The One - No one said it would be easy (25 page)

Number Twenty-five: So nice, but sadly, so not in love

I’d known Number Twenty-five for some two years already, and I really liked him. A lovely guy, successful, charming and very witty and funny. I didn’t exactly think of him as sexy, though – he always reminded me of the fat baby with the huge head from the TV series “Dinosaurs”. Friends, yes – but sex? Never ever! There were the odd flirty moments between us, but never anything more. Who wants to make out with a baby dino? I kind of played around with the feeling that I could have him if I ever wanted to. It was a little fun. I flirted a bit harder each time, then dropped back into just-friends mode. Naughty-naughty!

Number Twenty-five had the gift of knowing exactly what women wanted to hear. He showered me with compliments and words of admiration. I was extremely receptive to all this, since I was still smarting from the misery of my time with Number Twenty-four. My self-confidence had gone AWOL and Number Twenty-five’s compliments were like a life raft for me. He listened to me when I got all upset about Number Twenty-four and offered sweet moral support like: you are a wonderful woman, you look so great, are so clever and charming and funny, everybody wants you. Exactly right for a lost female ego! And he railed against Number Twenty-four: what an idiot, he hits on anything with a skirt, and anyway, he doesn’t deserve you. Incidentally, these days Pumuckl and Baby Dino are best of friends. There’s male loyalty for you!

As a joke, Number Twenty-five and I began to plan our future together. We built a house, bought a car and picked names for our children. We decided on three daughters with blond hair, a Porsche Cayenne and a designer dream house made from glass. Infected by his enthusiasm for our joint future, I suddenly started to dream about him. The dreams were amazingly beautiful, I felt so safe and secure in his dream presence. And all of a sudden I didn’t give a damn that he looked like Baby Dino. All that counted was that he was a nice guy who wanted to make me happy. And so it happened. The usual “Let’s go for a drink” ended with a drunken kiss at dawn. I wanted to kiss him. I absolutely wanted to know whether the feeling of dream safety was there in real life, too. And yes, it was a good kiss. Not a full score – not an oh-I’m-going-to-die full-blast super-kiss. But solid enough. The kiss gave me a warm feeling in my belly, and farther down, a stirring for more.
 

It was really late, or rather, early, but since we were at it already, I was hell-bent on going the whole hog. Even though both of us had to be fit for work in a very few hours, I didn’t have to do a lot of convincing to get him to come home with me. We crawled into a taxi and made out all the way home, and held hands, which felt ever so nice. We had a lot of fun and this whole sliding-from-friendship-to-smooching-and-more thing didn’t feel at all weird or awkward, no, it felt as though it was as it should be. At my place, we brushed our teeth like an old married couple, as though coming home together was the most natural thing in the world for us, as though we’d done this a thousand times before. There was something really special about behaving as though this was perfectly familiar and normal, whilst at the same time it was actually an exciting first pre-bed situation. After the toothbrushing, we crawled into my bed and took up where we’d left off. I eyed him cautiously because this was the moment of truth. Number Twenty-five was naked bar his boxer shorts and sadly, I didn’t like what I saw. He was unbelievably nice and charming and he kissed quite well and he was such a great guy, no question, but sadly, physically he just didn’t appeal. I told myself off, told myself not to be so superficial, that what he looked like really wasn’t that important, and that I would surely get over myself and find something to like about him, like I always had before with all the other guys that had scared me at first sight, physically speaking. Unfortunately, this didn’t have the desired effect either. Number Twenty-five simply was Baby Dino. He was fat and white and wobbly. Everything about him was roundish and not at all manly-powerful-striking. The few fluffy chest hairs did nothing to improve the overall impression of non-masculinity. I really, really tried to get over myself, but this turned out to be damn near impossible. The independent control center in my brain that rules esthetic preferences and the rating of sexiness was blaring out warning sounds: “Attention! No Sex Appeal! Nothing Doing!”       

The control center was right. Not even the high concentration of alcohol in my bloodstream could make Baby Dino more attractive to me. And unfortunately, I made another unpleasant discovery. In spite of all the warnings, I summoned up my courage and approached his boxer shorts. I cautiously made my way in and found nothing but a tiny little bitsy weenie. I could have cried. How could God be so cruel as to give Number Twenty-five Baby Dino girth and looks, and Tom Thumb-sized equipment? This really caused me great distress, because I would so have loved to get involved with Number Twenty-five, but there was absolutely no way. No sex appeal, not a chance of a happy relationship. I hid my disappointment and decided to give it a try anyway. Who knows – you shouldn’t really preclude the possibility of sexual surprises right from the start. I really really tried to make the itsy-bitsy weenie grow into something akin to a slightly less itsy-bitsy weenie, but all to no avail. The tiny thing appeared to have reached maximum size already. It was shorter and thinner than my little finger – I kid you not, this is no understatement. I was utterly amazed that a penis could be this tiny.

