Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir Read Online Free Page A

Minetti. On our previous dates, he had walked me home, offering me his arm, and when we turned corners, he ensured he was on the outside, near the curb. Kissing him was delicious. Inviting him up seemed cheap. I was with a gentleman now, and it’s hard to really fuck a gentleman. Inviting him up felt too “this will never last.”

    But, I’m here to report that after five dates of just rubbing up against each other, David Minetti finally, albeit timidly, touched my triangle. Five dates is a really long time to go before sizing a guy up. I was nervous I’d be disappointed, so I avoided it at all costs when we’d made out previously. I got bold and decided to go for it.
     
    Minetti. His last name even sounds like it means “small penis” in Italian. You know he’s doing the best with what he’s got; you feel it in the stubble of his pubes. You’re certain he’s trimming to make it look bigger. He must know he’s little. But he doesn’t have a fancy car or fancy voice. He’s genuine, and it’s sad because you can’t move past it.

    I’d done it once before. Gabe was a roll of quarters, and I’d spent too many nights wishing I could feel it in my stomach. In the same way you can’t imagine the taste of butter on your dry baked potato, you can’t fantasize the feeling of weight in your hands. Unfortunately, it’s not like the pimple on your face—it doesn’t feel bigger than it actually is. Been there, done a past life of that. Lesson learned.
     
    This is one you just can’t compromise away. The careless leaving-the-seat-up thing is a nonissue. There’s therapy for a bad temper. Get a maid to deal with the socks. But a lifetime with a penis made of kibbles and bits is a deal-breaker. I’m just not willing to live with sexual disappointment again.

    Skip to the next paragraph if you’re squeamish. So I was jerking him off because I wanted it to be over, but not so much that I was willing to go down on him. I’d had too much and not enough to drink because I wasn’t drunk at all, but instead, completely dehydrated. I’d no saliva to work onto my palms. I punctuated any forward motion with a stop at the bedside water carafe. Meanwhile, what the fuck, any time he got excited he completely abandoned me. He stopped rubbing me and was all about his pleasure. What, you can’t do two things at once? I so pegged him for a multitasker. Then he proved me wrong. He could, as it turned out, make verbal requests while he got jerked off. “Higher, please.” He said it as if he were politely asking for some ketchup. Please?! And I was thinking, higher? I mean there’s so little there to work with, he had to be kidding. I’d worked with bigger mushrooms in my salads.
     
    Then he brought me toilet paper to wipe his mess off my stomach. Toilet paper never works. It gets wet and drags the mess around. Give me a fucking proper towel, the “spankerchief,” and then, please , finish me off. So he did. He tried going down on me, using just his tongue. Men don’t get this. When going down on a woman, there’s more to it than tongue. I needed a helping hand, or two.

    Screw this. I yanked him up toward me, so his face was now beside mine. “Here,” I said as I slapped his hand over mine. I began to masturbate, pressing his palm over mine, so he’d learn how I liked it. I so didn’t need him there. That’s the worst kind of sex, when the guy adds nothing. He could have attempted to talk dirty. That would have at least been something. Somehow, though, I sensed his idea of talking dirty was telling me he had a cock.

    I knew it would be the first and last time I’d orgasm with this man. It wasn’t just the size of his member. It was the “please.” Who says “please” in bed? I mean, unless you’re on your knees and your partner has you begging for it, “please” has no place in pleasing me. I like ’em dirty. Let him go be polite someplace else. I wanted him to leave. It was 2 A.M. , and he liked me, so