Rating: NNNNN
He was so perfect. Finally, I’d found a boyfriend who was magazine handsome, had visible biceps and an impressive brain, dressed like a gay guy but was straight, had a fast car, a great career and put the toilet seat down. I was sure on my first grope under his designer jeans that his jewels would have to be defective to balance out the rest of the package, but, nope, sized and straight. I couldn’t believe it.
I shouldn’t have. Turns out Mr. Perfect had the sex drive of a sloth.
The first time I slept over and we just kissed in our underwear before he turned over to sleep, I passed it off as darling. But after two weeks of slumber parties, I was confused.
I didn’t want to scare him off, but I had to ask. He told me he just wanted to take it really, really slow, that he didn’t want to wake up two years later and realize it was only about sex.
And, yes, I stupidly believed it. Hell, I was flattered. I reasoned with myself that this was my karma. After years of being a relative sex addict who thought sex on the first date was only a bad idea if you actually planned on having a second date, I was being asked to wait. And wait I would. I mean, perfect boyfriend even knew how to cook.
A straight guy friend told me I was crazy. Was I sure he wasn’t gay?
I was pretty sure. Perfect boyfriend admired breasts, drove really fast and dangerous listening to rap music, and watched sports on Saturdays. (So maybe he was a teeny bit imperfect anyway. But this is reality.)
My girlfriends were worried, too. I convinced them the experience was good for my ego, but strange Cosmopolitan magazine thoughts infiltrated by own feminist brain, like “Are my breasts too small? Do I look pimply in the morning? Why doesn’t he want to fuck me?” How could he resist?
I thought things were going somewhere when he took off all his clothes. Nope. It was all naked cuddling, with no effort to slip me the sausage or go further than my mouth and breasts before he fell asleep. Looked like I was going to get a nude night and not so much as fingered, yet the sausage was hard. Waste not, want not, I figured. I woke him up and gave him a blow job.
My perfect boyfriend, it seems, wasn’t into sex, but he loved blow jobs. It became a little routine where we kissed for about three minutes, he would nibble one breast, and then I was down there making pudding while he lay back with his eyes closed. It seemed like an advancement of sorts, so I thought I’d wait it out. Like a storm, it would pass the sun would come out and shine in the world of penetration and cunnilingus.
Yeah, right.
My girlfriend told me, stop with the blow jobs. You give him a blow job and he’ll stay lazy. But I couldn’t help it, I just loved the fact that I could make him come in three minutes and have him gasping like a small child, telling me I was amazing and talented. My girlfriend told me I was a co-dependent blow job giver.
Rather than find a Blow-job-givers Anonymous meeting, I initiated talk number two. The why-don’t-you-return-the-favour-now-we’ve-started-oral-sex talk. He claimed his previous girlfriend wasn’t into it, and one attempt to pleasure me then took place. One short attempt.
I didn’t come. And that was it.
And I gave him another perfect blow. Sigh.
I should have broken up with him at this point. But I admit addiction to something I’d never expected – the power of the handbag man. The rush of walking down the street with a boy on your arm who turns heads can’t be underestimated. I had a trophy boyfriend!
Why should I give him up when I could take sleeping pills and resort to constant exercise to burn off my excess energy? At least I was getting fit.
And then it happened. We were alarmingly drunk and were kissing and the clothes ripped off. He moved on top of me and slipped it in, just like that. No protection and five minutes of missionary humping with his face buried in my shoulder before he fell asleep and snored like a beast.
I lay awake. The sleeping pills didn’t stand a chance against my churning thoughts and the new glaring truth: my perfect boyfriend was indeed a lousy lay. In the dark, his success and looks meant nothing.
But, I thought, the sex had at least started. He just needed time to get comfortable.
The next morning I was informed that he wasn’t into morning sex. He also wasn’t into morning touching of any kind, which I already knew. When, a few days later, I tried to kiss him on the couch, I was told that kissing now meant we’d have sex, so we wouldn’t kiss unless we were going to have sex. And he was still aiming for the blow jobs. I was aiming for the ride.
Stalemate.
Exhausted, horny and strung out, I found myself talking to a workmate, explaining that my perfect boyfriend wasn’t into sex. She told me, “Oh, honey, he’s probably a porn addict.”
But wouldn’t that mean we’d be indulging in kink lessons?
Apparently not. She started to ask me things. Did he love to parade around naked but not touch? Yes. Did he want me around all the time but not want sex? Yes. When we did have any kind of interaction, did he look away or close his eyes? Yes.
Did he just want blow jobs?
Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
And here I’d thought a porn addict would want to bonk like a bunny.
So I did my research and it turned out porn addicts are either completely oversexed or emotionally and sexually unavailable for anything outside their fantasy realm. Sex can only happen if they’re fantasizing about porn.
So I asked him, “Are you into porn?”
There was an odd moment where he just stared at me.
“Well, actually, I was.”
You were.
“There was a whole year I couldn’t get into real sex. I got into more and more hardcore porn. But then I quit.”
“Right,” I said.
Because addictions are just so easy to quit. Because I am a sex addict and I can easily date someone not into sex.
Two and a half months, five penetrative sexual encounters and two cunnilingus attempts later, I could see I was in over my head. I finally left.
You can dress up Mr. Perfect, but you can’t undress him. You can get into his perfect car and go for a drive, but you can’t get a good ride.
I’m now dating an imperfect guy. He’s not gorgeous, he has a bit of a belly and he’s a struggling artist. He has a few porn mags lying around but doesn’t even remember where he put them half the time.
We get around by bicycle.
But let’s put it this way: I’m sleeping like a baby.
