Rating: NNNNN
This is an experience I would not wish on anyone. But I’m glad it happened.
I met this guy once, a great guy. He was a musician, a guitar player who wrote his own lyrics and composed his own mournful, introspective tunes. He was sexy in every way, not just because he was a musician, but because he was also intelligent, opinionated and hilariously funny. He had one of those heroin bodies: thin and white, which I’ve always found ridiculously attractive.
By the time I met him in Montreal I had already moved to Toronto, so our courtship began with a walk to the train station in the spring, when the fruit trees downtown were in bloom and I was smelling every blossom within kissing distance.
After a stomach-whooshing goodbye kiss, we continued through e-mail. We would send each other flirtatious, eloquent missives about the state of the world, the state of our lives.
Since both of us were artists we knew about eviction, starvation, inspiration, self-aggrandizement, rejection, shitty lovers, looking at ourselves in the mirror some drunken night and wondering if we were doing the right thing. I was falling for him, big. It was time for “the visit.”
I was living in a bug-infested basement with a wobbly toilet and a permanent draft. Not exactly the place I’d choose for our first night of hot sex. But it was the best I could do, since he was still living with his parents.
I met him at the train station and we went for supper, then for drinks at my favourite bar, where I introduced him to all my friends. He was instantly loved. He was his usual funny, charming self. And then came the moment: we were going home.
The whole cab ride I prayed that the bugs would stay sleeping as long as he was there. We rolled in drunk, tugging at each other’s clothes, kissing. I straddled him on the bed, he was moaning my name, it was going to be a great night, and then I got his pants off and yep. There it was: a pencil-thin, bluish, unspeakable cock, with a few black hairs sticking out of it.
I must have looked shocked, because he said, “What?” Instead of answering, I went down on him I didn’t want him to see my face. I was feeling nauseous as I sucked, and when he came I rolled out of the bed neatly and fled to the washroom, where I flushed the toilet and cried.
You’re wondering, “What’s with this shallow bitch? So he’s got an ugly cock. So what? Everything else about him is so good, how can you judge the guy when he’s so vulnerable on the one thing he can’t control?”
Well, I don’t know. I can’t explain. It was a painful lesson in my own superficiality.
After that night, our whole relationship fell apart. We spent the next day together trying to live in the fantasy we’d built with all those e-mails. At the end of the night, it was time to have sex again. My whole body revolted. I choked back his cock and spent another 15 minutes flushing the toilet and sobbing my heart out. It was awful. He left the next morning, and we never spoke again.
It was the anticipation that killed it. I had built him up in my mind to impossible proportions, to have a god-like cock, to dominate me completely, to be the epitome of my fantasy. But how much of this had anything to do with him?
I had created an image of him that was so complete that when I saw the real him, I rejected him because he interfered with my invention. I couldn’t accept the real person because I had already fallen in love with my own creation.
Is there a moral? Who knows? I will tell you what I learned, however: good sex is about enjoying people as they are. Otherwise, you may as well just masturbate.
