That one time I was almost cool

I am a woman known to be very outspoken and blunt when it comes to my opinions, my skills, my preferences, etc., but (even today) I have never been a person that can openly communicate my sexual desires.

Is this something only I experience? I can guarantee not. Women are taught to be submissive, wait to have sex until you’re married, don’t talk about your period or your body parts; and so we don’t really know anything about the whole situation and are expected to take the lead from our male partners.

And without knowledge, we lack confidence. Now, this is not a hard and fast rule, as we see with most white men in America condemning DEI, because they feel that they are qualified to do literally anything without any necessary skills or information about it. BUT as a woman or maybe just someone who doesn’t have that same blind confidence, usually the more informed we are about something, the more confident we are about that subject or in that realm.

As someone who came into sex without any actual education (read my introduction of sorts for more context; or just look at the title of this site), my comfortability level in this area has always been low and I’ve simply learned on the job. But, there was one time where this was (almost) not the case.

It was the year(ish) 2013 and I was visiting my friends in LA from my new locale in Orange County. In my LA years, I was a frequent visitor of the karaoke bar, Brass Monkey, because I love to improperly sing to a crowd, drink, and be able to walk home afterward to my or my friends’ apartments in Koreatown. On this occasion, I was on my normal routine, drinking whiskey that I pretended to like to be “not like the other girls” (anyone who says that they don’t like a well-made cocktail is a fucking liar and lame as hell. They’re delicious and un-gendered. So just enjoy them!), just killed Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now,” and smoking a cigarette right outside the front door.

A very cute fella walked up to the bar with his friends and made eyes with me over my Kamel Red exhalation while walking inside. I smiled to myself, wondering if I would see him when I went back. Then, a few minutes later, when I was just about done with my smoke break, he came out with a smaller subset of his group and headed back to the car. He gave me small smile and walked past me without a word.

So I said, “Wait, you’re just gonna leave and not say anything to me?”

He turned around, surprise overwhelming his expression. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“You come around here looking like that, make eyes at me while I look like this, and then you are just gonna leave without even trying to get with me?”

He laughed in shock and stayed rooted in his spot between me and his friends, who have now reached their vehicle. “Okay …” he started. “Give me a sec.”

He met with his friends while I watched from the door, now taking my last drag and stamping out my cigarette. After a quick conversation, he waved goodbye and walk-ran back to me. I smiled and said, “Best decision you’ve made tonight.” We walked inside together and he spent time with me and my friends at the bar. It was there I learned his name: Hunter.

After some time, we decided to leave. He lived in LA, but not close to Koreatown, so he got us a cab to drive almost 30 minutes to his place. On the way there, he explained that he lived at his parents’ house but had his own place on the property, like a detached guest house. I was a little skeptical at first, but I was already in the car and felt really fucking badass that I saw him, wanted him, and got him; so I was there for the ride.

But, his parents’ house was ENORMOUS! He lived in the fancy-ass part of LA, where movie stars and executive producers reside and his “room” was larger and nicer than any apartment I’ve ever had. So, I couldn’t really blame him for not wanting to bail out on this situation.

We walked through a code-protected gate, down the stairs past the main house, and entered his quarters. There was a lot to take in, but as soon as I started to try, Hunter pressed his body into mine and kissed me. It was a passionate kiss and I immediately was turned on. In my head, I was again reveling in how this night went and was so happy that so far, this hasn’t been a bust. He was a great kisser, and that’s the first sign that it won’t be a terrible lay.

We got to his bed and clothes started coming off. After some hand play, we were both ready to take this to intercourse town. He grabbed a condom (phew) and entered me from the missionary position. It was great!

We then moved positions and I was now on top. I really was feeling amazing. The sex was great, I felt super powerful for making this happen, and now I was in control. “You like that?” I asked, breathlessly. “Yes!” he moaned.

And then I asked, “I’m not too fat for you?” …

I’ve always been fairly curvy. I have wide hips and huge breasts; but for most of my life, I had a small waist. Very Jessica Rabbit or Joan from Mad Men-esque. At this point, I was deeply into my alcoholism, so I wasn’t as trim as I have been before, but I was definitely still thin. Especially now in my life, when I have put on weight due to stress, aging, life-changes, whatever, it’s hilarious that I thought I was fat then.

