So Hot Then So Cold

So Hot then So Cold

He was positively smoking. To say he was cute insulted cute by miles. His voice was just deep enough to go right to my clitoris without passing go and collecting a hundred dollars. It was if he had 'one night stand' written on his forehead in lipstick, my shade. His jokes were off color enough to keep my mind on sex, but sweet enough to make me smile and feel self-conscious about being such a slut.

I wanted to cuddle him the first time I saw him, to mother him but lose my self control willingly. His eyes had a twinkle that made my pussy wet, and his bawdy gaze made it twitch and tingle. From the first time our hands brushed skin to skin I wanted the rest of his against me. His manliness forged an orgasm to begin its effort to occur.

We shared a Sundae and a spoon. Our lips touched the same spoon and were heated by the process. I laughed at his wit and ignored the foolish quips, hoping he felt my willingness. I wanted him inside me and looked forward to the second he penetrated my defenses. I swooned like a cheerleader and blushed when appropriate. I left all self respect at the Starbucks and giggled at his jokes, hoping I'd won a place in his bed.

I followed him home and my heart beat increased the closer we got to his bed. I had known where the evening would end from the first smile he shyly granted me in the Starbucks where we sipped our large Lattes and made small talk about our dull days and lonely nights made me continue. I kept telling myself I never do this, and knowing it was true but not caring or wanting to stop myself.

At the first stop I kept laughing at his jokes and not caring how giddy I sounded or how vulnerable I had become. At the second shop, the pastry shop, I ate my half of the custard and laughed at the dab on his cheek. When he offered me the rest of his churro I ate it out of his hand and didn't care that my lips brushed his finger and my pussy twitched.

At his hotel I followed him up the stairs like a puppy in heat and stood waiting for him to find his keys and shivered like a sixteen year old on a date with the quarterback. As he undressed me I stood still and let him remove my clothes and silently begged him to hurry, holding my arms out to display myself to him.

When he put me in his bed I gazed at his nakedness and savored the sight of the rigid rod that extended from his body like a spear. I wanted it in me as quickly as possible. "Oh don't linger," I pleaded. "Get in me."

I had never wanted anything so much or so quickly, and I looked up at the ceiling and waited to be romanced by his masculinity and firmness and expertise in fornication. "Fuck me, please," I begged aloud, expecting the orgasm of a lifetime.

But his movements were clumsy and amateurish, and I stiffened. When his tongue found the wrong spot I almost said aloud, "You don't know where the clitoris is, do you?" When he munched instead of sucked, I sighed. He ate like a hungry man, not a lover, a Boy Scout not a paramour, and his efforts went unrewarded. His oral pleasuring was unnerving and disappointing, inept and clueless. He seemed like he needed an instruction manual on how to fuck.

He moved from his position between my legs and lumbered to a new location between my thighs, his grunts were thuggish and unromantic, and his thrusts were without warmth or gentleness, only awkward, graceless, shoves into a warm body. Any body, it seemed. I could have been an inflated doll or his hand, but I felt no intimacy or heat, only passive fucking, if you would, in all generosity, call it that.

I gazed vapidly at the ceiling and stretched out like a rag doll beneath him, waiting for the ordeal to end. When his energy left him and he rolled, panting off my joyless body, he mumbled the biggest cliche of love scene bromides, "Was it good for you?"

It took all I had not to scream, "No! No! It was awful. It was the worst of the worst, the most unsatisfying fuck of all times. You are a lumberjack in a ballet, a bull in a china shop, a foghorn in a symphony. You are an awful lover, but I never saw that coming. How could you be so sexy and so inept?"

Instead of all that I said, "What time is it?" Like I had some place to go. Like I wasn't so disappointed that I felt ashamed and duped and stupid. Like I was fooled into expecting at least one orgasm of any measure. I didn't even have enough enthusiasm to fake one. Not even one.

When he was snoring before I even had the chance to sneak out I was mortified, ashamed, and humiliated. I had yearned to be fucked and instead I'd been a masturbation implement. I'd been a hand except with even less warmth.

How had I been so fooled? How had I missed all the signs? The vapid quips, the boyish questions, the confused looks. I felt robbed, cheated, fooled into expecting ecstasy, instead I got insanity. I had high hopes, but I got short sheeted.

I am thirty-three years old and I have fucked a few in my time, but none have even come close to missing the mark so completely. Maybe I could have helped him. Perhaps I should have tried to help him find the right spot.

When he was fast asleep, snoring like a longshoreman sleeping off a bender next to a shipping crate, I tipped toed out, gathered my clothes, and didn't even think of writing a note. I closed the door softly behind me and dressed in the hall. I got a cab in front of his hotel, hoping the staff didn't see me come out of the elevator carrying my shoes. I took the paper out of my purse he'd written his phone number on and crumpled it into a ball, stuffing it in the ashtray of the cab.