Compounding the issue is that we’re in different age brackets, and I’m not sure what she expects, how open she is to communicating about stuff like this, etc. Once I get past my nervousness, I’m pretty good at this (really, I am!), but how do I get to that point without being one-second Willie? Any ideas?
–Shaking in My Love Boots
I don’t know if this is any comfort to you–and I’m only speaking for the ladies here–but more often than not, the first time you bump uglies with someone new, it’s less than mind-blowing. This isn’t always the case, but I’d say there’s about a 50/50 chance of the opening act either being over before it begins or just being awkward and weird. This is a well-established fact, and if she really likes you, she’s not going to hold it against you. Especially if you improve with time.
You make vague reference to some difference in age (from now on be specific!), and your terror leads me to believe you’re younger than your smokin’ hot lady friend. Heh heh. This is good news for both of you. First off, older women are generally way more open to talking about sex, because they’ve had more of it and know what they like. And she’s lucky, because though the younger guy may be quick out of the gate, at least she can take solace in the fact that he can get up and out of the gate more than once a night.
My advice is that you relax. If it looks like you’re going to be getting some that night, have one (and only one!) cocktail and a quick wank or two prior to meeting her. Whatever you do, do not offer a disclaimer before you get down to it. One of the only downsides to the younger man is that you all talk too damned much. If you shoot your wad too quickly, head south, get her off with your mouth, and try again. And again, if necessary. Aaah, younger men…
Speaking of youngsters, I’m fascinated by that case in Richland Hills, TX, wherein a 13-year-old boy has been charged with assault for giving his little girlfriend a hickey! I love hickeys!
My all-time best hickey moment came after a weekend-long tryst with the now-deceased Bobby Ebz (singer for a charming NJ hardcore band called Genocide–heard of them? Thought not). I was home from college and picked him up at a CBGBs matinee. I had a foot-high mohawk and a strategically ripped t-shirt. He had a spiked leather jacket and bore an uncanny resemblance to Stiv Bators (to my warped mind, a very good thing). Anyway, I phoned home and lied that I’d be with a girlfriend the rest of the weekend. Bobby and I spent the rest of the weekend cavorting on his half-full waterbed and on top of the KISS pinball machine he kept in the basement.
A day or two later, Bobby drove me home. Much to my surprise he seemed anxious to meet my mom. Against my better judgment, I let him. Bad move. My mother just stared at me, barely able to contain her fury. For one of the first (and last) times ever, she was actually speechless with rage. Me, I had to pee. I went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. Uh oh. My strategically ripped t-shirt revealed a chest full of the blackest, bluest and purplest hickeys I’ve ever seen. Big bitemarks covered my shoulders and chest, wending their way up my neck, practically to my ears. I hadn’t noticed them before. I skulked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, where my mother shoved a giant platter of bologna sandwiches at me.
"Give these to your friend–he looks hungry," she hissed. Oops.
My buddy Cindy also loves the lovebite. "It’s so wonderful and shameful all at once," she reminisced. "I covered my neck in a mixture of peanut butter and toothpaste before church one morning hoping I could get rid of one that even a turtle neck couldn’t cover. Those were the two things that I had heard made them fade. It didn’t work. I just smelled like minty peanut butter, which is not a good combo."
The only problem my friend Michael had with hickeys was not getting any. "Growing up, hickeys were such a status symbol that I once paid a topless dancer five bucks to give me one," he lamented. A man after my own heart.
The Texas teen is being forced to pony up significantly more than a five-spot for his lovebite. The class C misdemeanor carries a fine of $283.00! The boy’s sensible, bargain-hunting mom had this to say about the matter, in a statement that’s being quoted around the world: "I don’t see paying nearly $300 for a hickey. It doesn’t make sense. You have kids in Dallas schools having oral sex. This is a hickey." True enough, but 300 clams doesn’t seem like much of a bargain blowjob either.
Write dategirl@nypress.com or Dategirl, c/o New York Press, 333 7th Ave., 14th fl., New York, NY 10001.
