Image by the awesome Stuart F Taylor
One of the strange things about my current relationship – as opposed to any other I’ve been in – is that I’ve forgotten how to get rejected. I know, right? Poor me. Please crack out the smallest violin you own and play a concerto in ‘Woe is GOTN.’ Rejection – and specifically sexual rejection – is something I used to have a lot of practise in. I knew how to take a ‘no’, and greet it with a shrug and a cuddle. I knew how to take ‘seriously? Now? AGAIN?’ and absorb it into my thick, thick skin, so it couldn’t pierce through to the soft bit inside me that – whisper it – needed sex to feel loved.
Sexual rejection – kind of
It’s Friday night, and I’ve been out. Out with strangers, which is unusual for me, because strangers are frightening so as a rule I try to avoid them. But I’m walking home from the evening, slightly dizzy with wine and hugging myself because I realise that I did OK! I spoke to people! I might even have made a new friend! I am confident and badass and – as a result – sexy.
I am thinking about sliding down my partner’s cock. This, specifically. I’m picturing it: close-up, intense, porn-style penetration. In my head I can see the wet trails of the juices of my cunt moistening his erection as I slide down, shoving myself down onto him. Sucking him in.
I look hot tonight. I put on make-up, which is rare, and I wore heels, which is rarer. My footsteps tap out a satisfying rhythm on the pavement in time to the music coming through my headphones.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
And I think about his cock. I picture squatting over him: all powerful thighs and lustful eagerness and tits spilling out over the top of my bra. I imagine the lips of my cunt smearing the sides of his dick as I slide right down to the base of it. And in my head I can hear that noise he makes in the back of his throat when I’ve thrilled him in just the right way.
So my feet on the pavement now tap out the words:
Sit. On. His. Dick.
Sit. On. His. Dick.
It’s a quiet night, so I make the mistake of feeling nothing except for this. The image of his dick piercing me, and the feeling of power as I slide all the way onto it, using his cock for purely my satisfaction.
Later that night, in bed, I do it.
I sit on his cock. Slowly, to luxuriate in the feeling of it. Squatting at an angle that’s perfect for me to watch it go in.
He likes it. He wants it. He grips my hips and bites his lip and I take the opportunity to really go for what I want – leaning forward to kiss him briefly before staring between my legs, enjoying the chance to observe as my cunt slides down to envelop his cock. Watching the wet trails of the juices of my cunt moistening his erection, soaking up the image of my cunt lips smearing his dick as I slide down to the base and then up again. Slow strokes, so I can savour the sensation of his dick piercing me – so deep I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.
Then he tells me to stop.
He asks me to roll over and lie on my back.
He hasn’t said ‘no sex’ or ‘not tonight’, just asked for a different position. Yet still, I reel from this sexual rejection like it’s an actual, physical blow. I don’t ask him why, I just comply, because right now I can’t think of how to even begin to ask the question: what did I do badly? What’s wrong with me? Wasn’t I good enough?
So I stare at the ceiling as he fucks me until he comes, then stay awake for a while and stroke him until he falls asleep, wondering how I could have done it better. I feel like a little girl who thought she was being helpful trying to make dinner, but has burnt it and wasted the best of the food.
I have stern words with myself, running over and over all the mistakes I might have made. Not skilled enough. Not balanced enough. Not sexy enough. Not good enough at going on top. I wallow in it, with all the relish with which I savoured the pleasure that came before. I take the verbal dressing-down that my ego gives me, and I agree with its assessment. Not skilled enough. Not balanced enough. Not sexy enough. Not good enough at fucking. Unloveable – say it twice.
All these words are far sterner than the ones he has with me the morning after, when he kisses me and laughs and explains why we had to stop: the floorboards were creaking, you see, and we had guests. He gets shy, and he didn’t want them to hear the creak-creak-creak as I fucked him so vigorously.
He looks me in the eye and says ‘thank you.’
He says ‘please please please do that again, it was amazing. I just couldn’t cope with it right then.’
How not to deal with sexual rejection
It’s my job to conjure stories from even the most mundane fucks. To take the casual, Wednesday-night shag and paint it with words until it sparkles like something far more significant than it really was. To take moulded silicone shapes and write about them in ways that compel total strangers to masturbate, or describe years-old encounters as if they’re happening right now. To zoom in and look, in explicit detail, at the pleasurable things that bring bursts of joy, then stretch that joy out to a thousand words or so.
But when you zoom in on everything, the mountains look like molehills.
And me? I look like a bit of a dick.