But this is what happens when you’re so conditioned to be a certain way. Even in times when you think you’re changing the narrative, the same expectations arise and you have to handle them. I felt so in control. This was what I wanted and I made it happen. I was leading this sexual encounter. But, in the midst of it, I still questioned if I was good enough for the male gaze. Was he satisfied? Was I what he wanted? And that’s what came out during sex, following a stream of badass lady moves to get there.

He immediately responded with, “What? No!” and we continued on. But I was haunted by this for the remainder of our time together.

When we were done, he gave me a ride back to my friends’ house in Koreatown. It was a fairly silent half hour drive back, punctuated by flashbacks of the awkward moment continually pinging my brain. When we arrived, he asked if he could have my number. In my embarrassment and desire to forget this whole thing ever happened, I was bitchy and said, “Why? We’re never gonna see each other again.” and I left the car.

I got into my friends’ place, took my spot on their couch, and thankfully fell asleep immediately to avoid thinking about it.

The next morning, my friends got up to go to work and asked me how my night was. I lied and said it was good, and while I was getting up, I realized that I didn’t have my phone. I logged into my friend’s “Find my iPhone” app and saw it blinking up in the LA hills, definitely left in Hunter’s parked VW Jetta.

I sat with this information for so long, debating what I should do. I was very broke back then, so getting a new phone wasn’t really an option. And since I was a complete dick about exchanging numbers, there was definitely no way to contact him. But I had the location of my phone, which was in his car, which was at his house.

I made my decision and drove to his house and sat in my car for a long time, staring at the code-protected entry gate. If I could just get through the gate, I could walk down to Hunter’s room and just get my phone and run away as fast as possible. But I couldn’t get through the gate. And I didn’t think I could get my phone without involving his parents.

When I approached the fence, I saw a doorbell. I took a deep breath, muttered how stupid I was to myself, and then pressed it. A woman’s voice came on, “Hello?”

“Hi, I was here last night with Hunter, and I left my phone in his car and I was hoping I could get it.” I could feel my face reddening as I blurted out each word through the tiny intercom.

“Oh, okay,” she said with surprise. “Hang on a second.”

“Thank you!” I silently begged for an apology.

The gate opened and instead of Hunter, a beautiful brunette woman in a crisp, white robe came out. She was obviously in the midst of blowdrying her luxurious hair. She was stunning, and looked maybe 10 years older than me. My entire life flashed before my eyes, making me wonder what the fuck have I been doing because I knew I wasn’t going to be this woman any time soon.

She was incredibly kind and stated that she had a set of his keys at their house so she figured this was easier than waking up Hunter. She unlocked the car and I opened the passenger seat door, saw my phone wedged between the seat and floor, grabbed it, and walked back toward his mom. “Thank you very much,” I said, feebly.

“No problem! I honestly didn’t even know that intercom worked anymore! I’m glad it did.” She smiled and waved as she disappeared back behind the gate.

I reentered my car, with my heart beating so fast. Would she tell Hunter about this? What would he think? Would he wonder how I knew where the house was? Would he think I am a stalker? I was riddled with worries and questions, but I knew I had to drive away immediately in case he came out. I couldn’t handle anything else at that house.

Never again did I see or talk to Hunter, but that night / morning lives rent-free in my mind, even today. It was such a high and low moment of my twenties. I felt so confident and sexy, and I was fucking thrilled about that. And then I pulled a subconscious move that completely reversed all feelings and outcomes of the interaction. I was no longer this cool chick who saw a hot guy, fucked him, and felt good about it; I was now the insecure girl who pretended to be confident, but was thwarted by all of these learned conditions that told her that she was there to please him, not the other way around.

It’s hard to navigate sexuality when you have a weak foundation and you learn through experience. Not all experiences are bad, but I think for most women, they’re not always what we would envision for ourselves. But we don’t recognize that until later because we don’t even feel capable to envision anything for ourselves in this regard. I hope that women become more confident in their sexuality and they can create their own personalities within it rather than simply being there for what their partners want.

I have always been a chameleon for my sexual partners. With this instance, I tried to not be, but I obviously felt lost and confused so resorted to insane questions to ensure that I was doing the right thing. I want to be my own person with my own desires, and thankfully my husband very much encourages this, but it takes a lot of work to unlearn all of this shit we’ve been fed for years. We are not here to simply please our partners through any means necessary; we are here to create enjoyable experiences with and for each other to acquire intimacy alongside the physical pleasures.