A few weeks have gone by since the revelation about Whippersnapper’s age.
My feelings shifted and I feel better than I have in ages, like a dark cloud has lifted. I keep feeling little bursts of joy – when I’m driving home from work, listening to a banging tune, when I’m walking to shops, and it’s a lovely sunny day or when I’m running and feeling amazing. I feel a burst of happiness for a moment and smile to myself, then go back to worrying about everyday things, like a normal person. I had forgotten I used to feel like this.
Loving the Whippersnapper made me so miserable. And it’s not just his fault, I was miserable before I met him. I’d just had to choose between being with someone abusive and being alone.
So I’m happier now. I said in a previous post that I wasn’t in love with him anymore, but that was premature.
It has decreased, but I do still have loving feelings for him. It’ll probably take a while for that to go. I still feel sad about how it turned out, and I miss the person I thought he was.
Logically, I know he’s behaved like a selfish, immature pig. It may be because he’s so young, or maybe he’s a terrible person, or both. Some of my friends hate him, in a way they never hated my exes.
But we had a lot of great times, where he was wonderful to me, and it can’t all have been an act. I can’t delete those memories. I wish I could, like Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind.
I still think about him all the time. He’s still the screensaver for my brain, but now the settings have changed so it takes a lot longer for the screensaver to come on. I can focus on what I’m doing a lot better.
It’s weird not knowing if he knows yet, that I’ve blocked him on everything – that it’s all totally over. It’s weird not knowing what he thinks. Is he angry? sad? regretful? indifferent?
I don’t think this is quite the end of the story. I think, maybe in about 5 years or something, we’ll cross paths again. Just for a second.
There’ll probably be a new social media site in 5 years, a new Facebook or Twitter or whatever. Maybe he’ll add me. Or, we’re interested in the same things – maybe we’ll see each other at a gig or something.
I hope he’ll say “I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready. I treated you badly.” And I’ll say it’s OK, then carry on with my life, and the last little paper cuts on my heart will heal.
This feels believable because it has happened before, with other exes.
Or maybe we won’t. Maybe these feelings will just keep fading until I don’t care anymore. London is a big city. It would be easy never to find each other again.
So I’m ready to move on.
And I’m mooooooooore than ready to have sex.
The last time I had sex was in May. It was with the Bearded South African Man. It was… mixed. On a technical level, a lot of aspects were good, but it left me feeling annoyed, and a bit mauled. We had sex before that, which was better. That time I felt both distracted and liberated by having really hairy legs.
The last time sex felt properly satisfying, was with WS, in January.
He was really, really good at that, and very generous. One time, afterwards, it was so good, I seemed to create a big, milky puddle on the sheets (sorry guys).
I don’t think that has happened to me before, so I googled it afterwards. I think, if I could repeat and hone the skill, I could become a porn star. I probably won’t though; at my work, you have to fill in an ‘Hours Worked Elsewhere’ form if you have second job, and I can imagine it being an HR nightmare.
I loved the way he was really zen about it, the milky puddle, even though it was more on his side of the bed than mine. He had to sleep with his thighs dabbling in the puddle. I suggested I change the sheets, but he really didn’t seem to care.
When I was googling it, it kept taking me to forums with girls asking about the milky puddle, and saying “my boyfriend thinks it’s disgusting.” I wanted to create an account on these forums, just so I could write “PLEASE BREAK UP WITH HIM.”
I loved the Penetrative Bit with him, because of how we felt. The last time, I remember staring up at him, feeling so close to him and loved up. He said my name right before he came.
But on a technical level, although he’d slept with a lot of women, I guess most of his shags were first shags. In a first shag, it’s a bit like test-driving a car. You just want to confirm everything works and get the job done, rather than showing off your best driving. It’s a bit frenzied and stressful, and afterwards you’re just relieved everything has done its job correctly (maybe this is just Brits).
It’s from the second shag onwards that you’re more interested in refining what they like, and thinking things like “oh, what was that fancy thing I made up with my pelvic floor?”
