Awkwardette’s Ill-Advised Guide to Getting it On: Be Fucking Nice

I excel at heartbreak. It’s something I experience frequently, perhaps more so than the average person. It’s often times my own fault – sleeping with people I knew I shouldn’t, idealizing complete douchebags as being perfect for me, having a profile on OkCupid. This just skims the surface of the litany of mistakes I’ve made in the world of love and sex.

Let me defend myself; I’m not quite sure that experiencing so much heartbreak is all that bad. I mean, it feels absolutely terrible. I become miserable and sullen and angry and lots of other awful, exaggerated emotions. But in order to get to that point of being heartbroken, I had to find my way there by feeling a whole lot of good things. Love, adoration, like-like, orgasms, etc.

Of course, there has to be a silver lining to all this misery. With misery, comes some wisdom, right? That’s why Buddha was so smart and shit, right? Something like that. So, I’d like to impart some of my wisdom to y’all. The first bit of wisdom I’d like to share with you and remind myself of is the value of being fucking nice.

I’ve been single for like, what, 9 months now. That’s not a long time, I know, but cuddling is like my life force. There’s just one huge obstacle to my getting what I want: I live in NYC. NYC has this terrible problem where there’s more single women than single men (210,000 more to be exact, according to the New York Observer), which means all these idiots who lack things such as mid-western values or surfer washboard abs have free reign of the women. I honestly believe if I lived in Iowa City or something, I’d get crazy laid by the hottest dudes around. That’s not possible here, and so there are compromises to be made.

Unfortunately, the compromises I make include vital factors such as “SANITY,” or “PERSONALITY,” or “SEX DRIVE.” Or more often than not, you can throw “MANNERS” into that mix.

To better understand what I mean, let’s examine one of my summer hook-ups a little closer: it was this guy who I met in a very unsavory way on a website that does not exactly attract the most, hm, stand up dudes on the planet, but it had just been that long, okay? Yes, world, I am on AdultFriendFinder. While wise, I am not always prudent.

But anyway, he (let’s call him Ben), and I had been chatting via GChat for close to a month before my roommate went out of town for the weekend. I took myself out to a movie that night, to see Something Borrowed, and was feeling pretty much on the brink of suicide when I got home to a message from him. Ben wanted to come over that night, once he got out of work. After two hours of an extremely depressing rom-com, I was down for anything.

I figured, what the fuck. He seems like a nice enough guy, and he’s not terribly unattractive according to his pictures. Truth be told, I can’t actually remember another damn thing about him. He seemed harmless besides the fact that he frequently talked about his dumb-ass paleo-diet. So I popped open a bottle of wine and gave him Google Map directions to my Queens apartment. (Now before you make any snarky comments about how I can’t get laid because I live in Queens”¦ well, okay, no counterpoint)

Unfortunately between rushing to get my underwear picked up off my floor and showering in order to turn the pubes down a notch, I hardly had time to get sufficiently tipsy. He came over, and the awkwardness ran wild. I stood around with my arm clutching the other like it was wounded, eyes pointed to the ground. I continuously apologized about how messy my apartment was, and he of course pointed out, quickly – “Wow, you’re awkward.” And wow, you know how to the knock the panties off a lady.

So, apparently, he was a total dick. I mean, that’s to be expected from meeting a GUY ON THE INTERNET, but whatevs. Also, he wasn’t nearly as attractive as he was in his picture (they never are, but I always hope). He was bigger than I thought, but that wasn’t the problem. His curls, which looked kinda cute in his photo, were matted, and his skin was greasy, and his clothes were ill-fitting because of how much weight he lost on his stupid diet. And he had stains on his crappy polo shirt that I’m going to pray were ketchup.

Despite all this, Ben had a lucky night ahead of him, as I eventually I loosened up enough for him to shove his gross tongue into my mouth. He wasted no time getting down to business and before I knew it he was going down on me, which is like my least favorite thing to do with someone I hardly know. But he wasn’t terrible at it. He wasn’t good at it either, but I gave him a good enough show in hopes that he would maybe get turned on enough to move on to something else.

After about five minutes of “oohs” and “aahs” that I labored out, he ungracefully plopped on my bed next to me and said something to the effect of, “Ready to get it in?” Against my better judgment of kicking him out of my room at that very moment, I shrugged it off and asked about a condom. He complained that they were on the other side of the room in his pants, and I conveniently had some right next to my bed to offer up to him, but he was conveniently allergic to latex. So his lazy ass eventually had to get up to get his non-latex condoms, and before you knew it, he was on top of me, kind of sort of thrusting, but I hardly felt anything. Barely two seconds into it, he started laughing.

“What?” I asked.

“The expression on your face is really ridiculous.”

I mean, who the fuck does that? If you’re my close friend or if we’ve been fucking for awhile, I get it, but laughing during the first time? What the hell.

After what he said sunk in, I responded with a, “Are you fucking serious?” which he responded to with more uproarious laughter.

Holy god, when is this going to be over? I thought. I happen to be an atheist, but if I weren’t, I would think god was answering my prayers, because moments later he made a sound I have never, in all of my life, heard before.

His face contorted, and he let out this loud growl that I couldn’t really distinguish between a grunt of pain or pleasure. Did I just break this guy’s penis?

“Are you okay?”

He huffed and puffed on top of me for a few more moments before he rolled off of me. Oh.

“Sorry. You’re just too tight.”

Okay, now I’ve heard a lot of shit in my day. But too tight? Don’t women spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on vaginoplasty to achieve the holy grail of pussy, being “tight”? And now it was my fault that the dude can’t hold it in longer than three minutes because my vagina is too motherfucking tight?

“Do you want me to like, I dunno, finger you or something?” he said. What a gentleman.

“That’s okay.”

He sighed like I was a huge inconvenience all of a sudden. “Do you want me to sleep over or something?”

As I said before, cuddles are my life force. I think even casual sex and NSA stuff requires at least, minimally, five minutes of spooning. But even I have my limits. “Not really. Actually, could you leave?”

And out my door he went. Oh, not before giving me the consolation prize, being the remaining condoms in the pack he bought on his way over. Not that he’ll need them, I guess.

He’s probably texted me about a dozen times since this happened, actually expecting an encore. And really, if he weren’t such an asshole to me, I probably would at the least have entertained the idea.

I’m not saying I’m filet mignon or some shit. Truth is, I am pretty average looking and I’m fat (which is apparently a turn off to some people, who knew). But from where I’m sitting, I’m not exactly a Big Mac either. I’m funny, I probably know more Hulk Hogan trivia than you do, and most importantly, I’m DTF and I’m fairly good at it. I’d say, at the meat market, I’m at least a decent skirt steak. It’s not the most pricey, tender cut in your butcher’s freezer, but you can make fajitas out of it, and who doesn’t like fajitas?

So wait, what’s the moral of this story? Oh, if you have a hot friend who is probably balding and likes comic books, and reads Maximum Rocknroll, and can wax poetic about the philosophy of J.J. Abrams, and is FUCKING NICE, send him my way.

No. Actually, the moral of the story is I really need to stop settling. My last few attempts at romance have been with guys who really just weren’t good enough for me. They were either mean, commitment-phobes, emotionless, or some combination therein. Meeting people exclusively on the internet will yield those kinds of results, I guess. I just don’t understand the whole going up to someone in a bar and striking up a conversation thing. And I’m going to give it a shot. And fortunately for you, and embarrassingly for me, you get to read all about it. Stay tuned.