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sex negative
Sept. 13, 2017
Tags:
sex negative
self
sex
dating
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Sex Negative is the Cut’s series on the messy, clumsy, unromantic reality of boning.
When I was 21, I dated an older guy (he was 30) for a couple of months. One night, I stayed over at his house, and the next morning, I woke up and really had to pee. I was so comfortable and I really didn’t want to move, so I just lay there, trying to convince myself I didn’t need to go that badly. Then my boyfriend woke up.
He initiated sex quickly and I didn’t stop him, because when you’re 21, the thought of telling a 30-year-old man that he needs to calm down while you go to the bathroom is impossibly humiliating (also, having sex when you have to pee feels kinda good?). Plus, sex with him was always very basic: missionary and quick, so I figured he’d finish up in a couple minutes and I’d go to the bathroom after.
Things were going fine for the first minute or two — I kept holding it in and hoping we’d be done soon. But then, suddenly, I was peeing everywhere. I don’t know how it happened! There was no physical warning; there was only a moment in which I wasn’t pissing the bed, and the moment in which I was. I starfished out for a moment in pure panic at what I had just done, and attempted to cover the wet with my body. But then we both leapt up because, well, I had just peed on us.
There were a few moments of silent standoff while we both hovered over the newly soaked bed, and during that time, I wondered if it was possible that I had ejaculated. I had never done it before, but I had heard that squirting felt a lot like peeing and I wanted to believe that was what happened. Then I realized the pressure on my bladder that I’d felt all morning was gone. And that seemed like a pretty good clue.
Eventually, my boyfriend broke the silence and asked the $64,000 question. I did not consciously decide to lie but it seemed like the only option: I told him I had squirted, but somehow this 30-year-old man had not heard of female ejaculation. I tried to explain it to him, but he just wasn’t convinced (I guess if someone who just pissed all over you tries to explain what squirting is, it might sound like a lie). Eventually, he gave up, probably because I looked like I was about to cry, which gave me the opportunity to excuse myself to take a shower and hose what was definitely urine off of my body.
As I was walking to the bathroom, though, I caught him looking skeptically at the large wet spot on his bed, bent over like the Sherlock Holmes of bodily fluids. He dabbed two fingers in it, and then brought those two fingers to his nose for a sniff. I would have been happier to be dead.
Thankfully, he never brought it up to me again, but that might be because we only dated for two more weeks after that.
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And I did. But it wasn’t really my cup of, ehm…
This is what my mother told me, when I was a kid
At 10, though, I didn’t feel like bragging about it.
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During my London years, I had a secret affair with a married woman for about a year and a half. I wasn’t single, either, but I was going through an intense cheating phase that lasted almost a decade.
From day one, our relationship had an element of kink. We spiced up our meetings with some mutual biting, scratching, hitting, hair pulling, and more stuff that I wouldn’t dare ask from other sex partners. It was a world of pain that she initiated me to. It matched our fantasy. She was in danger, because I was wild and unpredictable. Sort of. And vice versa.
We were both pretty reasonable people. When together, though, we allowed ourselves to cross some boundaries — each their own. It was liberating and exhilarating.
Another noteworthy thing was that, although we dated for about a year, we never had sex until our very last date. Until then, our meetings were a long string of interrupted foreplay sessions. We accumulated an incredible amount of sexual tension begging to burst.
One evening, her husband was away. For the first time, she invited me over to spend the night. I couldn’t believe that it was going to happen.
So, at her place, we released all that sexual energy. It was the first time that we weaved our naked bodies together and had sex.
Like before, we spiced up our sex with acts of controlled and consensual violence. We pinched each other’s nipples and poured hot candle wax on them. I slapped her hard on the face and she clawed on my back with her fingernails.
It wasn’t really extreme, but it was enough to consider it kinky. It was definitely out of my usual vanilla zone.
When done in the right moment, some of those things I actually enjoyed and I was very much turned on by them.
When she asked me to pee on her, though, I wasn’t prepared for it.
We were showering together. When I said I needed to pee, she asked me to do it on her.
Her request caught me by surprise. I had never thought of doing such a thing to anyone before and I was quite uncomfortable about it.
Still, our relationship being quite experimental, I said okay and she lied in the bathtub, under me. Taking a deep breath to relax my muscles, I released my urine on her chest.
She hadn’t specified where she wanted me to wet her.
It was impromptu and not something we had set ground rules for. Was I supposed to make her drink it?
I was already beyond my limits. There was no way that I would aim for her face or mouth. Neither did she ask for it. She enjoyed me spraying her breasts and belly.
Then, I said something like “okay, that’s enough,” and turned the water on, cleaning her up. I was clumsy about it — I think the water was a little cold, too. I am not sure if she appreciated her golden shower turning into a Scottish one.
I must have ruined her experience. But then again, all our kinks revolved around discomfort. She may as well have loved it.
That was the first and last time that we had sex. We never saw each other after that. It was her choice. I texted her to meet again, but she replied to my message that nothing could ever beat that last night of ours.
Was that the truth? Perhaps this ending was part of the fantasy. A perfect climax to the perfect build-up. Or perhaps I piss people off — sorry, I couldn’t help myself.
I bumped into her a year or so after that night. She told me that she and her husband had separated and she introduced me to her new boyfriend. He was slightly older than me — slightly younger than her.
I can’t help but think that her separation had something to do with that night of ours. If the marriage was doomed, I flatter myself that our night together acted as a catalyst for her to move on.
I am a narcissist, after all. I have to weave a narrative that, no matter what I do, I make people happy.
I keep thinking about that uncomfortable moment in the shower, though. I wasn’t cool about it. Apparently, that was were I drew the line.
How would it be if I had crossed that boundary? Would I be able to release it on her face? Would I have enjoyed her doing the same on me? I haven’t been thinking much about it all those years. Still, writing about it sends a tingling sensation around my pubic area.
After my cheating phase, I too broke up. I have been with my wife nine years now. We have two kids, a five- and a one-year-old. Our sex life has been put to a halt, because of the baby. Bummer.
It will take a while to get back on track — let alone on speed. When it does, though, I wonder if we should put a golden shower on our to-do list.
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Recovering sex addict and self-punisher. Telling stories I wouldn't dare tell under my real name.
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