The sex had been so good, I was still thinking about it almost a week later.
This was not like me, at all, and if someone had told me this would happen, I wouldn’t have believed them. And yet, here I am, thinking about The Unexpected Italian, days later, perhaps with no end in sight.
Let me rewind for a second: The Unexpected Italian is not my usual type. He’s not a pompous, literature-loving douchebag, for starters. He’s also younger than me–we all know I’m not too much into that. He’s taller than me, but not by much. He’s smart but maybe that doesn’t always show because he’s also a frat boy at heart.
Now, he’s not the typical frat boy. Deep down, I’m fairly certain he’s a good guy. He cares about trust and friendship and getting to know someone, not just getting some from them (but, of course, he’s not the type to turn that down). I also really enjoyed his company: just hanging out and chatting with him, the time goes by so quickly.
But I’m not thinking about the chats, or what we watched on television, or anything like that.
I’m still thinking about the sex.
I didn’t plan to have sex with him. I was prepared to have sex with him, but I didn’t plan on it. I’m a responsible person: I take my birth control at the same time every night, and I carry condoms in my purse whenever I go out. I keep them in my house. Basically, I don’t want to be caught in a situation where I have the opportunity–or, the hardcore desire–to have sex and can’t because there’s no protection available.
So. I’m prepared for sex, but not counting on it. We’ve talked all night but made no physical contact. We switch seats on the sofa. We start movies and don’t pay attention to them; we’re too busy talking and talking and talking.
Then it happens. I get cold. I put on a blanket. He gets cold. I turn off the fan. I get hot. He says I can turn the fan back on if I share my blanket.
I turn the fan back on.
We’re sharing the blanket, weirdly platonically. Our arms are touching; then I feel his thumb brush against my hand. I know this isn’t accidental. It can’t be accidental.
He mentions cuddling, and then his arm is around me, pulling me in close to him, and it’s fine. It’s more than fine. It’s a feeling I haven’t really felt in months. Oh sure, there’s Dr. Politics, but I’m not sure he counts because this feels different.
It took almost nine hours of talking to get to this point. It’s not so much that I hoped it would happen as I am surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Two people who are at least sort of into each other can only sit next to each other on a sofa for so long without physical contact happening, and I’m pretty certain I had been signalling that I would be perfectly fine with it.
I had curled my legs under so that my body was angled toward him. I had leaned my head on the sofa in his direction. I had even stretched my arm across the back of the futon toward him a few times.
So we cuddle. We’re watching Rome, which I say I haven’t seen but then realize after it starts that I have, in fact, seen this episode. It’s been almost a year, and I don’t remember much of it, so it doesn’t feel like a lie. He teases me when my response to “do you know much about this time period?” is “I read Julius Caesar.” Of course I did. I actually used to know much more about this time period, but it’s been many moons since middle school scholastics bowl, and he’s just fratty enough that mentioning that would get even more teasing.
The weird thing is, I don’t mind the teasing. He calls me old. I threaten to beat him. He says he might like it. We both laugh. We finish the episode and just sit on my futon holding hands, his arm curled around me. It’s cozy. My feet are stretched out and my head is on his chest, my face away from the TV completely.
He tells me he doesn’t think he should drive home. We’ve had two bottles of wine, and I tell him that’s fine. Neither of us are drunk, but neither of us should risk being behind the wheel of a car, especially when I have two beds and a futon–not that I expect anything other than my bed to be used, unless we fall asleep on the futon. I yawn, and he tells me we should go to bed. I agree, but don’t move. I finally rouse myself from under comfort of my knock-off snuggie (it’s a fuzzy wuzzy) and begin my nighttime routine: making sure my doors are locked, getting some water, using the restroom, and turning off the lights.
He knows that I usually sleep naked, but tonight I leave on my tank top and put on a pair of athletic shorts. It’s not because I don’t want to be naked–it’s my favorite way to sleep–but because I’m not sure what messages I’m sending and I don’t want them to be One-Night-Stand-Slut messages. He makes fun of me for locking the doors, for doing the little things that make me feel safe at night as a woman who lives on her own in a slightly rundown neighborhood two blocks from a popular dive bar. I don’t care.
He’s in his boxer briefs, and for once I’m pleasantly surprised. They’re tight but attractive in a way that says “I care about my underwear choices.” They make him look muscular and scrawny at the same time. He asks what side of the bed I sleep on, and I tell him I sleep in the middle. He shakes his head, rephrases the question: when you’re with someone, what side of the bed do you sleep on?
I don’t care. He lets me have the left side, the side furthest from the door and closest to the light. This makes me happy if only because my ex, The Grad School Boyfriend, always took that side for himself. We get into bed, I shut out the light, and we spoon.
He apologizes for his boner. I laugh. I’m a little delirious from the booze, the endorphins, and the sleepiness that is starting to hit me. We take our time getting comfortable, until I’m on my stomach, my head on his chest and my arm stretched out across him. It’s jet black in my room and we can barely see each other. He asks if I’m laying on my stomach. I say yes, but I can move if he wants. He says he kind of likes it. Within minutes, his arm has found its way around me, turning me, guiding my body so that my mouth can meet his.
It’s a good kiss, even if it lacks some grace.
So we keep kissing, and then I’m on top of him, and then I feel the urge to take control. I can tell he’s used to be the leader, the experienced one, and part of me wants to let him have that while part of me wants to break him.
I grab his face, trying to open his mouth slightly more, trying to make him slow down and savor or appreciate our lips pressing together, our tongues sliding across each other, the kind of moment that I could live in forever because I know it will be over too soon but it will also be long enough to leave its mark.
But he doesn’t savor; he doesn’t appreciate. Sure, he lets me have a few minutes of control, but then he takes it back. He’s on top of me, his hands in my hair and his mouth on mine. Then his hand is up my shirt, then it down my pants, and then it’s too late to go back and I wouldn’t want to anyway.
It’s been almost a week and I’m still thinking about this night. It’s not just the sex, although that’s worth thinking (and talking) about. It’s all the little things that make this a memorable experience (but there’ll be more about that later).