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Brandeis University's Community Newspaper — Waltham, Mass.

Sexiled: Come quietly

Published: November 30, 2007
Section: Opinions

I could tell you how many ceilings tiles laid above our heads. I could tell you the pattern. I could count the number of minutes and seconds in each moment – what felt like hours was actually no more than two minutes.

One hundred and twenty seconds.

Do you think that’s enough time to make dinner? Pancakes? Or at least a snack?

Because if it is, then I’d prefer the kitchen to the bedroom, for all my future engagements. That way, when I get bored stiff, which I inevitably do as soon as he rises to the occasion, it won’t be as hard to wait for him to finish. I can do something productive in the kitchen whereas in his bedroom all I can wrap my head around is the size of his…room.

Oh, and how many licks it takes to get to the center of the lollipop. But at least I get a taste of pleasure from that. During sex, I dry up faster than he can get into position and tip himself into enjoyment (and me into boredom).

One time, I was asleep when he decided it was a handy time to bone up on his sex drive. Not going to lie, the vajayjay does not come out to play in the morning. It does not even respond to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

I refuse to fake an orgasm. Why bother? He’ll never know what works for me if I pretend to enjoy myself. He will think he is doing it right and never change. Besides, it’s not even good enough to pretend. And I’m an actress.

So, unfortunately, I look like I wilted long before him; while he bloomed, I arose out of my deeply dissatisfying hole.

My deflowering came at a time when I was, to put it simply, extremely horny. Except, he stopped after about thirty seconds – I know because I was so uninterested I counted – and didn’t tell me why. I mean, I was thankful because I wouldn’t aurally please him. It was eerily silent. Neither one of us made any noises during or after, nor did either one of us speak to each other. It was like an old silent movie. I’d loved to have seen the subtitles to that one:

“She seduces him…POW! They’re going at it. He stops. She looks confused. He leans on one elbow, staring down at her. Ten more minutes pass in silence. She finally asks him what happened. He doesn’t know, and then he falls asleep. She is annoyed and he is lying on top of her arm, creating the only tingling sensation she has had all night. The sensation comes from a lack of blood circulation. She is more annoyed than before.”

Silence in bed. Or on the couch. Or the floor. Or the deck chair at my cabin. No matter where you stage it, the sex didn’t cause me to groan in satisfaction so much as in deflation. I just wish there was something fruitful to do during sex that would make it less pointless. Because as of right now, the “open” sign has just switched to “going out of business. No men allowed inside.” There is no final sale and all intercourse that turns up in the future will be between me, myself, and perhaps a toy or two. If I’m lucky.

The climax, then, is as good as the rising action and even better than the cliffhanger. This story ends with a bang.

And I can make all the noise I want. Believe me, I want to. I not only want to, but it comes either way.