The Bum-Clap

A week or so after the Heavy Petting with the Young Jaguar, I went round to see him again.

I think we both knew what was going to happen. The idea of going out for dinner at a Thai restaurant had long since fallen by the wayside – I was just going to ‘hang out’ with him at his flat.

On my way home from work, I texted one of my friends about it; because the Young Jaguar works for an online shopping company, we were doing a lot of sex puns about online shopping (‘I’d let him Add to my Basket’).

He had told me on several occasions that he was a leg-man, and that he liked my legs. I had a shower, and was trying to decide what to wear; I wanted to wear a short skirt that I had recently bought, and not yet worn. However, the only tights that would go with it were in the wash. I did have a pair of stockings that were the right colour though.

Fuck it, I’m going to wear these bad boys. 

I kind of knew we didn’t have enough common for it to go anywhere, so I decided I didn’t mind starting out with unsustainably high standards of sexiness (normally I’d reserve stockings for either 100 shags into the relationship, when the magic needs to be restored, or when I’ve got thrush and my vagina needs airing).

I had a dilemma about whether to take lubricant to his flat. For the first few years I was sexually active, I broke an improbable amount of condoms. I think I single-handedly kept my local chemist in business in the 2000s, through my frequent use of the morning-after pill. I’m not sure if there is something unusual about the layout of my vagina, but something about it does not lend itself to unlubricated condoms. However, from the day I discovered lubrication, and used it every time, sex has stopped hurting, everything has worked a lot better, and not one condom has broken.

So I didn’t want to have sex with a condom without lubrication, but I also wasn’t sure if turning up at someone’s flat with lubrication is the correct etiquette these days. Having a condom in your wallet is one thing, but you don’t want to turn up with too many products from the embarrassing section of Boots in your handbag.

Fuck it. If he’s unenlightened enough to blanch at me being well-prepared for healthy and enjoyable sex, I don’t want to do it with him anyway.

I got my first Uber to his flat. I was unnecessarily conscious of being rated by the driver, plus I was a bit overexcited about the evening ahead, so I was very chatty in the taxi (at the end, he told me he was giving me 5 stars!) .

I arrived at his flat, pressed the doorbell and he came and answered the front door.

We sat and watched TV together. Soon, we were kissing, and the kissing got out of hand quite quickly. This time, when we shifted position to be lying down and his hands started roaming, instead of thinking ‘I need to tell him off in a minute’ I thought ‘OK, this is it’.

He started undressing me. My skirt got removed and he noticed the stockings. ‘What are these?!’ he said, with delight. I felt pleased.

I became suddenly conscious of the bad Brazilian wax I had a few weeks earlier, and how it still hadn’t grown back evenly. It still looked a bit like a moustachioed mouth on its side.

He then started to remove my knickers. My legs snapped shut like a clam. ‘Can I just tell you something?’ I asked, half-sitting up.

He paused, looking curious, worried and impatient.

‘I had a very bad bikini line wax recently, so things are not even down there?’

I have never seen anyone look so relieved in my life. I think he thought I was going to say I was transgender or had two vaginas.

This seemed like a good opportunity to get the lubrication out as well. I explained the dilemma I’d had earlier. He said something about the film ‘Superbad’ and how one of the characters had the same dilemma, and all of his friends made fun of him. I didn’t find this totally reassuring.

We went back to kissing. He took my hand and put it on his crotch. Why do men do this? I mean, I know why, but still.

Thanks pal, but I’m sure when I’m good and ready, I’ll be able to locate your penis myself without your help.

There’s something very annoying and chivvying about it. It’s like the sexual equivalent of your mum shouting up the stairs for you to hurry up and put your school uniform on and come down for breakfast. It always makes me want to whip my hand away and add T+5 minutes to whenever I was intending to first touch his penis.

Anyway. He was quite generous and keen to do things to me. I did things to him. It was nice, but I think we each had different preferences for how gently or roughly things should be done, so I thought everything he did was a bit rough, and I think he thought everything I did was too gentle.

Then we did the penetrative bit, which was fine. He seemed uncomfortable, so at first I stopped and asked if he was OK or needed one of us to move, but he said he didn’t. I think maybe his discomfort was more mental than physical, I’m not sure what that was about. Nevertheless, he was able to complete the transaction quite easily, and I thought it was cute that as soon as he’d finished, he shot down to do more things to me, as he knew I hadn’t completed my end of the transaction yet.

Afterwards, we were lying on his sofa together (because his living room is also his bedroom, and his sofa is also his bed). He was giving me some positive feedback about my oral skills. “Thanks!” I said cheerily. I was being dense, but it didn’t occur to me to say anything nice back, until he said “what about me, was I any good?” which I found absolutely adorable.

“Yes, of course you were!” I replied.

It had got late. We had established that I was staying over. He turned the sofa into a bed and we got in. Good Will Hunting was on, which I had never seen before. He fell asleep, and after a while, I turned it off and went to sleep myself.

In the middle of the night, I woke up with a start. The thing that had woken me up, was myself farting.

I sat bolt upright, and looked over at him. Although the lights were off, enough street light was coming into the flat for me to see that he still seemed to be sound asleep.

Phew.

Once, an ex-boyfriend and I categorised all the different possible farts.

This fart had been a ‘bum-clap’. It was a single, muffled, quiet snap. The thing that’s great about this kind of fart, compared to a raspberry, a whoopee cushion or a creaking door, is that it’s not necessarily recognisable as a fart. It could be some other, household noise. However, if Young Jaguar had been awake, he might’ve felt the vibrations ricocheting across to his side of the mattress.

I had set my alarm to go off quite early, because I was meeting a friend in central London at 11am the next morning.

When the alarm went off, I quickly got dressed and Jaguar and I chatted for a few minutes.

‘How did you sleep?’ I asked.

‘Terrible,’ he replied.

‘Really? Every time I looked at you, you seemed to be asleep?’

‘Yeah, but I never slept for more than about 20 minutes at a time’.

Fuck. Maybe he did feel the bum-clap vibrations after all.

 

 

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4 thoughts on “The Bum-Clap

  1. Pingback: His bandwidth is too narrow | Dater Analysis

  2. I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I kind of did 🙂 There’s an odd hoodoo about farting around somebody when you first know them, isn’t there – and then at some point it all the rules get thrown away.

    Like

  3. Pingback: CAPS LOCK GUY | Dater Analysis

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