It was our first date and we talked for 10 hours straight before Jeff kissed me, shaking as he leaned in. He didn’t have to lean far — I had given him nowhere else to go when I pinned him against a chain-link fence outside the coffee shop where we had stopped to refuel. Despite my disregard for ladylike restraint, he called me the next day. And the day after that. Two months later, we were still talking and kissing, but that was it. In the time span I normally dated, slept with, and broke up with at least one guy, Jeff was still getting flustered when he accidentally grazed my cleavage.
The first time he shut down when things were getting hot and heavy, I thought he was being a gentleman. The second time, I chalked it up to performance anxiety. The third time, after spending an hour coaxing him out of his T-shirt, I started feeling less like getting it on and more like kicking him out.
“I’ve kind of never done this before,” he confessed, picking up on my frustration. I racked my brain, trying to figure out what “this” could be. “Any of this,” he interrupted my thoughts, gesturing at my bra-clad breasts and then to his T-shirt on the floor. I began questioning him for specifics, listing off sexual activities. I was his first for everything, save his first kiss, which he had done exactly once before.
At first, I felt guilty. Here I was, groping him by a dumpster on our first date and serving my tatas up on a silver platter. But as the sexless weeks dragged on, I became increasingly exasperated, forced to spend nights with my vibrator after dates limited to handholding and a kiss at the front door — with tongue if I was lucky.
His virginity in and of itself wasn’t the issue. But his game of hide the salami had me longing for simpler times, when my dates didn’t hesitate to make the first move, or any move for that matter. Jeff and I had only been dating a couple of months, and already we were in a sex slump.
He assured me that a lack of eagerness wasn’t the problem; it was an issue of losing his nerve once the gloves—and pants—were off. Unfortunately, his nerve had started hacking away at my libido. I finally lost my lady-boner for good on a movie-and-dinner date, on which I resolved to not so much as reach for his hand. His balls were in his court.
And that’s exactly where they stayed. The movie credits rolled with nary a hand on my knee, and the romantic candlelight at dinner did little more than cast a flattering glow on my scowl. By the time he pulled up to my driveway, my facial expression had clearly made him uncomfortable. He fidgeted with the air freshener, and mumbled a goodnight. I was relieved he didn’t go in for a high-five.
When I asked him what the deal was, his explanation was about as satisfying as our sex life. “Well, you didn’t really make a move, so I wasn’t sure…” he trailed off.
I ended things a few days later. Sure, I appreciate a guy who’s funny, sweet, and good-looking, but what good is all that when he’s not willing to bend you over the kitchen counter once in a while?