We're taking a little trip back in time, sex blog readers. It's April 2008, I'm drunk at a party, and I've just been pulled into my first kiss with a BHM.
Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?
All those times I'd seen the BHM at parties, all the times I'd sat with his group to have lunch, he'd never given me anything more than sidelong glances. I think I'd spoken to him exactly once, and now he was pressing me to him as if he'd wanted me for ages.
And he was enormous. Not "heavy", not "chunky"--he had to be close to 300 pounds, his great belly pressed up against me when we kissed. We came apart and he said something about the way I looked compared to him. "It's ok," I said, my hand on his belly, "I like BHMs."
"What?" he said.
Shut up and kiss him, I admonished myself.
He kept wanting me to go somewhere, to "sit down". I had my arm around his neck. "I dunno," I said, made merry by his lack of subtlety, "do you have any condoms?"
I think this was too forward even for the sloppy drunkards we had both become. He said some more things that I don't remember except that they riled me up enough to tease him. I put one hand on my hip and trilled, "I dunno, you are older than I am."
The BHM is one of those students who, for one reason or another, end up going to college at the age when most of his peers had finished graduate school. With this memory other details began to float to the surface of my brain. T.'s girlfriend--who had once been Constantine's girlfriend, but I pushed that thought away--had called the BHM "the biggest lush in school." That's all I knew about the BHM, and after Constantine I had had enough of drunkards. I began to push him away. He suggested once more that we go sit on a nearby bench.
I guess my legs were tired. "You take eye shots," I accused as we sat down.
"Psh," he said, and we made out again. This time when we came apart he asked me if he wanted to go up to his room. When I had protested at him peeling me off the only girl I had touched in two years, he said it had been a year since he had had sex.
Apparently I was the cure for this. But then again he probably didn't get fucked much, he was a BHM. Suddenly I felt sorry for him, all alone against the bodily prejudices of the world. And the way we kept making out...
I pulled myself away from his mouth, rehearsing the reasons in my head: It's not you, it's me...
"You can do better," he said.
"Better than what?"
Better than a dumb excuse like that, he said.
Oh, fuck: did I actually say something as uncool as that? "It's true," I said, taking refuge in what Constantine had taught me. "I'm a cold heartless bitch."
"That's not true..."
We made out some more.
X. and Constantine had been all about frenching, to the degree where normal kissing was something exotic for me. Even with those experiences, the BHM had an unusually skilled tongue. He encircled his with mine, tracing spirals. My tongue bumped and shoved against his. Even though I had never experienced the kind of attention he put into frenching before, I teased him when he began to delicately explore my teeth. Ah, you don't have just one trick! I exclaimed, but he still wanted me to come with him to his room.
I was thinking I could maybe do it, I wasn't held to conventional ideas of who to and who not to fuck. There was Mr. R., six foot three, long black hair and a soft overhanging belly... Mr. S., who was short and soft all over, with a whiff of cruelty about him from his dalliances with Constantine....
The BHM wasn't like any of those people. He kept putting my arm on his shoulder, like the neediest nerd boy.
"No," I bleated, "it'll be weird afterwards. And I really wanted a girl," I wailed, suddenly remembering that was what I had been originally after.
"That's not the issue," he kept saying.
"No," I said, "I lay with the Jackrabbit and Constantine, and it was weird afterwards."
I got off the bench and walked away. I looked back a little later and he was gone. I was surprised it was so simple.
It was around 2 am, the hour when parties died and everyone who hadn't hooked up yet would be too drunk to fuck. That was my last chance of the night, I thought to myself, if I couldn't find someone else to fuck in the next twenty minutes I might as well go back to my room and cry into my pillow.
I made one last circuit of the campus. No one, no one, not my girl or a blonde girl or girl with braces. I did find the class math whiz laying on the grass. I came up to him slowly, my hands out as if to fend him off. "I know a billion people have probably asked you this--"
"GET THE FUCK AWAY!!!" he roared.
I went away, figuring that if he was well enough to yell like that he could have his beer-induced existential crisis by himself. I passed one of his friends, much soberer than I and carrying a cup of water and a wet washcloth for him.
Why hadn't I done it? I said to myself later, stripping down to the skin in my room. I didn't know why I had given up the chance at something so rare I spent all of my leisure planning and scheming for it. I pulled out my laptop, found my favorite sex blog, and started reading about orgies--a good plan because I soon became so distracted I forgot to cry. I probably masturbated before I finally succumbed to exhaustion and the acceptance of my own bad luck.
The next day, Friday, we had off from classes. Even after I had showered, breakfasted, and begun my class reading for Monday, I was still thinking about him. In the beginning, I wasn't sure why he excited me so much.
He wasn't horrible, as fat guys went--he was friendly-looking. I had even vaguely considered him at one point, before I had become brave enough that having longings and the voicing of those longings weren't completely divorced.
And yet... and yet...
I should have said something like, "Dude, you're a boy and produce sperm. That's not a good combination when I'm this drunk." Girls were a lot less dangerous in terms of fuck ups, at least in this case. Lots less chance of STDs with muff diving too, though HIV was always a factor...
Right, bisexual girl, I thought, it's all about his gender.
Or I hadn't been 100% comfortable with him. "I don't KNOW you," I had kept saying. "You take eye shots." Of course, I hardly had known my girl either, I had just wrapped my arms around her and went for it.
It was that, then: such things could only happen when I was fully in control, when I wanted it.
It's not your body, I had been trying to tell him in my drunk and inarticulate manner, it's just you. In the back of my mind I was hearing people say, Gawd, she got with him? "Him" being not "that fat guy" but the lush, the horny drunkard. Of course, if I had been fully attracted to him I wouldn't have cared what people said--or what he thought, either. I had screwed plenty of people far worse personality traits than his.
And I left it at that. After a year without sex, he might have been happy to have me use him. But the next day--the start of a whole empty weekend without sex--I was still happy about my decision.
◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.