Generación / generation

By: Nessa Gee

The third date is usually when I allow myself to have sex with a guy for the first time. Sometimes, the fourth date. Or the fifth. I’ve learned by now that sex on the first date is never a good idea—it’s awkward and clumsy and the stakes feel oddly low, but not in a good way. On the second date, the stakes are still low and the anticipation hasn’t built up enough — the sex will inevitably still be bad, and there’s no built-up rapport to make you want to try again. The chances of seeing each other again drop to basically zero. The third is the bare minimum, but I often find that the longer I wait, the more exciting the reveal.

I think about this as I sit in a booth next to this guy I met on Bumble several weeks ago, who is currently talking about his favorite places to go out in London. We’re at a pub, tucked against the wall and each holding on to a drink as we look out at the people congregating by the bar. It’s our fourth date, and we still haven’t slept together. The expectations are there.  

Looking at him now, his hands moving as he talks animatedly about a medieval pub on Fleet Street, my eyes linger on his arms. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and I can see his muscles pushing against the fabric in a very pleasing way. 

I consider my options. I’ve now spent a few hours of my life hanging out with this guy. Sex is important in dating, and the first time sets the tone for the rest of the relationship. I could test him out and see once and for all if he’s been worth all this time and effort. Or I could give this more time to build up, wait another date, see how it keeps progressing. The third option is to not sleep with him and stop seeing him, but I discard this last one. He’s alright, I think. He is better looking than the average British man, his eyes dance when he tells a story, and he leans in earnestly when I talk to him. Yes, I think — I could give him a chance.

He looks at me expectantly and tilts his head, and I realize that he’s waiting for me to acknowledge his comment about the Tower Bridge, which I think was meant to be funny. It’s an unoriginal joke, one I’ve heard several times before, about the Tower, and the bridge, and the London Bridge, which I’m reluctant to laugh at. I wrinkle my nose and let out a weak chuckle, and he laughs loudly with me, draping his arm around my shoulders and squeezing me quickly. 

Suddenly he gets serious and looks at me intensely, and I flutter my eyes closed right as he puts his lips to mine. Our first kiss of the night, although we’ve kissed on other dates. Our mouths move together and the noises around us take on a hollow sound, somehow magnified but also as if I’m hearing them through water. I’m aware that we’re in public and I don’t really care, but when his other hand starts moving up my shirt, I pull away and let out a high-pitched giggle.

I face forward again and cradle my drink, and the spell is broken. He leans back, but his arm stays around me, the weight and heat of it seeping into my bones and making my heart race. We share a furtive smile.

Okay, fine, I think. I’ll sleep with him. 

Over the next half hour, we move on to other subjects of conversations and finish our drinks. He offers to get another round, and when I decline, we leave the bar and start walking.  

On the street, we’re quiet. I’m not sure where we’re going, and I wonder if he has a plan. We’re in his neighborhood; we deliberately made plans here, just in case. Is he leading me to his apartment? I’m aware that I should speak up, but if I say something about going back to his place, I feel like I’m committing to something I’m still not sure about. Besides, I’d rather he take the lead.

We walk a block and a while before he does just that. “I have some wine at my place, if you want to keep drinking. It’s right at the end of this block. Or we could go to another bar a little further down this way.” He gestures half-heartedly in the other direction, and I give him a smile.

“I like wine,” I say, and he looks relieved as we start heading in the direction he initially indicated. 

I follow his lead and he tells me that he has two roommates, but one of them is travelling for a few weeks. “The other is around,” he says, “but he’ll probably be in his room, so don’t worry.”

We reach his apartment building, a three-floor walk-up with ivy enveloping the walls, and pass through an overgrown front garden and up the stairs to his apartment. The entryway is a room with a bunch of closed doors leading out of it. I pause there and wait for his next move. He opens one of the doors and I follow him into the kitchen, where he opens a cabinet and takes out two stemless glasses of wine. 

“You still want wine, right?” he asks, and I want to roll my eyes. A valiant attempt at skipping straight to the salacious, but I’ll make him wait a little.

“Yeah, of course,” I respond, breezily — I think. 

He pours out two glasses and then leads me back to the foyer, opening another door that leads into a living room. I move over to the window and take in the view. He comes and stands right next to me, and I feel the warmth of his body, even though no part of him is touching me at the moment. As I look out onto the street, I feel his eyes on my face, and my stomach drops in a delightfully pleasant way. 

“Your street is so quiet,” I comment, for lack of anything better to say. He hums in agreement and takes a tiny step closer, and now we are touching, our bodies barely grazing each other. I look up at him and turn around to face him, and his eyes are boring into mine.  

Suddenly he’s kissing me. His hand grabs at my waist, pulling me closer to him. We’re still in front of the window and I want to wrap my arms around his neck, but I become extremely aware of the glass of red wine I’m still holding.  

His hands wander up and down my body, squeezing my hips, grazing my waist, bunching the fabric of my shirt and inching up, up, up. I put my hand, the one that’s free, on the nape of his neck, drawing him down and pushing our mouths closer together. My other arm I hold out awkwardly to the side, trying to concentrate on not spilling anything while also trying to stay in the moment with this guy. I press my hips to his, moving them around just a little bit, and he groans. The sound reverberates down to my fingertips, and again I’m reminded of the wine glass.

I pull away for a moment, breathing heavily. “Do you want to go to your bedroom?” I’m done being coy. There’s no pretending this isn’t going to happen, and soon. In fact, now. 

