Here is the deal: we went out twice in 2003. We made out & fooled around a bit but there was definitely no PENIS IN VAGINA ACTION. By telling people otherwise, I feel like you’re just BEGGING to be blogged about. So, for the record, here are the facts about what went down between you and me.
I wasn’t planning on writing you a letter. You were never my boyfriend. You were never really anything to me, except a momentary lapse in judgment. However, I changed my mind about the letter when I heard through the grapevine that we had slept together. I find this very interesting considering,
IT NEVER HAPPENED.
Why I went out with you in the first place. (because I am partly to be blamed here)
1. It was the summer of 2003. I was feeling kind of bored, lonely and horny.
2. I was always more interested in your friend than you. I really wanted to hook up with him but at the time he was being elusive. I was feeling rejected. You were around. You showed interest. I thought you might be an OK distraction for the time being. BAD BAD BAD IDEA.
3. I was a hot child in the city…literally. Toronto was in the middle of a heat-wave. At the time I lived in an early 20th century walk-up with no air-conditioning. Do you know what that’s like? It means you have Back Sweat (&Boob Sweat) 24/7. There is nothing sexy about that. When you called and asked me if I wanted to go to the movies, I said “Yes” because all I could think was MOVIE THEATRE = AIR CONDITIONING. There were beads of sweat pooling between my breasts. If Richard Simmons had called and asked me if I wanted to go watch a dog fight I probably would have said yes if I knew the invitation came with the promise of air conditioned facilities.
4. You were kind of charming. On paper you seemed like a decent guy. Intelligent, good career, tall, reasonably handsome. Also, I liked that you spoke French.
5. I’d heard that you had a really big dick. Frankly, I was curious.
(For the most part these are all terrible reasons to go out with anyone. Any sensible person would have said “no” at this point. But, I was thinking with my libido. In my experience, sensible and libido don’t usually play well together.)
What really happened:
1. The first time we hung out we went to the movies. After the show we went back to your apartment to watch a DVD. We ended up making out on your couch. NOTE, we did not have sex.
2. The second time we hung out, I went over to your house (your apartment had air-conditioning). We ended up fooling around on your bed. Clothes were shed. I saw you naked. You saw me naked. I gave you a Hand-job*. I’m pretty sure that you went down on me. However, it couldn’t have been that memorable. I don’t remember having orgasm. I do remember that you really wanted to have sex. You kept on trying to initiate it but, I kept rejecting your advances. It was a bit like this: PENIS GETS CLOSE TO VAGINA, VAGINA MOVES AWAY, PENIS GETS CLOSE, VAGINA ROLLS OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BED. I just didn’t feel comfortable actually having sex with you. Eventually we both got tired and we fell asleep in your bed.
*IT WAS A HAND-JOB. A HAND-JOB does not = SEX.
The reasons why I didn’t want your penis inside me:
1. You were a bad kisser & had weird spit. Kissing for me is the biggest turn on. I love to kiss before sex. I love to kiss during sex. I love to kiss afterward. With that said, I realize that kissing is totally subjective. Your kisses may be irresistible to some other girl. They just didn’t work for me. You had really thick, sticky spit. After you’d kiss me, I could feel your saliva stuck on my lips and face. We didn’t have the right chemistry AT ALL. And, like they say…if the kissing ain’t right, keep the legs tight (or in my case, not fully open)
2. I never liked you enough. I was always way more attracted to your friend. Your friend kept crossing my mind while we were fooling around. You’d have your hand on my ass or be kissing my neck and then, BAM his face would pop up. That was when I realized that I really wanted to be in bed with him, not you. Going out with you was a total mistake.
3. The Book. I’d also heard from your friends that you kept a notebook where you recorded the name of each woman you’d slept with and then rated them on a scale of 1-10. I didn’t ask you about this. I mean, this is so disgusting how could it possibly be true right? But, I’ll admit I was kind of perversely fascinated with the idea of the book. Did it really exist? Where did you keep it? Was it in the room with us while we were fooling around? Did you keep it in the nightstand? What was your grading criteria? Did you rate purely based on skill or did you have a dual scoring system that included marks for creative flair like they do in figure skating? Between these thoughts, the strippers and imagining your friend naked, I was having a hard time getting turned on.
