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I’m Done Sleeping With Men Who Only Want To Fuck

I’m Done Sleeping With Men Who Only Want To Fuck

August 06, 2015

James Wildexo
James Wildexo

I’m done with gross pig sex. Living in New York is comparable to living in a sexually charged urban swamp. The smells and damp air go from repugnant to sexually charged faster than the doors close when you’re trying to catch the subway.

Upon arriving in New York City you feel the pulse of the city. For me, that pulse really resonated in the apex of my thighs. I wanted to fuck and be fucked. So I did. From the Polish guy to the Jewish guy and the other Jewish guy and the Jewish guy who made me sit on his face, the DA who forgot to mention his fiancée, nipple clamps guy, and the weatherman. I fucked my way through the depressing job search, being homesick, and I fucked my way through boredom. I was a real New York Fucker.

My sexual history, like most women’s, is complicated. Unfortunately, I am a statistic, I am the one of four who has been sexually assaulted. In high school a guy had sex with me while I was asleep. I don’t say the “R” word and if it’s to be characterized as anything it’d be “Sexual Battery” according to my home state’s interpretation of the law.

After that I didn’t have sex for 3 years. I attempted to disappear from the eyes of men. I ate. I gained weight in hopes of no one wanting to ever sleep with me again. Men love skinny women, so I wanted to be repulsive.

Unfortunately for me, it wasn’t that easy. The one good thing to come out of my experience has been the realization that not all men, #notallmen, are model-hunting philanderers. It didn’t matter how I looked like or how much I weighed, I never had a drought of dudes to hang out with. When I was ready for more than friendship it was with a guy I’d met in my dorm. We’d been flirting with the idea of a physical relationship for months. In his eyes I was a tease, but I didn’t want to ruin what we had. What if I freaked out during sex? What if I cried? What if I couldn’t look at him afterwards?

I decided to tell him why I was hesitant about incorporating a physical relationship. That ended our flirtation. He couldn’t handle my baggage. To this day I hold no ill will toward him; on my bad days I say he wasn’t “man enough” or “strong enough” to deal with me. Those may both be true, however, I can’t hold a grudge against someone for knowing their limits. My experience was something that made him uncomfortable, to ask him for more than he could give would be cruel and irresponsible.

When I finally had sex for the first and last time in college, it was with a real winner. I had told him it’d been three years since I last had sex, so go slow (because he was black and I assumed he’d have a 12-inch river monster cock because I’m a white girl from rural Ohio). Luckily for me, his coke habit had left his river monster a little softer than expected. Unluckily for me, when I breathily whispered, “Rub my clit” into his ear he said, “Woah, you’re the one who hasn’t had sex in three years, I know what I’m doing.” So, naturally, when we switched positions I Lucy Liu roundhouse kicked him in his stupid fucking head.

Fast-forward to being a New York Fucker. I felt as if I’d regained my confidence in my own body. I trusted my judgment again, I was able to feel safe when I decided to sleep with someone. My number of partners doubled within the first year. I was having rough, hot sex pretty steadily with a guy I was really physically attracted to. Hair pulling, spanking, choking—I loved it. This did concern me. Was I being a “good victim”? I like rough sex; am I allowed to like it after a sexual trauma?

You’re entitled to whatever you want as long as it’s between two consenting adults. However, when a man I really liked and could really see myself falling for said, “You…you like it rough” after we had sex for the second time, I felt gross. I was disgusted with myself, not because I was ashamed of enjoying rough sex. I was disgusted with myself because I removed myself from this beautiful, passionate moment because I couldn’t handle the intimacy. Instead of facing him with his hands in my hair and on my face as we kissed, I flipped over and gave him the metaphorical cold shoulder but the literal doggy style dismissal. I chose pig sex over real passionate, Ryan Gosling fantasy sex.

This is my declaration: I will no longer have pig sex.

No more fucking that guy I hate as a person but has a perfect uncircumcised dick.

No more treating someone as a means to an orgasm.

If I internally roll my eyes at them more than five times on a date, no sex.

I am ready for intimacy.

I am ready for more than a matted-hair-mascara-troll-face-ride home on the subway.

In the immortal words of Foreigner, “I want to know what love is.”

For now. TC mark


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