And my inability to experience even one orgasm with a human being and not a rechargeable device is just that—a damn curse.
It’s clear that a hookup with no expectations of a committed relationship is my best shot. It’s the only thing I haven’t tried.
So, what if we see each other naked or get intimately acquainted with each other’s bodies? Sexual empowerment shouldn’t have limits as long as it’s between consenting adults. Friends can kiss. Friends can . . . mess around, too.
I’m not sure if my string of thoughts is an attempt to convince myself that this is a brilliant idea or to reaffirm what I already know: this is beyond complicated. Then again, most things in my life already are. I’m still standing. Sex with Tripp is not going to be the thing that finally brings me down.
More importantly, I secretly hoped for this. It’s downright immature the way I’ve tried to make him jealous with the entire idea of trying casual sex in the first place. I wanted it to be with him.
My head may still be in a state of shock right now, but my body is rejoicing. Without thinking, I removed my shirt and gravitated toward him on autopilot, buzzing with the anticipation of him finally touching me like I may or may not have fantasized about before. More than once or twice.
Now, with my movement halted, I wait for him to tell me when.
Not yet, he said.
Then when?! my body screams.
“First,” he says, lifting one of his hands to my jaw. It’s instinctual the way my face automatically presses into his touch so that the softness of my cheek can feel more of his rough palm. “You swear to me that you’ll never fake an orgasm.”
But it’s easy and I’m so good at it!my subconscious whines.
The promise of not pretending to get off just so the guy I’m with feels good about himself is terrifying, but more than fair. I deserve the real thing.
“I won’t. I swear.”
He nods. “Second—I may not care most of the time about boundaries or rules. But it won’t work if you get with someone else while this is going on. I’ll scoop their eyes out with a melon baller.”
That’s a little scary and slightly confusing considering his usual tactics. But it’s also delicious and excites me more than it should.
“I won’t do that. I won’t be with anyone else.”
“Good. And third—you’re my friend, but I’m going to talk to you like you’re not. That way you can practice hearing it and not letting it affect you so much afterward.”
I feel that one settle low in my stomach. Not because I’m against it, and I think I know what he means, but my compartmentalizing skills are subpar at best. It’s what got me into this situation in the first place.
I’m still paper thin when it comes to male attention, and it goes deeper than daddy issues.
When boys started to notice me out of high school, I always considered it my fault when they’d get bored and move on to someone else. I unknowingly conditioned myself to believe I needed to please men in order for them to stick around.
Don’t ask for too much. Never bring up the fact that you’re not enjoying sex as much as they are because their fragile egos can’t handle it. Faking pleasure was the easiest habit to form as a result of that mindset. But over time, I started associating my success in that department with my self-worth.
Instead of shooting for a balanced connection that benefited both of us, I kissed their feet at the expense of honesty. I figured out that men eat that up, at least for a while, and I lapped upevery fragment of their praise like I’d somehow earned it. My emotions hinged on their reactions. Every word and every act, no matter how true or deceiving, went straight to my heart.
Enter orgasm block.
As a grown woman now, I should work on detaching from that. Chase my own pleasure and don’t allow the wedding bells to ring in my head if they tell me I’m pretty. This will be good practice.
“Maybe it’d be easier if you just didn’t say anything,” I suggest. “No chance of me taking it to heart that way.”
Tripp shakes his head. “You’ll be fine. It’s not always what you see or feel that turns you on the most,” he explains. “It’s what you hear. Just don’t think ahead. I’ll talk you through it.”
I sigh while tilting my head like I’m a lovesick character in a sitcom, swooning over how smart her crush sounds when he talks about the things he knows best. Everything Tripp is saying makes sense. He’s right for the job.
His thumb runs the length of my jaw. It’s slow and searching. When it reaches my chin, it lifts to my lips. I want to part them and taste his skin. I wonder if he’d like that.
And that’s where my thoughts come to a screeching halt. Not just because of my lack of bravery and focus when he touches me like this. It’s the fact that I was about to do something based on whether he’d want me to or not.
My eyes close as I think back to letting him make me feel good instead of the other way around. Part of me longs for it—him leading me.