(Actually, given all the evidence so far its actually impressive that you got as far as you did)
5. The Scrapbook. The morning after I slept over, we were lying in bed. You said to me “I have something to show you” as you reached over to grab something from the nightstand. My first thoughts were OMG, THE BOOK. HE’S BRINGING OUT THE BOOK. It wasn’t the book. It was worse. It was a collection of photos. You proceeded to show me pictures from your past vacations, pointing out the various girls you’d slept with. Was this really happening?! Was this meant to make me jealous?! Was I meant to say “Oh wow, look at what I’m missing out on! Fuck me now! I want to be in your girls-I’ve-banged-hall of fame-photo-album!“. FYI. Showing the girl you’re trying to have sex with photos of other girls you’ve slept with = not exactly a pantie dropper. The whole time you were showing me these photographs I had to suppress laughter. It was all just so bizarre. The next day at work, I told my friend all about your little “photography show” and we spent the next 20 minutes laughing hysterically.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew you were kind of sleazy when I agreed to go out with you. I was fine with that to a point (obviously). Like I said, it was summer, I was horny and I wanted someone to make out with. Had the chemistry been better between us (and there hadn’t been the issue of your friend) I might have actually slept with you. But, what it all came down to is this: the whole time we were together I could tell that you weren’t honestly interested in me. I knew this was all just a game for you. If I had slept with you it would have been meaningless. As much as I enjoy sex, I have no desire to be another number in someone’s book (literally).
Now, flash-forward to about 2 months after we DIDN’T HAVE SEX. I was talking to your friend (who I did eventually end up having sex with. Note, I had sex with him. Not you. Get your facts straight). That’s when I heard that I apparently “gave you a blow-job” (Read the notes, it totally didn’t happen! How many times am I going to have to say, “it was a HAND-JOB”?). I thought it was kind of sad and pathetic that you’d stretch the truth about what actually happened between us. You became known amongst my girlfriends as “The guy who lied about the blow-job”.
Now, flash forward 6 years later. Someone I know tells me that apparently, you’ve been telling people that WE HAD SEX. Unless, you have some vastly different definition of what constitutes sexual intercourse (note, me touching your wiener does not equate us “sleeping together”) WE NEVER HAD SEX. In 7 years a Hand Job got upgraded to a Blow-Job which then got upgraded to us actually Doin’ the Do. I wonder what this rumor will look like in another 7 years? I’m sure it will involve a sex tape, me banging all of your friends while you watch, a quickie wedding in Vegas & possibly a few love children. Maybe you should stop talking while you’re ahead.
What I also find completely laughable, is that apparently “I’m pretty bad in bed”. Yeah, that’s generally the case with sex that NEVER HAPPENS. And, if it was SO BAD, why are you still talking about it 7 years later?!
To claim I am the one LYING about this is ridiculous. I’ve slept with some pretty questionable people and have no problem owning up to it. Read the blog. I have no incentive to lie about it. You do. I think you’re being a sore loser.
Talk goes both ways. I’ve heard things about you. I’ve heard about the threesomes, the endless string of girls, the video tapes. All of this just confirms my initial instincts about you. But, I’m not here to chastise you for your lifestyle choices. I’m not exactly an angel myself. In a strange way I actually admire you. You’ve managed to excel at being truly, and unapologetically sleazy. And I get it. Women are beautiful. They have pretty hair and boobs and soft skin and they smell good. If I was a guy, I probably would try and have sex with as many of them as possible. But, if I did do this I would be a gentleman, keep my stats straight & be discrete. Do you think Don Draper needs to lie about how many chicks he’s nailed just so that he can get an extra high-five from his buddies? No. Of course not. So, I’ll leave you with this:
IT NEVER HAPPENED. IT WAS 7 YEARS AGO. STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.
PS. And yes, it is big. Not the biggest I’ve seen but, big enough that I’d remember having it inside me.
What would you say to an ex if you could say anything?