Dancing Queen
I can't be sure, but I'm pretty sure the song was "Touch of My Hand" on Britney Spears' 2003 release In the Zone. Michelle bought the album for me as kind of a half-joke for Christmas the year before, but still, every time she came over she ended up putting the album on.
"I've got hundreds of CDs that you can pick from--why do you always have to play that one?"
"I just like it," she said.
That night though, she played the song like four times in a row, and I was getting pretty near my breaking point.
"You don't think it's sexy?" she asked.
"I just don't like the song very much, plus we've heard it like a hundred times already."
I was sitting on the couch in my gym shorts reading an article in Foreign Policy about Mexican immigration, and she was walking around the apartment wearing nothing more than boy-cut panties and a tank top, looking at my movie collection, running her hands over the CDs on the shelf, and being bored. She walked over to me, straddled my knees and leaned over. She put her face right next to mine and breathed in my ear.
"You don't think it's a little bit sexy? I think it's very sexy . . ."
She licked my ear and moved all the way onto the couch grinding herself into my crotch. She gyrated her hips to the music with the sleek professionalism of an exotic dancer, but somehow I couldn't get excited about it. She turned around and slowly rubbed her ass into my groin, but still--nothing. Oh well. What was it again that Samuel Huntington was saying about America's coming identity crisis as a result of the wave of immigration from our southern neighbors?
"Touch of My Hand" finished and the album moved on to "The Hook Up", another overtly sexual song. The strip tease continued, and I sat there hoping it would end so I could finish reading the article and make something to eat.
After only a couple of minutes, I realized that it wasn't just that I wasn't very turned on because my mind was elsewhere, it was that the dance itself was turning me off. I've been to several strip clubs in my life, and I've gotten several lapdances (usually paid for by friends on the last day at work, my birthday, or some other occasion)--these never really did anything for me either. My lack of excitement in these situations, I realized, comes from the idea that these girls were just throwing themselves at me (or whoever they're dancing for), without any regard to themselves at all. I suppose I have some slightly archaic ideas about the roles of men and women in initiating sex. Sure, I want a girl to be interested in it, but I don't want her to have to convince me--if I'm not in the mood, I'm not in the mood. Obviously she thought she was doing me a favor, dancing for me like that. Maybe it was even a turn-on for her to imagine that she was turning me on. I just wasn't in the mood, and her wanton striptease just made me feel sorry for her.
Of course, when she was finished, I didn't go back to reading my article. Insetad I ended up having some very unsatisfying sex with her on my couch. I couldn't get into it, and it was easy for me to see that she was really, really trying to make it work, despite what she noticed was a lack of effort on my part.
"Stop," she said, justifiably upset. "Just stop."
The tables were turned, and I felt equal parts relief and irritation. Thank God we can stop now/Why are you insulting me like this? So we stopped, and she asked me what was wrong as she played with me idly. I guess I made something up that was convincing enough for both of us, because when we started again, I was as ready to go as I was going to be. It was going much better (although the experience was tainted by what went on during the previous half-hour), but after she had her fill, she was ready to wrap it up.
The only thing was, now that I could start, I didn't think I was going to be able to finish. Well, maybe--nope. Pretty sure I won't be able to--wait a minute! Yes! Yes! Wait, no, no false alarm. But wait! I think I've caught the wave and I can ride it in to shore--just a few more seconds--until I had the weakest orgasm of my life, and that includes the final round of the time I beat my masturbation record of six times in one day. She started crying.
"I can't even make you come," she sobbed.
"What are you talking about? What do you call this?" I said, gesturing.
"What do you mean 'What do you call this?' That's shit, Chris."
"Hm," I said, knowing what she meant.
Now I know that women will not be satisfied with anything less than a gigantic wave of cum.
"I've got hundreds of CDs that you can pick from--why do you always have to play that one?"
"I just like it," she said.
That night though, she played the song like four times in a row, and I was getting pretty near my breaking point.
"You don't think it's sexy?" she asked.
"I just don't like the song very much, plus we've heard it like a hundred times already."
I was sitting on the couch in my gym shorts reading an article in Foreign Policy about Mexican immigration, and she was walking around the apartment wearing nothing more than boy-cut panties and a tank top, looking at my movie collection, running her hands over the CDs on the shelf, and being bored. She walked over to me, straddled my knees and leaned over. She put her face right next to mine and breathed in my ear.
"You don't think it's a little bit sexy? I think it's very sexy . . ."
She licked my ear and moved all the way onto the couch grinding herself into my crotch. She gyrated her hips to the music with the sleek professionalism of an exotic dancer, but somehow I couldn't get excited about it. She turned around and slowly rubbed her ass into my groin, but still--nothing. Oh well. What was it again that Samuel Huntington was saying about America's coming identity crisis as a result of the wave of immigration from our southern neighbors?
"Touch of My Hand" finished and the album moved on to "The Hook Up", another overtly sexual song. The strip tease continued, and I sat there hoping it would end so I could finish reading the article and make something to eat.
After only a couple of minutes, I realized that it wasn't just that I wasn't very turned on because my mind was elsewhere, it was that the dance itself was turning me off. I've been to several strip clubs in my life, and I've gotten several lapdances (usually paid for by friends on the last day at work, my birthday, or some other occasion)--these never really did anything for me either. My lack of excitement in these situations, I realized, comes from the idea that these girls were just throwing themselves at me (or whoever they're dancing for), without any regard to themselves at all. I suppose I have some slightly archaic ideas about the roles of men and women in initiating sex. Sure, I want a girl to be interested in it, but I don't want her to have to convince me--if I'm not in the mood, I'm not in the mood. Obviously she thought she was doing me a favor, dancing for me like that. Maybe it was even a turn-on for her to imagine that she was turning me on. I just wasn't in the mood, and her wanton striptease just made me feel sorry for her.
Of course, when she was finished, I didn't go back to reading my article. Insetad I ended up having some very unsatisfying sex with her on my couch. I couldn't get into it, and it was easy for me to see that she was really, really trying to make it work, despite what she noticed was a lack of effort on my part.
"Stop," she said, justifiably upset. "Just stop."
The tables were turned, and I felt equal parts relief and irritation. Thank God we can stop now/Why are you insulting me like this? So we stopped, and she asked me what was wrong as she played with me idly. I guess I made something up that was convincing enough for both of us, because when we started again, I was as ready to go as I was going to be. It was going much better (although the experience was tainted by what went on during the previous half-hour), but after she had her fill, she was ready to wrap it up.
The only thing was, now that I could start, I didn't think I was going to be able to finish. Well, maybe--nope. Pretty sure I won't be able to--wait a minute! Yes! Yes! Wait, no, no false alarm. But wait! I think I've caught the wave and I can ride it in to shore--just a few more seconds--until I had the weakest orgasm of my life, and that includes the final round of the time I beat my masturbation record of six times in one day. She started crying.
"I can't even make you come," she sobbed.
"What are you talking about? What do you call this?" I said, gesturing.
"What do you mean 'What do you call this?' That's shit, Chris."
"Hm," I said, knowing what she meant.
Now I know that women will not be satisfied with anything less than a gigantic wave of cum.
posted by Chris Cusack at 2:48 PM
1 Comments:
Only six times?
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