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Relationships Post
Part One - The Old Single-Barreled, Pump Action Skin Flute Fails to Eject
I remember waking up the night after I first tried to have sex. I rubbed my sex-fluid encrusted eyebrows and looked at my flaccid shmeckle and frowned. Next to me lay a beautiful woman. She was smiling in her sleep, I remember, while I sat up in bed quietly, trying not to wake her, partly out of politeness, but mostly out of a need to debrief myself on what the hell just happened. I was nineteen. A late bloomer for my first attempt, no doubt, but the wait had been worth it to get this beautiful, beautiful specimen. She was more beautiful than any girl I had imagined I'd ever get to spend the night with. Way better than I deserved, no doubt about that. Short, black, straightened hair, with small but perfectly pert breasts, about the size of small apples, and a wonderfully toned body. She reminded me of some kind of perky elf from the Portland quarter of Lothlorien who liked to wear trucker hats and drink shitty beer ironically. By all common logic I could muster in that moment of brain fog, this sex should have been mind blowing. In the perfect world I had constructed for myself the night before, I was already coming up with excuses for why I didn't last that long with her, and how thirty seconds is 'pretty good' and that she was 'just too hot' and other such pseudo post-virginal quips that one delivers to the homies.
But that wasn't at all what happened. I'm a pretty meticulous guy. I like to run through hypotheticals in my head constantly, planning for contingencies and things that might go right or wrong in my life. This blindsided me though. My good old mayo shooting, hot dog gun had failed me completely.
I replayed the events of the past few weeks. We had met outside the local theater. We were both into acting, and we got to talking about it. I complimented her on her black boots, military surplus I think, and compared them to mine, which were more dressy, but still came up the calf, just like hers. We hit it off. The next week was a storm of those wonderfully awkward but fun moments of a young couple getting to know each other. We'd break into places, drink expensive wine, talk about all kinds of things. Well, it finally came to a head. I would be leaving town for a little while, and she wanted to seal the deal before I left. I went over to her house the last night and answered the door. I was so nervous I made up an excuse like I had to make a playlist for my trip the next day. She wasn't having it though. She stripped off her clothes, then mine, and led me by the hand to her bedroom.
I'll spare you all the details, but you already guessed it, throughout the whole night, I couldn't get it up. Nothing worked. We made out for what seemed like hours. We had mood music going on in the background. I had a couple beers. I tried my best at eating her out, with what little I had learned, ironically, from porn. Overall, she was very accommodating of the problem, but for the first time I saw the look in her eye, something I wasn't able to peg down until I woke up that next morning and debriefed myself on the situation. It was just a glimpse, but in that moment, in that look, I caught the core what would become a very common and almost all-consuming problem I would face for years - disappointment.
Nevertheless, after that night, she declared us an item. Despite last night's performance, I guess there's something to be said for being a silly motherfucker and wearing dress boots that go up to your calf. I don't need to go over the next few months in detail. She loved me, there was no doubt about that. She came to visit me a couple of times after I moved out of town, but every time the elephant in the room was sex. I didn't know what was happening to me or why, so my first response was denial, but god was it painful. To come home every day from college, find her ready to go and then consistently, persistently disappoint her. There were a few times where I could get it up for her, but it would be rare and wouldn't last any significant amount of time and never, every coming close to orgasm. There's almost nothing more apocalyptically frustrating.
I don't know if I started treating her worse because of my own frustration with the situation, or she became more upset with me because of it. After having a few years of separation from the events that transpired, I'm leaning towards the former. She became a living, breathing mirror of my own inadequacy, and seeing her constantly, was a constant reminder. There were other situations that compounded on top of that. I was dirt poor at the time, and that certainly added to it, but chiefly, it was my impotence. Had the sex life been great, all other issues could have been glossed over. I think I started self-destructing the relationship, purposefully sabotaging it without even realizing it, to get her to end it, which would exonerate me from guilt. Man, what is this? Amateur psychology hour on RebootNation? Who the hell knows what I was thinking, I'm not Freud. All I know is I was angry at myself. Disappointed that I couldn't please a woman. A whole vortex of emotion like I went to Dairy Queen and got a swirl cone made out of impotent rage and incomprehension, with sprinkles of frustration and angst. Trust me when I say the ones made out of ice cream are at least 78% better.
I broke up with her over Facebook a few weeks later. Lost one of the most attractive I've ever gotten to that level with in my life. I hear she's married now. This is me being serious for a second, if you don't solve this eventually, you'll miss out on your god-given right to someone who loves you. Is there a more serious crusade than that?
It never even occurred to me that porn or masturbation might have had anything to do with it. Maybe it was because I was drinking too much, or maybe it was the cigarettes. Maybe it was because I was newbie at the ol' in-and-out, but certainly never PMO.
I think I'll wrap it up here for today. A bit wordsy for my first attempt, and maybe I'm starting out further back than I ought to, but whatever. This is my first serious attempt to stop this once and for all. For me, its important that I lay out the full history of this problem so I can remind myself why I'm doing this. I'll try to continue the story tomorrow. This'll lead up to the heart of the issue, I promise, if anyone even reads this.
It's going to get better. Keep the faith.
