‘Meaning you’ve never had good sex? Never?’
‘Never.’
‘You’re telling me that not one of those previous sidekick boyfriends managed to make it any good? I mean, I know there were issues with your selection process, but surely one had to be decent in the sack.’ He looks offended on my behalf. I read too much into the fact that my selection-process issues are apparently past tense.
‘I guess it just depends on your definition.’
‘Did you come?’
‘Sometimes. Rarely.’
‘That’s generally the definition of bad.’
‘Is the goal always to come during sex?’ I wonder, reaching for a few more chips. Should we get another bowl? The kitchen might be closing soon.
‘Not always if the rest of the activity is pleasurable.’
‘Oh. Then yeah, it was bad.’ More chips.
‘What about when you came?’
‘What about it?’
‘Even those times were bad?’
‘Yes?’
There’s only salt left in the bowl. I gather it on my finger and suck.
I can feel Arthur’s eyes on me as he traces the movements of my finger. Then he takes a big gulp of his wine. Finishes it off actually. Then pours himself another and tops me up. Shakes his head. Says, ‘I’m sorry, I’m really struggling to see how an orgasm is bad. Or was it because you knew what was possible and it was so rare?’
‘Leaving the orgasms to the side for the moment…’
He scoffs. ‘Sounds like your boyfriends should have been doing that a little less, but sure.’
‘It’s not really about the orgasms,’ I say. The wine and his eyes are making my brain foggy, so I look down at my lap, where my hands wring together. ‘It’s hard to explain. Sex is just…empty for me. Like afterwards I feel empty. And when you hear about people who claim to have really good sex, they talk about feeling full—don’t make a fucking joke—and, I dunno, connected? Is that the right word?’
‘I think connected is a good word,’ he says quietly, looking down at our hands.
‘And I just feel like every dick just hollows me out a little bit more. Like they leave and take something with them. And we know how little there is to take…I mean, before recently.’
‘Do you think that maybe you feel that way about it because those relationships weren’t really real? Or maybe that’s not right…they weren’t what you would necessarily choose for yourself now?’
‘Maybe?’
‘And that now that you’re more confident in whoyouare asa person, better sex should naturally follow?’
I don’t answer, just hum. Something like hope is starting to bloom in my chest, and while my instinct is to snuff it out, I kind of want to see where it goes. Could Arthur be right? Also, the way his T-shirt is tightening around his upper arms as he talks with his hands has temporarily robbed me of the ability to speak. Oh shit, he’s still talking.
‘I mean, we can all pretend that sex is just passion and mechanics, and perhaps some people are good at the no-strings thing, good luck to them. But even then, sex is vulnerable. You’re naked, literally and figuratively, with another person, and I think that requires a lot of trust. And if you don’t know yourself, trust yourself, how can you ever trust who you’re with and really just let go and get into it?’
I feel naked right now—figuratively speaking, of course. His brown eyes are glazed over, and I can see myself in the reflection. But he’s looking beneath my clothes, beneath my skin, right down to the bones. My instinct is still to lighten the mood, to put my figurative clothes back on, because I’m not quite ready yet. ‘Are you secretly a sex therapist? Were you hired to covertly help me in all areas of life?’
He laughs, surprised. The spell is broken, and he takes my cue. ‘Nah, I just listened to a podcast once. I’m also a human male who has had sex before. And loved before.’
‘Send me a link to that podcast!’
‘I will.’
