in revulsion, and I took that as a positive sign. Perhaps my worry was unfounded. Maybe I did stack up. But the proof, as they say, is in the tasting of the pudding. She reached across me and fished a bright gold sachet out of her night stand.
Great. Magnum XXL condoms.
"Hurry," she said.
It is hard enough to maintain any level of romance while fumbling around with a darned condom, harder still when your partner has put you under the gun and you are expected to produce big things. I could have bolted at that moment. I could have grabbed my trousers, and run out of the door, my pride a little dented, my reputation in tatters, but my all important sense of self-delusion intact. To paraphrase Lincoln: better to keep your zipper up and be thought poorly endowed, than to display your wares and remove all doubt. But I did not.
Instead I gave myself a little pep talk, tore the plastic off the condom and rolled it onto my penis. It must have taken me a while because I was barely done when she told me to get on with it already.
She was looking over her shoulder, her ass stuck in the air; nature's position one. There was nothing for it. I crawled above her onto the bed and gave her my best thrust; a top-of-the-line, grade-A, go-on-my-son(!) thrust. And in response I got. . . nothing. Silence.
I panicked. My worst fears were coming true. Any moment now she would turn around and ask what the hell I was doing, or worse, say something that would haunt me for life and prevent me from ever having sex again, something like "is it in yet?" or "is that all?" I pushed as deep as I could and sent an impious prayer to the heavens: "Please God, give me an inch. Just for tonight, you can have it back in the morning." I willed all available resources to the regions where they were needed most, and began pumping for all I was worth.
Just when I was losing all confidence, she barked. It was unmistakable. She let out a little yelp, like one of those designer handbag dogs, what Eddie Izzard would call a little-yapper-type dog. It was a small sound at first — I could hardly hear it over the boing-boing of her mattress springs — but it got louder and louder.
Before long her bark was the loudest thing in the room, and far from making me nervous (was it a bark of pleasure or disappointment?) it relaxed me. No, it did more than relax me: it made me laugh. The whole situation suddenly seemed ludicrous to the extreme, here I was (let's face it) drowning in an XXL-size condom trying to impress a barking nympho. I began to giggle, then chuckle. Then I was bent over in fits of belly laughter.
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