A dear friend and I talked about sex over dinner. He was describing two types of men looking for a one night stand. One took the time to be creative and funny over the course of the evening. And the other was direct.
“I prefer the direct one.” I said.
Imagining I had misunderstood, he explained it again.
Clearly the one who was putting in more effort, was the better choice.
“Which one will spend an hour between a woman’s legs and savor it,” I asked.
There was another double-take. Clearly, I was not getting the concept.
With the fire spitting out my eyes, I felt a familiar rage.
“I like sex,” I said. “A lot. But not as an activity.
Anyone who comes to me for a conquest is wasting my time.
I prefer the man who is direct because I can quickly say No.
The other is more manipulative.
If someone is going to propose pleasure, let it be mine and not his.
May he be willing to show up and be afraid.
If I have sex, it will be because something is at risk. A pretense. A holding back. A way of being.
Not out of pity.
Who cares who plays the game better?
We are both going to die.”