I saw George again. A week had passed since we'd last been together when I received a text from him during rush hour which read, "You must be in need of a massage later".
I will never decline his invites (as long as I'm free) due to his track record of sexing me down and his actual massages. We settled on the when and the what I should bring with me: massage oil -- and condoms.
Here's the text exchange, then I'll explain:
Yes, I'll be sure to grab an XL for you George if I have any left
Oh please you are teasing me
No. I am not.
I hope you don't go through too many xl's
I'm a clean freak :)
Only recently started having sex again. But I do use condoms that's why I have them. I don't think that's the man's responsibility
I couldn't believe that was coming from George. I was hurt and insulted. I'm a clean freak... and I'm not clean? George was one of those guys who bought into the stud = good, slut = bad comparison? All of that is what ran through my mind. If I go through a lot of XL condoms, so what? It's hard enough being a woman who has sex and enjoys the sex she has. To think I'd have to deal with or defend myself against the school of thought that I shouldn't enjoy sex or seek it, yet be sexually available to men was maddening. And saddening, especially when I considered it was one of George's truths.
As the hours passed, my level of pissed-off-ness grew but I didn't lose my cool. I decided I would still go over to his place. I had to say something to him about this. It would eat away at me if I didn't. I didn't shower, I didn't change my clothes, I didn't do any pre-sex prep at all.
It would be impossible to have sex with a guy knowing he had those views about women and sex. There was also the race issue that I commiserated about with a friend via gchat.
Talking to George about that text was first and foremost on my mind. I think he sensed something was up from the time he opened the door but he didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. We went straight to the bedroom.
I didn't get comfortable at all. I remained standing.
He patted the mattress next to him. I barely climbed onto the bed, perching my body on the edge, lying on my stomach with my arms tucked under my chest and my fists under my chin and face.
"I don't think anything is gonna happen tonight."
That caught him off guard. He was genuinely confused. I took a breath and told him how bothered I was by the text he'd sent.
I read his text as an assumption that I'm fucking a lot of men and that he had a problem with it, and on top of all that, emphasizing in a separate text that he's a clean freak as if I'm not clean and trying to soften the blow with a fucking smiley. I reminded him that we discussed all that the first time we hooked up so him bringing it up again didn't make any sense to me. He didn't have condoms and asked me for them because I have them and use them. I was very disappointed that the slut-shaming was coming from him and I wasn't gonna have it.
I lost count of how many times he said no while shaking his head. That's not how he meant that text. He felt terrible that I took his comment that way and that I was hurt. He wasn't coming from a place of judgment at all. The double standard of men having multiple partners and it being OK vs women isn't something he buys into.
I must admit I was surprised that he brought up the double standard, and almost impressed. Almost.
"If anything, I respect that you have condoms. That shows you take care of yourself." Damn right I do, motherfucker (I was still a little angry).
Next, George cursed modern communication -- things get lost in translation via texts. Indeed they do. What he meant was he hoped I wasn't using all my XL condoms because then I wouldn't have any left to use with him. Yeah, I would've never gotten that interpretation from the text. That's why I had that conversation with him face-to-face. Ain't nobody got time for textplanations or text arguments. I had to clear up that miscommunication.
I was feeling a little better but still not totally warmed up to him. My body language certainly hadn't changed. George read that and did a great job of steering the evening. He gave me my space. He brought up topics of conversation totally unrelated to "us" and "sex". We stayed in bed talking about our days, work, writer's block, childhood -- we sat on his bedroom floor looking at old photos of him as a toddler and teenager.
I was fine until he touched my back. Earlier in the night, he'd touched my hair and nothing. But when he placed his hand on the small of my back for a split second while he spoke -- shit -- head to toe and back again the charge ran through my body.
"I'd still like to give you a massage."
I'm not a big talker during sex. I'll say things but they ain't full sentences. I'm more of a noisemaker. George is the one who'll "say" things. I don't mind. It's not distracting; he's not trying to have a full conversation with me, plus some of what he says is a real turn-on. That night he had a lot to say.
Line of the night: Oh my god, are you squirting on me?
In 2nd place: I love feeling the back of your throat...
The sex that night was on some other plain. There was a different frequency to it. We didn't make love, not at all, but the way he took charge that night that was different, his pacing, the way my body responded, when we were "done" we weren't done and that was new for us too (cue the oxytocin). It wasn't make-up sex but more like we were confirming that we have amazing sex and if we keep the lines of communication open we'll continue to have this amazing sex.
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