Hello everyone one. It’s been
awhile. We’ve had a scattered correspondence, as if I have been in foreign
land, sending telegraph messages when I can, ducking from one café to the next,
dodging noxious trouble, hopping continents, searching the world for adventure
and intrigue.
Well,
I wish I could say this was true, but it isn’t. No, dear readers, I have been
embroiled in all manner of controversies, financial troubles, and a whole
truckload of bullshit in the last months. I won’t go into who did what, or what
went wrong, or what existing parties are seriously fucking with my vibe, but
they are out there. For sure. You know how folks say people aren’t really out
to get you, well, they are wrong (“…just because you’re paranoid/ don’t mean
they’re not after you…”). That’s right. It’s Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and it’s
2013. The only thing I’m dodging is phone calls from the electric company and
running into my ex-girlfriend on Havemeyer Street.
So
I must remain vigilant, and like corruptive politics, learn how to black out
certain information. To honor not bringing things up that could embarrass
myself, I thought this week’s topic should be something this bartender knows a
thing or two about:
Bad
Sex.
I
was just kidding, this blog will certainly embarrass me. And yes Mom, it will
get dirty, so you might want to skip this one (she’s an avid fan).
Now,
this argument has been fully discussed conversely in a previous blog (see here“Am I Good In Bed?”). I conducted my famous social experiments to learn what
makes one believe he or she is good in bed. Now, as some of you may know, I am
split on this matter of what good sex and what bad sex is. I mean there are the
obvious culprits (rape=bad, whiskey dick=bad, head for both parties=good,
someone who loves you=good).
But
in the end, I actually think all sexual contact is a good thing, no matter what
happens between the parties. Maybe that’s because I’m a repressed Catholic man
who fears pleasure and anytime sexuality happens it is a wondrous thing. I also
know the opposite types: size queens, sex addicts, girls who want to be slapped
in the face and spit on, weight judgers, age requirements, etc, etc. Some
people are just so goddamn picky.
The
one and most important I believe is that of chemistry. It really is true. I
once had a girlfriend who could never orgasm, I’m talking NEVER. I tried to get
her to masturbate; I went down on her repeatedly (something my high school
girlfriend taught me to do and a life lesson that has seen me through many a
lover. Eating pussy is the highest currency in any language). So there I was, a
sad and dejected man, thinking my penis might as well have been a wet noodle I
dragged behind me through the muddy dirt. Sexual self-esteem: 0.
Then,
the next girlfriend I had, changed everything. EVERYTHING I did made this woman
come. I mean, the woman was a genius of orgasms, master class for sure. We used
to joke about keeping a chalkboard over the bed just for the sheer amount of
multiple orgasms this lady could achieve. And it was with the same dick.
Nothing changed. I didn’t learn any new tricks, I didn’t start eating Ginseng,
I didn’t start working out. Same dude, same dick.
What
could it all mean? My young male mind was confused (but also happy that my lady
seemed quite pleased with me). Then it hit me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t her. It
was us. The combination somehow on a molecular and chemical level created what
made each other desire our mutual genitals, and often.
That
being said, there have been a handful of strange, sad, and embarrassing moments
that for me (and certainly the other parties) have experienced together.
So
let’s just take our clothes off people, and jump right into bed to discuss a
couple moments of what really the bartender knows about bad sex.
1.
THE
‘PAPI’ INCIDENT
My
more dedicated readers know by now that I have a hair problem. No, I’m not
going bald or anything like that. I’m referring to the addiction I have for
big, boisterous hair on women. I have a ‘mane’ problem. Some guys are breast
men, some guys are ass men, I am a hair man, through and through. Having a woman
take down her hair in front of me, shaking it and slipping her fingers through
it, causes the same reaction as seeing a woman take off her shirt for the first
time in my bed.
One
of the countries that has, per capita, fantastic hair is Brazil. Oh yes, and
one fine day in Boston through much luck, I spotted this one woman, charmed
her, and the next thing I know, she was drinking whiskey with me in my cold
water flat in the Back Bay. She was a sweet heart, I got brave, and we began to
make copious love. The whole time (and this was before I knew I liked hair this
much) I had my hands running through her thick mane of black hair. She
commented:
“Wow.
You really like hair, don’t you?”
I
guess I never considered it before. But that’s not what got weird. When we were
fucking, she kept repeating, over and over again: “Ay Papi! Ay Papi! Yes Papi!”
At first, being a white man, I was confused, but as she continued to express
herself vocally with this “Papi” business, it began to weird me out. Not only
to the reference that I was her Spanish speaking father, but also reminded me of
cultural differences that I at such young age made me uncomfortable.
I
wouldn’t say the sex was ‘bad’, just really, really weird. And weird,
sometimes, takes you right out of the moment.
2.
GHOST
SEX
I’ve
been a bartender for about eleven years now. When you work the dive bars, you
have a tendency to attract a certain amount of women who simply like you
because you are the bartender. I’m not saying because I was a bartender, it’s because of the position of the
bartender. Think about it, when guys usually approach women at bar, they can
come off creepy, weird, and desperate. But the women willingly come to you. You are not the creep, you are the
drug dealer. So being in that position, you’re personality is not clouded by
the bullshit of trying to ‘hit’ on people.
So
over the years, yes, I’ve attracted a lot of women in this fashion. But I’ll
never forget the Ghost Girl. She was gaunt, pale, eyes grey like overcast days,
and when she spoke, it was always in a hush and whisper. Sometimes I would run
into her, at the beginning and try to talk to her, smiling and being my jovial
self. But Ghost Girl was elusive, looking at me strange when I would try to
engage her.