I wish I’d had more time to teach him what I like.
There was a huge build up before our first shag, because of his sexual health. We spent a lot of time very graphically texting each other what we’d like to do.
He would always say “and then I’d fuck you really hard…” until I piped up “I’d also like you to do it the way you kiss me – really slowly and gently and controlled.”
After that, you could see he would suddenly remember about this, halfway through a sex text: “and then I’d push my cock inside you, and fuck you really really GENTLY.”
But by the time we actually fucked, this guidance had been forgotten.
One time, he texted me saying “If I was there I would drill you so hard.”
I found this a bit alarming, as it had quite a dental vibe. I looked it up on Urban Dictionary, and realised what he meant, and thought Hmm. We’ll see.
I think the tool I’m after is probably not so much a drill, more a ratchet screwdriver with different settings, that can be used for intricate precision work as well as reliable screwing.
He seemed to think doing it well was synonymous with doing it really fast and hard. I imagine a lot of inexperienced youngsters think this, if they haven’t had much varied, relationship sex.
I think it actually takes a lot of physical fitness, to keep jackhammering for more than a couple of minutes, so during the sex, he seemed a bit stressed out. He’d also be on boner-watch.
I wondered if how much he masturbated played a role in this. I’ve read that sometimes, when a guy masturbates a lot (and he masturbated A LOT), it can be difficult to come or even maintain an erection, because they’re almost like “why doesn’t this vagina feel like a hand?”.
Then, that moment of doubt can make their erection waver and then they just want to do it fast and hard, because that’s what they’d do on their own.
I’ve read it can help to practise gripping a bit more loosely when they masturbate. I also would’ve liked to talk to him about being a bit more mindful during sex, just focusing on how everything feels in the moment, instead of stressing out about what might happen next.
If he was focusing on how different my vagina felt compared to his hand, I think slowing down and embracing the differences would’ve taken his mind off boner-watch, and made him enjoy it more.
I wish we’d had longer for me to teach him what I like. I think he would’ve been good. I think the qualities you need for good sex are
- fine motor skills
I’m so much more concerned about those things than penis size or how long they can keep it going. I couldn’t give a shit about that.
I think fine motor skills are important so they can press the right buttons, even if some of the buttons are hidden or need a particular knack to switch them on.
I think empathy is key, so they can accurately put themselves in your shoes, and feel whether you’re enjoying what they’re doing, whether to do it more or change it.
Patience and generosity are self-explanatory. I feel like he had all of those qualities, although now I realise how little I knew him after all.
So right now, I am completely obsessed with sex.
I am so obsessed with sex. I can’t stop thinking about it. As soon as I can sense a Y-chromosome has walked into the room, my head whips around to check them out.
The other Saturday night, I went out with a group of girls. I really wanted to get off with someone.
We were in a really cool bar in Shoreditch. When it got late, we went to the club downstairs, where it was packed. There were lots of guys I was making eye contact with, but then I inexplicably choose to leave and go to a different club, on my own. The music was really cheesy where we were, so I decided to go to a more alternative club I like. I guess I thought there would be more of my kind of guys at the Indie club.
It was a mistake. It was pretty empty at the Indie night, and all the guys were either with someone already or weird. I went home alone (although my Uber driver insisted on giving me a massage. I’m not sure how I felt about that).
The next morning, I told my flatmate, Joe, that I was disappointed I hadn’t got off with anyone.
Then, I suddenly remembered I did!
When I was leaving the first club, I passed a guy on the stairs. I think he said something like “you can’t get past unless you kiss me!” or something like that. I can’t quite remember. Whereas normally I’d think what an idiot, this time, I was really drunk. I thought Sure! he’s not bad looking.
So we kissed for a few minutes. Then I pulled away, and carried on walking up the stairs. He shouted after me “wait! Don’t you want my number? Or my name?!”
I turned around, shrugged, and strutted away, feeling pretty pleased with myself.