Was I staring at a biological miracle? More than anything, I now felt sorry for Number Twenty-five. This wasn’t exactly his fault, was it? I wondered whether all women would react like me. I knew that he had a number of very attractive girlfriends. How did they react? Or was it just me being stupid? I simply couldn’t imagine that none of the other ladies would find their arousal evaporate when faced with this practically non-existent microscopic penis. There was just no joy to be had nuzzling or playing with such a tiny weenie. Especially when it was attached to such a massive body. You feel like an idiot, trying to “handle” it with thumb and index finger. No way could you use your whole hand. Maybe this is the equivalent of men evaluating a woman’s butt and boobs and saying that they want to feel they’re holding something substantial in their hands. Yes, well dear men, so do we. We’d like something a bit sturdy. Of course I didn’t mention the penis disaster. I acted as though everything was fine. What on earth could I have said anyway? If a guy were to disrobe me, eye me up and then declare: “Nah, sorry, your tits are too small, that doesn’t do it for me,” how would I feel? I’d be outraged, and devoid of self-confidence for the rest of my life. Whoa, a grim thought, that maybe one or other guy actually did think that of me! After all, I was really struggling here with Number Twenty-five’s minimal equipment, and my thoughts were hardly politically correct.

However, we did try to sleep together. To no avail. I didn’t even have to pretend to be zonked by too much alcohol and extremely tired – I was, and luckily he was too, so that we abandoned the attempt and just snuggled up together. Shortly after, my Baby Dino had to get up anyway. We kissed good-bye, I closed the door, went back to bed and felt really sad. I knew this wasn’t going anywhere, that all we’d done was wreck a perfectly good friendship, and I tried to find an honorable way out. Number Twenty-five, unfortunately, appeared to see things somewhat differently. We got together a few more times, pretended to be a couple, I felt awful the entire time but couldn’t get myself to tell him the truth, namely, that I didn’t fancy him in the slightest. I still hoped, against all the odds, that maybe I could fall in love with him after all, and could handle the resulting sexual challenge. After all, I’d been single for over a year now and I was hell-bent on a real, proper relationship. Really hell-bent. I was in love with the idea of being in love with Number Twenty-five.

Cowardly cow that I was, I then commenced to sit the matter out. He went away on holiday for two weeks, not without kissing me good-bye and handing me a huge bunch of flowers. Every day he wrote a zillion text messages, and my replies became shorter and more hard-nosed by the day. He smelled a rat. When he got back, I asked him to come over for a chat. I didn’t really want to see him, I didn’t even know what to say to him, but I wanted it over with – it was getting too stupid, I couldn’t do it anymore. Over and out! Here’s the thing: if anyone treats you this way, it’s the worst thing in the world and you can’t imagine how the asshole could do such a thing (Pumuckl…). But if it’s the other way around, the worst thing in the world is that the idiot just won’t get the message. What’s so bad about wanting out, anyway? You just can’t want everybody all the time – that’s perfectly normal, isn’t it? Incidentally, I’ve sworn that I’ll make that my mantra if ever I find myself in the asshole trap again, running after some guy, sobbing my heart out. Anyway, I managed to ditch poor Baby Dino before he’d even had time to make himself comfortable. In 10 minutes flat. He wanted explanations but I didn’t have any, I stammered something, hugged him, said how sorry I was and maneuvered him out of the door, leaving him baffled and bewildered. I was so glad, so relieved to be shot of him at last! Because in the meanwhile I’d taken up with Number Twenty-six and I wanted to clear the decks. Yes I know – that was really mean. That’s how fast you can turn from being maltreated by an asshole to being a maltreating asshole yourself. I guess that’s restoring the balance of justice, except that it’s with the wrong people.
 

Apropos: Good Vibrations

Let’s move on from too-small penises to vibrating plastic thingies. I’ve never really asked myself whether I wanted or needed a vibrator. It just wasn’t part and parcel of my “relevant set”, which is marketing slang for “things of relevance that I focus my attention on.” Of course I knew that various types of sex toys existed, but I had no interest in them. Especially since the dummy penises on offer were more scary or hilarious than arousing and anyway you could only get these things in grubby sex shops. What kind of a lady would want to go into one of those? Not me, that was for sure, never mind how open-minded and clued up I was. Plus, I was quite happy, contented and all together satisfied with the do-it-yourself version that utilized my own hands. I couldn’t imagine a vibrator being an improvement or a viable alternative, or rather I didn’t even consider the possibility. However – the love-toy revolution was sweeping the country like a tidal wave in quite the same fashion as the by now perfectly normal intimate haircut: previously, everyone sported bushy shrubbery, now everyone was smooth and bare or with a neat little landing strip, and even long-established venerable news journals ran cover stories about the trend for a “full Brazilian”. What, you don’t shave/wax/epilate down there? The waxing studios were bursting at the seams and the best hair removal methods were discussed amongst girl friends just as easily as one used to discuss the best recipes for apple pie. The hair-removal-revolution took its course, silently and steadily. Frowned upon to start with, then trend, and now, the new normal.  

