Sex. Most of us are having it from time to time with someone we love, or like, or (hopefully) find marginally attractive. I don’t see the topic of sex being breached often by the good people of WordPress. I mean, maybe I’m just in the wrong circle and there actually are bloggers out there gettin’ down with the nitty gritty but if not, I understand why it would be a hard topic to broach. This is a public forum and sex is a fairly private matter. Moms and brothers could be your followers. Maybe we’re still seeing the longstanding effects of our (American) society being built upon Puritanical values and it’s still too taboo of a subject to really dive into. There are many, many reasons to not blog about getting your rocks off. I, however, haven’t told any friends/family about this blog and am using fake names so there’s no need to censor my musings for fear of giving Grandma a heart attack or any of Boyfriend’s friends too much information about our bedroom activities. I have no shame in my game and love to tell friends about my sexcapades and to hear about theirs. And unfortunately (or fortunately) for you folks, I think this is the perfect place to share a few semi-sordid life details.
This post, as you may have guessed by now, will be about sex. Don’t worry, I won’t paint too graphic of a picture (mainly because I’m not that skilled of a writer). There won’t be any pictures or gifs that you will need to quickly scroll past to hide from any innocent soul passing by your computer screen. You won’t leave my blog feeling like you need to shower or go hug your mom. With that being said, I am proceeding to the tale.
This story takes place a few years ago when I was fresh off the heels of a major, soul-crushing breakup. The relationship that had just crashed and burned had lasted 4 long years. The breakup left me barely standing, fairly emotionally damaged, and craving some strange (if you know what I mean). I was all over the dating scene- Online dating, hitting on bar boys, flirting with gym boys, basically no boy was safe. Gawd what a time to be alive! And then of course, because life likes to shake stuff up on you just when you get too set on following a certain path, cue a relationship.
Matt- Enter stage left
Matt was a drunken one night stand who turned into a two night stand, then a three night stand, and then a whole 8 months passed in a blink of an eye. Matt was hott with a double-t. Short blonde hair, bright blue eyes, 6 pack. Need I say more? Uhm yes, yes I do. Matt was easy going and fun and my god, was he sensitive. Could you imagine? An attractive man who didn’t mind talking about emotions? Jackpot!
The second best part about Matt? The sex.
I’ve always been a rough and tumble sort in the bedroom but Matt, well, he was next level and I was more than willing to rise to the occasion. We tried a good number of those 50 different shades of grey. One thing I had always wanted to try involved slapping. Not butts, faces. And by faces, I meant mine, not his.
After a serious discussion about abuse concerns, repeated confirmations of my consent, an agreement on a safe word, Matt obliged and we got started.
Matt delivered his first attempt a few minutes into our sex session. His first slap was tentative and soft. Lame. I demanded a harder slap and was semi-pleased with his 2nd attempt. The 2nd slap must have stirred something within him because after a few more minutes, he delivered a 3rd even harder slap. Yes. His 4th though, now that one was a doozy, it made my ears ring and my eyes water. I used our safe word immediately after #4 and we proceeded to good ol’ fashioned sexing.
Matt stayed the night, as he usually did, and woke me up in the morning like he always did. However that next morning, I wasn’t woken up with the usual cup of steaming coffee, oh no. I was woken up with a shrill (as shrill as a man’s voice can get) “Ho…ly shit!”
Over the course of the night, my right eye had swollen completely shut. The area around my eye was a gorgeous blend of blues and purples and the eye itself, when forcibly pried open, was dotted with burst blood vessels. Matt had given me my very first black eye.
Matt paced around my room in a flurry of panic; he alternated between visiting me, still lying in bed, to gently stroke my temple and pacing in the far, far corner of my room with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and thus, safely tucked away from me. I could just see “I’m going to jail” strobing through his mind.
I tried to act cool but I was panicking internally. I had an interview on Monday! You can’t interview with a damn sex injury on your face! Well you can but things can’t possibly go that well after you admit that the black eye is a result of your boyfriend trying out one of your deep dark sexual fantasies and that he put a little too much oomph into his attempt at satisfying you. “Oh uhm well, we’ll get back to you within a few days about our uhhh decision…?”
After assuring and reassuring Matt that I wasn’t upset and wouldn’t be reporting him to the authorities, we Googled how to heal a black eye ASAP. Frozen bags of peas, warm compresses, gently rolling out the blood, binging on foods high in Vitamin C, etc. We tried it all. Seriously, every internet-recommended home remedy was tried though unfortunately, as Monday morning loomed closer and closer, it became apparent that heavy MAC makeup was needed as was a solid cover story.
Matt had a Golden Retriever, Chance, who was just massive, like in the 97th percentile for size. Chance was a sweet, mellow boy but he needed to take the fall for us. We decided to claim that I lost miserably in a game of tug-of-war with Chance. When lying, especially when you are plagued with a guilty conscience like me, it’s best to KISS- Keep it simple, stupid.
Monday came and everyone on the interview panel struggled to maintain eye contact with me but thankfully they all accepted my cover story unquestioningly. I’m sorry for ruining your reputation, Chance. And when I got the job, the hiring manager called to say that she was “going to take a chance” on me. Hardy har har.