Part One - The Old Single-Barreled, Pump Action Skin Flute Fails to Eject
I remember waking up the night after I first tried to have sex. I rubbed my sex-fluid encrusted eyebrows and looked at my flaccid shmeckle and frowned. Next to me lay a beautiful woman. She was smiling in her sleep, I remember, while I sat up in bed quietly, trying not to wake her, partly out of politeness, but mostly out of a need to debrief myself on what the hell just happened. I was nineteen. A late bloomer for my first attempt, no doubt, but the wait had been worth it to get this beautiful, beautiful specimen. She was more beautiful than any girl I had imagined I'd ever get to spend the night with. Way better than I deserved, no doubt about that. Short, black, straightened hair, with small but perfectly pert breasts, about the size of small apples, and a wonderfully toned body. She reminded me of some kind of perky elf from the Portland quarter of Lothlorien who liked to wear trucker hats and drink shitty beer ironically. By all common logic I could muster in that moment of brain fog, this sex should have been mind blowing. In the perfect world I had constructed for myself the night before, I was already coming up with excuses for why I didn't last that long with her, and how thirty seconds is 'pretty good' and that she was 'just too hot' and other such pseudo post-virginal quips that one delivers to the homies.
But that wasn't at all what happened. I'm a pretty meticulous guy. I like to run through hypotheticals in my head constantly, planning for contingencies and things that might go right or wrong in my life. This blindsided me though. My good old mayo shooting, hot dog gun had failed me completely.
I replayed the events of the past few weeks. We had met outside the local theater. We were both into acting, and we got to talking about it. I complimented her on her black boots, military surplus I think, and compared them to mine, which were more dressy, but still came up the calf, just like hers. We hit it off. The next week was a storm of those wonderfully awkward but fun moments of a young couple getting to know each other. We'd break into places, drink expensive wine, talk about all kinds of things. Well, it finally came to a head. I would be leaving town for a little while, and she wanted to seal the deal before I left. I went over to her house the last night and answered the door. I was so nervous I made up an excuse like I had to make a playlist for my trip the next day. She wasn't having it though. She stripped off her clothes, then mine, and led me by the hand to her bedroom.
I'll spare you all the details, but you already guessed it, throughout the whole night, I couldn't get it up. Nothing worked. We made out for what seemed like hours. We had mood music going on in the background. I had a couple beers. I tried my best at eating her out, with what little I had learned, ironically, from porn. Overall, she was very accommodating of the problem, but for the first time I saw the look in her eye, something I wasn't able to peg down until I woke up that next morning and debriefed myself on the situation. It was just a glimpse, but in that moment, in that look, I caught the core what would become a very common and almost all-consuming problem I would face for years - disappointment.
Nevertheless, after that night, she declared us an item. Despite last night's performance, I guess there's something to be said for being a silly motherfucker and wearing dress boots that go up to your calf. I don't need to go over the next few months in detail. She loved me, there was no doubt about that. She came to visit me a couple of times after I moved out of town, but every time the elephant in the room was sex. I didn't know what was happening to me or why, so my first response was denial, but god was it painful. To come home every day from college, find her ready to go and then consistently, persistently disappoint her. There were a few times where I could get it up for her, but it would be rare and wouldn't last any significant amount of time and never, every coming close to orgasm. There's almost nothing more apocalyptically frustrating.
I don't know if I started treating her worse because of my own frustration with the situation, or she became more upset with me because of it. After having a few years of separation from the events that transpired, I'm leaning towards the former. She became a living, breathing mirror of my own inadequacy, and seeing her constantly, was a constant reminder. There were other situations that compounded on top of that. I was dirt poor at the time, and that certainly added to it, but chiefly, it was my impotence. Had the sex life been great, all other issues could have been glossed over. I think I started self-destructing the relationship, purposefully sabotaging it without even realizing it, to get her to end it, which would exonerate me from guilt. Man, what is this? Amateur psychology hour on RebootNation? Who the hell knows what I was thinking, I'm not Freud. All I know is I was angry at myself. Disappointed that I couldn't please a woman. A whole vortex of emotion like I went to Dairy Queen and got a swirl cone made out of impotent rage and incomprehension, with sprinkles of frustration and angst. Trust me when I say the ones made out of ice cream are at least 78% better.
I broke up with her over Facebook a few weeks later. Lost one of the most attractive I've ever gotten to that level with in my life. I hear she's married now. This is me being serious for a second, if you don't solve this eventually, you'll miss out on your god-given right to someone who loves you. Is there a more serious crusade than that?
It never even occurred to me that porn or masturbation might have had anything to do with it. Maybe it was because I was drinking too much, or maybe it was the cigarettes. Maybe it was because I was newbie at the ol' in-and-out, but certainly never PMO.
I think I'll wrap it up here for today. A bit wordsy for my first attempt, and maybe I'm starting out further back than I ought to, but whatever. This is my first serious attempt to stop this once and for all. For me, its important that I lay out the full history of this problem so I can remind myself why I'm doing this. I'll try to continue the story tomorrow. This'll lead up to the heart of the issue, I promise, if anyone even reads this.
It's going to get better. Keep the faith.