He nods and walks backward, pulling me along with him. It’s almost cute, but I stumble on his feet and nearly fall over. I take the opportunity to leave the glass of wine on the coffee table as I pass it, and then we’re back in the room with the doors. 

He opens a new one and we enter his bedroom. I don’t even have time to look around because as soon as he closes the door, our arms are wrapped around each other again as we slowly make our way towards the bed.

He pushes me gently onto the mattress and then climbs on top of me. His lips move to my neck, kissing and sucking along my throat, and his breath is in my ear. My body erupts in delicious goosebumps, my brain is doing backflips, my heart beats in my ears. He pulls my shirt over my head and unclasps my bra, then pulls back for a moment to admire my breasts before swooping in and licking, nipping, caressing my nipples. I’m digging my nails into his shoulders, burying my hands in his hair, running my fingers up and down, up and down his body, rubbing him through his pants and kissing every part of him I can reach.

Eventually all of our clothes are off. He gives me one last peck on the lips before he makes his way down, all the way down my body. He settles himself between my thighs and starts to kiss me.

He’s touching all the right places, he’s found the perfect rhythm. I feel something building, a crescendo. A tension down by where his head is currently buried, moving up my spine and pooling at the base of my skull. My breath becomes shallow and I squirm under him. In turn, his hands tighten and squeeze my thighs and he sighs into me, and that little caress of air sends bolts up my spine. 

He’s doing such a great job. Wow. I really think it’s going to work. I curl my fingers in his hair and moan encouragingly. Keep going, I tell him with my body. Don’t stop.

Instead of spurring him on, my actions have the opposite effect. He pauses his movements and pulls away, looking up at me and smiling.

“Did you like that?” he purrs as he moves up and positions himself face-to-face, capturing my mouth in a kiss. His lips taste like my pussy. “That was so hot.” 

My brain stutters at his use of the past tense. No, I think. NO!  He kisses my neck and starts moving against me, and I feel him position his hips closer and closer between my thighs. 

Go back down there, I want to say. Finish what you started. But instead I hum and say, “Yeah, that felt really nice,” smiling at him and patting his cheek. I cringe internally at the self-satisfied grin on his face, and allow him to move on to the part of sex where he gets off. Just like that, we move on, and any chance I have of coming goes out the window.

My body moves automatically, my hips rock along with his, my legs wrap around his hips, and I switch positions seamlessly at his suggestions. But I’m thinking of the glass of wine I’ve left in the other room, wishing I’d brought it in with me.

Afterwards, when we’re lying in bed with our limbs draped over each other, I consider the trek home. It’s the middle of the night, the streets are empty and unfamiliar, and public transportation is slow and unreliable.

I get up to go to the bathroom, scrambling around to find my underwear and clothes. I step out of the door and I’m met with the room with all the doors. I duck back into the room. “Hey, um… where is your bathroom?” He gets out of bed and points me to one of the doors. 

Once I’m in the bathroom, I let my shoulders slump. I look at myself in the mirror and wipe the mascara residue from under my eyes. I rinse my mouth. I take my phone out and see what my options are for getting home: a $30 Uber, an hour-long bus ride, or an hour-long walk in the dark. 

I sigh and leave the bathroom, freezing for a moment in panic when I find myself back in the doors room. But he’s left the door cracked, thank goodness, so I’m able to find my way back to his bedroom. Before I can make a decision, he pulls me into bed and spoons me, his arm around my chest holding me firmly to him and his body heat enveloping me. I think of the cold outside and relax into his embrace.

I wake up bright and early the next day, excited to go home. I put on my clothes and scan the room for anything I might have left behind. He watches me from the bed and when he catches my eye, smiles lazily. 

“Do you have to go so early? Don’t you want another round?”

“Sorry, no. I have brunch with a friend in two hours, and I have to stop by my house and get ready. Bye, though. I’ll text you.” I grab my purse and take one last look at him before I leave. He’s really quite handsome. What a shame.

Miraculously, I find the door that leads out of the apartment without having to go back in to ask. I decide to walk home — in daylight, the neighborhood is actually very nice. The main street is lined with local businesses, tall trees pepper the sidewalks, and people gather outside buildings to talk and look out at people. I take this time to think some more about last night.

Every self-respecting slut can attest to at least one time they’ve been left unsatisfied when having sex. This is not the first time I have walked home weighed down with disappointment in a man.

Having waited so long before going home with him, I expected the sex to have been more meaningful, sexier. And although it started that way, I didn’t like the performance without the follow-through. I think about why I didn’t say anything, I try to justify my not telling him to keep going. In a way, I was very immediately put off by his eagerness to move on to his own pleasure. I could have, should have, asked him, once he was finished, to turn back to me. But asking doesn’t feel sexy — it breaks the spell, even though, paradoxically, it would have allowed me to reach my own pleasure. 

I wonder for a beat if this is something that might be improved upon. A guy can learn to make you come, but what about wanting to make you come? I’ve invested too much time and effort for it to all go to waste with this guy, and the idea of starting the whole dating process with someone new feels like such a serious undertaking. Trying to find a partner can be demoralizing, debilitating, draining. The swiping, the texting, the planning, the small talk. The whole process is a circus. I think of going on another date with this guy, and I’m torn. He checks most of the boxes, but this last tick may be the most important.

When I get home, I take a long, hot shower and slip on my fuzzy robe. I don’t have brunch with my friend. I put a face mask on. I burn some incense. And I lie down on my bed, grab my vibrator from my bedside table, and finish the job.