It’s the same with sex toys. This didn’t used to be something you discussed with your girl friends. Then suddenly, a miraculous turn of events. The trend reversal might have been due to a number of factors. Firstly, the rubber monster-penises found themselves in competition with cute, colorful and adorable rubber creatures and well-designed, beautifully simple, friendly-sized, smooth and sensuous penis replacements. These items didn’t make you think of ginormous erected cocks. Instead you thought, oh how cute, oh how lovely, I wouldn’t mind this making its way into my panties. Small dolphins, rubber caterpillars or naughty moles invaded girlie bedroom cabinets. Secondly, you didn’t have to enter any grim sex shops to purchase the little creatures; you could buy them in condom shops or, of course, on the Internet. Which made it much less embarrassing. Thirdly, sex shops for women have been getting more established in recent years. Women shall have, are allowed to have, and even required to have a passion for sex now, and that passion needs to be satisfied, but in a cultured sort of a way, if you don’t mind. And fourthly, the thingies were becoming trendy and part of the general lifestyle. Dildo parties were being held alongside Tupperware and lingerie parties. You’d get a Dildo-Fairy to visit, and all your girlie friends, nicely stoked on copious quantities of Prosecco, had a brilliant time and loved the cute little rubber thingies so much that they had to order masses of them. In short, the dildo and vibrator revolution was buzzing on all channels.   
This didn’t pass me by either – I was definitely curious now. One after the other my girl friends presented me their cute little new bedfellows, and they all enthused about the many wondrous things these harmless looking pink dolphins and pale-blue caterpillars would do to you during the course of going about their business between the legs of their owners. I simply had to have one of those things. And my boyfriend, Number Twenty-six, was curious too, so that we both went into a little shop, selected a small green caterpillar, he paid, and we immediately tried it out at home. What a revelation! For both of us – for him and for me. No ghastly giant-cock-plastic-bomb with a terrible pattern of great big green and blue yucky veins, but a cute leaf-green caterpillar with a pretty little face. You just want to love it, it’s so cute. However – it isn’t just visually top notch, the naughty and innocent looking caterpillar is rather – shall we say, talented. And you’d better believe it! No male hand, no tongue and certainly no cock come anywhere near this power of vibration! Love-toys are awesome, I discovered whole new kinds of arousal and invigoratingly intense ways of coming.

I’d have never thought it possible, but the caterpillar has such power in its caterpillar-body, it made me want to yodel. It was a totally new sensation, this extremely intense and hard vibration, which I’d not come across before – well, how would I? But it felt just unbelievable! Usually, I’m a fan of slow, soft and gentle, but with the caterpillar, it couldn’t be ferocious enough. I adjusted it to “full throttle” straight away, pushed it hard against my most sensitive spots, and in a few short moments a most intense honey-sweet super-orgasm flashed through me. Awesome. And I hadn’t even stuck the thing in yet, this was all from the outside. My boyfriend was quite enthusiastic, too, he didn’t only just get to watch the performance, no – after my maiden flight, it was his turn. Yes really! One of those girly vibrators can be very nice indeed for the lord and master, too. I only had to hold the wildly vibrating thing to the tip of his penis for a moment or two, and he’d immediately catch his breath, groan, twitch, his eyes would pop open and he’d come just as hard as I had. For him, too, the wild vibrations worked miracles. Since then, the little caterpillar is often invited to play during sex, whether alone or together. If I’d known that vibrators are such wonderful things, I’d have acquired one a long time ago!

By now, the caterpillar has two siblings. A pretty clitoral massager and a beautifully shaped designer version, very swish. Both presents from my boyfriend. They’ll soon need their own display cabinet if they keep multiplying like that! However, I have some complaints directed at the vibrator industry – evidently, they are not too knowledgeable about female anatomy. They advertise their products’ super ergonomic shape, designed to reach all the right places, clitoris and G-spot, but I suspect they’ve been devised by just another bunch of guys who haven’t a clue. The massager, for example, I apply pretty much like the caterpillar, I hold it and press it on just the right places until I come. Because, if you just lay it on top of you, which is what it was apparently designed for, it just slides off due to the vibration. Which means it’s not very well designed at all. But our designer version of a vibrator is much worse. It’s a black-and-white thing shaped like a clef, curved and everything, fits beautifully in your hand, looks very pretty, has won lots of design awards and is super expensive, with a great long list of usage instructions and things you can do with it.

For example, when you insert it, half of it will lie flat on the outside and is supposed to stimulate the clitoris at the same time. Hah – not so! I’ve inserted the thing in all possible ways but not once did any part of it come anywhere close to my clitoris. And no, I don’t believe that my vagina is in any way unusual – indeed, I guess I am the proud owner of a perfectly standard specimen. And so I ask myself, doesn’t anyone ever try these things out? Is this really all due to some boring engineer who once upon a time heard about the clitoris but really hasn’t the faintest idea where exactly the damn thing is located? Are they trying to make fools of us? Don’t they have any female testers for vibrator prototypes? That would be a brilliantly relaxing job! But never mind all that – my boyfriend and I, we have a lot of fun with these things. The power of vibration remains fantastically strong and provides ecstatic orgasms for both parties. And another thing: combining two vibrators is really exciting – for him, too.

Well girls, if you don’t have one of these things yet, go check the Internet and order one, or hotfoot it to the nearest condom shop. You’ll love it. I promise!