I should have known as I was turned onto my stomach with his hands gently pushing down the small of my back attempting to give the deepest possible angle to his stubbornly uninterested penis that I had fucked things up. We should have just made out on the couch. I should have kept my clothes on. He wasn't ready.
And now, in the darkest, earliest part of the morning, as I look at the left-hand side of my couch where he sat post-brunch asking me to model the first dresses I've purchased in almost a decade, I miss him terribly. Everything aches. My heart screams. My head is quiet letting the sadness pour out of me, knowing there's no reasoning with the heart.
The penis is a stupid organ. It pumps itself up. It tells you yes, yes, YES! And then in the heat of the moment, it shrivels with the "what if," the "what the hell," the "who knew?"
And a girl tries not to take it personally, but it's impossible not to feel a sharp smack in the face when it happens. Those things get up for everything, everyone, but when it finally sees the light of me -- it shriveled like I threatened to douse it with ice water.
Truth be told, I hadn't paid appropriate homage. I'd coveted his gracious heart, the wonderfully sexy and intellectual parts of his brain and I just assumed, like a girl, the penis would follow the banter, the laughter and the immense affection that passes between us.
When he gave up on his penis, feeling, I guess, obligated to me since I was, after all, lying in front of him naked, writhing around in anticipation and desire, he went into me with his long, immaculately clean fingers straight into the vagina with a purpose and into my rectum just to drive the point home. He was going to deliver -- any way he could.