She
seemed like she liked me, but who could really tell? Except for one fateful
night I was walking alone, drunk, late one night down Grand Street and I hear a
voice:
“Matthew?”
I
turn and it’s Ghost Girl. “Oh hey,” I said.
“What
are you doing?” She said, her eyes darting back and forth down the dark and
foggy road.
“Drinking!
Care to join?”
“Sure…”
There
we were drinking copious amounts of whiskey. Ghost Girl didn’t seem that bad
anymore, the alcohol making me lose all inhibitions. We ended up at my home. I
kissed her hard on the mouth, but her lips seemed immobile. I took her over to
the bed and put her hand on my cock. I felt myself rise and I went to enter
her.
And
then it happened. Never in my life has anything like this occurred. Her insides
felt cold. Yes. That’s right, like she was storing ice inside of her pussy. Immediately,
I stopped having sex with her.
“What’s
wrong?” she whispered in the darkness of the room, her eyes slightly glowing in
the shadowed room.
“I’m
sorry, I’m just really drunk.”
I
held her close, staring up at the world.
I
was sleeping with a ghost. Yes. I do believe.
3.
VIRGINITY’S
A BITCH
Everybody
has a sob story about this, but mine was exceptionally horrible. I’ll be brief,
so I don’t kill myself reliving this tragic moment.
In
sophomore year of high school I had a serious crush on this girl named Megan.
She was a senior, mature, sexy, with devious eyes. She looked dangerous. Some
people do, they just have that look. Ladies, you know what I mean.
Either
way, she was in choir, so I decided I would join choir along with her. There I
was, sitting in the baritone section, staring across the room at the sopranos,
watching with child-like wonder. Her boyfriend also was in choir, Dave. Well,
Dave was an asshole, that jock type from the eighties (although he was in
choir, hmmmm….). They were always fighting and I remember that if the day came
I would save her from the clutches of this terrible man.
Well,
one day, I don’t know how it happened, but somehow, Megan, a mutual friend of
hers, and me all went to the movies. The friend had to go, and it was my lucky
day. I had Megan alone. She looked at me:
“Wanna
go to my house?”
“Ah,
sure.”
Everything
was a whirlwind. She led me into her abode (it was a trailer in a trailer park
in Stanton, California. Class).
I
sat on her couch. “You seem nervous,” she said.
“I’m
fine.” I certainly wasn’t.
“Lie
down. You like backrubs?”
“Yes.”
I lied. I don’t think I ever even had a backrub in my life. But there it was,
her hands on me. Then she whispered: “Why don’t you turn over?”
I
couldn’t believe it. I turned over and I felt her lips on my neck. Before you
know it, we were making out, hard, and rolling on her floor.
“Let’s
go to my room. My Dad’s coming home soon.” This made me nervous. She led me by
the hand into her room. I was suddenly racked with fear. THIS WAS IT. Sex, sex,
sex, sex, sex. A teenage boy’s moment, now in the hands of an older woman.
But
something was wrong. Some gnawing. Lying on top of me, between kissing her face
and neck, I said the wrong thing: “Aren’t you still with Dave?”
“What?”
she said, panting.
“Dave,
your boyfriend.”
“Don’t
worry about it.”
My
pants came down, my penis now in her mouth. It got hard and she leapt up upon
it. I felt her bring her hips down on me. But something was off. Any normal man
would have just shut up. Not your bartender, ladies and gentleman.
“Yeah,
but, it’s not right.” I said.
This
made her pissed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!?” She leapt off, and began
her angry litany.
“What
kind of man are you? What the fuck is your problem? Godammit!” And the barrage
continued. I grabbed my clothes, dejected, and got the hell out of there. And
if that wasn’t the worst of it, the next day at school, Dave found out somehow
I was over his girls place. He then found me on the quad, came with three
friends, and proceeded to beat me where I stood until the officials could break
it up.
I
would definitely say that, my friends, was some bad sex.
4.
DRUGS
ARE BAD
Fast
forward. Williamsburg. 2009. The great wild year. I somehow stumbled upon a
very awesome, inexpensive pharmaceutical drug dealer. This, for someone like me, is very bad. I
have, once in awhile, proclivities towards such ‘downer’ substances. Either
way, I was living on cloud nine at this point. I had just got a job at a great
dive bar, I was shooting short films, and more importantly, I was dating lots
of women. The only problem is is that when you mix the pill thing with alcohol,
you start blacking out.
One
night I when on a date with a girl and didn’t even remember it. I apparently
got on stage of Mercury Lounge, smoked weed while my friends band was playing
in front of everyone, went downstairs, shared a bottle of Jameson with the
other band and proceeded to take the other woman home and have sex with her.
She told me what happened when she called a week later to say she had fun and I
didn’t remember who she was. Yep. That’s bad sex. Another night, some poor
woman and I began making out at the bar and by the time I got her home the
pills were really doing their thing.
I
took her to the bed, pulled her pants down, went down on her, then I stood up
on the mattress to undress myself, and subsequently fell backward, pants around
my ankles, and past out on the floor, only to wake in the morning to this
dissatisfied woman smoking a cigarette, grinning at my ineptitude.
To
be continued. How about you guys? What’s your worst sexual moments? Comment
below. Until next time.
IT'S NOT YOU MAMI, IT'S ME!
MAKING LOVE TO THE GHOSTS. IT HAPPENED FOR REAL!
OH, DAVE, I'D LOVE TO FIGHT YOU NOW! I'VE LEARNED A THING OR TWO!
