Better The Devil You Know
I’m not religious. I envy the comfort people seem to find in their faith, and I’m touched when someone politely expresses the wish to save my soul, but I don’t believe any of the stories. Other people’s peaceful interpretations of religious scriptures reassure me; why wouldn’t one want to be surrounded by beings who exude love, kindness and understanding? Nevertheless, I find the crossover of religion and sex a rather uncomfortable point. The idea that sex (as I see it, an amazing, fun, social activity) could possibly be an evil force of corruption between two consenting adults is alien to me. I don’t believe in shame after consensual sex.
I was on the rebound. I’d just hit the flirty & free streak of the post break-up emotional buffet, and I was taking an acting class in the big city. It is so true that the acting and waitering professions are full of attractive people. I fancied almost everyone in my class, and bode my time, in a non-predatory way, trying to gage which one of them was most interested in me. How else do you choose between a bevy of attractive people when you’re on the rebound and not really interested in personality?
Garth ran the class. He was an absolute dream: tall and muscular (hello, forearms), with dark skin and beautiful almond shaped eyes. He spoke very softly – not in that creepy Michael Jackson way, but in a manner that seemed to radiate inner peace and enlightenment and deep understanding of the universe and so on. Obviously, he thought I was hilarious, and as I am an enchanting, sexy beast, he presumably found me irresistible as well. Actually, I know he found me irresistible, but more on that later. We were discussing profound, intellectual things at the end of one class, and I mentioned that I was preparing a monologue from Wedekind’s Lulu. He suggested we go over it together. For those of you who don’t know, Lulu is a play about a lady who romps all over Europe, screwing men and bringing about their deaths. It’s very dark, very depressing, and very erotic. I laughed, assented, said something very cool and made my exit, leaving my number on a scrap of paper in his hand. I should imagine that he stared wistfully at my rump as I sashayed away.
I received a text, one afternoon shortly after, cordially requesting my presence at a nearby pub that evening at nine. I was taking an afternoon bath at the time; afternoon baths are the best, because baths are never really necessary anyway (if one has a shower), and indulging when everyone else is at work during the post-lunch slump feels SO incredibly smug. I didn’t hurry out, I had plenty of time.
At half past eight, while I was finishing my dinner (bruschetta and soup), I received a text cordially requesting that we postpone our engagement to eleven, as ‘something’ had ‘come up’. I’m a hip, happening lady, familiar with the late nights of the big city social scene. I don’t need to go to bed at half ten. I finished my dinner and curled up with a book.
At eleven, I met Garth at his gastropub of choice. After one drink, the last orders bell rang. Who really thinks meeting in a pub at eleven is a normal activity? REALLY. Handsome Garth suggested, with an understanding look in his eye, that we return to his, and open a bottle of wine. I pretended, as any lady of class does, that I didn’t know he was spinning a line (MY line, actually), and we went back to his, engaging in a pseudo-intellectual debate about plays or something along the way. I wasn’t really listening, more just staring at his gorgeous visage. As I said, I was in it for one thing, and one thing only.
Fast forward through some drivel about have I read The Women and wouldn’t I make a wonderful Crystal, and oh isn’t that a funny coincidence, and we were dry humping on his sofa.
“How old are you?” he murmured, passionately.
“…You know how old I am,” I replied, giving him side eye through my womanly embrace.
“How old are you. You’re eighteen.”
I am not eighteen, but I played along, as he persisted, and I really fancied a rebound shag with a beautiful man, even if he was actually a bit boring and kept telling me he was old enough to be my father.
He lifted me up and carried me to the bedroom, throwing me down before crawling towards me on his hands and knees. I pulled off my shirt and he unlaced my bra, hurling it away with a surprisingly forceful action. He was breathing loudly, and I joined in, so he didn’t feel like he was the only one making an effort. I’d barely even blinked and he’d whipped off all his clothes, which I have to say is preferable to a man who takes forever to undress. Another half-blink between kisses and he’d pulled off my jeans, and my knickers.
We fuck. He’s on top. His sinewy body pumps to and fro; I push back against him, as I quite fancy riding, but he resists, weighing down on me. I’m not entirely sure if he’s going to come any second now, but I figure everyone has an off day, and although I’m enjoying him, I’m not exactly having a BLAST. I’m hardly going to shatter into a thousand pieces (yes, I am finally reading it, I got it for a penny on Amazon).
And then it happens. I feel him tense up between my legs. He moans, and as I feel the ejaculatory twitch of his penis, he pushes himself up with one arm, and, staring at the wall above my head, cries out, “You are the devil! You are corrupting me!” as he crosses himself with his other hand.
I raise my eyebrows involuntarily, but say nothing.
I am not going to come.
I receive a brisk smile, as he clumsily finds his way off the bed, and retreats into his ensuite bathroom. At this point, I’m not exactly sure what the correct thing for me to do is, but I figure I’m not really in the mood to stay long, so I clean myself up and put on my underwear and shirt.
He was moaning from within the bathroom, softly at first, then louder and more pained. I knocked on the door and asked if everything was alright, but his only response was that same moan. I pushed the door open and, with a sick shudder to my stomach, saw him crouched on the floor in the foetal position. My knees locked into place and I froze.
“What’s happened? What’s wrong?” I asked, totally unable to respond to the scene in any kind of helpful way.
Then he shouted at me and told me that The Condom Hurt Him, whining in a way a toddler might to their mother. Let me remind you that Garth was in his late thirties, and, presumably, had tried on a few condoms by this stage in his life. I made an excellent ‘unimpressed’ face, which no one saw, got dressed and left. A week later, I received another text:
Hey Crystal, would really love to meet up again. There’s no reason to be embarrassed by what happened x
And that, my dears, is how you commit every sexual faux pas within two hours. Hats off to you, Garth. And, needless to say, I stopped taking that acting class.
Originally published at The Erotic Memoirs of Crystal Chandeliere