I must be special ("He's special alright... especially ugly!") This post may be T.M.I. for you, dear reader, so consider yourself warned, but as I wandered from the bedroom to the bathroom to "wipe off," as it was so tersely put, my short, unslutty sex-life flashed before my eyes (well, perhaps unslutty to some...). While it occurs to me that I can count all of my lovers on less than two full hands, not a single one of them was a fan of the so-called "wet spot."
Rich: Aren't you going to wipe up?
Me: Huh? Wha--? Is it morning already?
Rich: Nnnnnnooooooo....
Me: I was sleeping!
Rich: How? That's disgusting...
You know what I'm talking about. I don't care what genitalia you were born with and which you prefer to play with, there is always--always--a wet spot.
First there was Joe: Not a fan. As soon as any escapades were complete, the entire bed was stripped down with fresh linens grabbed--where they had been strategically placed beforehand--and placed on the mattress before a long, cuddly night could begin...
Then there was Robbie. The man I still miss at times, my first true love. Although, truth be told, also not a fan of the wet spot. He, too, always kept a fresh pair of linens at the ready as soon as festivities had been completed. This is when I first began to suspect that perhaps I had strange taste in men...
A few years and a broken heart later, I bumped into Ben. Ben was--well, a comedian. A non-stop comedian. And at first, to a broken-hearted lonely man such as myself, he was the perfect rebound. However, he found sex "messy." So messy, in fact, he didn't like to have it. And if we had to have it, so much the better that it just happened to happen outside of the bedroom so that no one would have to sleep in--yep, "the wet spot." It should go without saying that this did not last long...
But then there was Chad--easily a personal best when it came to the "hot as hell" category! But by now, I knew what my track record had in store for me, and it wasn't too long (just long enough to be proper, in my mind at least) before I found out how he handled this hang-up. A towel. And no, he wasn't a fan of Hitchhikers Guide. Didn't matter how hot and heavy it was, didn't matter if the mood was utterly romantic, it probably wouldn't have mattered if we only had minutes to live before a meteorite came crashing through the roof: we had to stop and grab a beach towel and lay it across wherever we happened to be "getting busy" before we could commence with "the business."
Following him (and I know this is the part where you start thinking, "OMG! What a slut! Did he live near on naval base?!") was Joey. Joey was when I started branching out from blond-haired, blue-eyed pretty boys to the dark and brooding end of the scale. It was as if my mind figured it may be genetically tied to blonds, or blue eyes, or trim little carry-on size pocket gays... However, no such thing proved to be true. As with previous boyfriends, this one also turned out to have an aversion to wet spots. I was definitely convinced that the failing was mine at this point. I simply went along with the "only on the blow-up machine-washable mattress" until I got tired of the squeaky noises, at which point Joey decided he preferred blonds and left me...
Celibacy embraced me for quite a bit longer this time as I rethought the whole wet spot thing, as well as a few other things. Were my standards too high? Or did every guy with a great personality and witty conversation have this hang-up? Did I miss a memo by skipping gay pride that year in New York City? You know, the same gay pride event where the "Gay Agenda" and "The Homosexual War on Marriage" were dreamed up and made public?
Well, many moons and an invitation to see my sisters' slutty cats' kittens later, I still don't get to drift off into la-la land sticky, sweaty and wet with the evenings' great time. Even now, ten years later, there is no room for discussion and even less room for liquid: a quick elbow, a rough push, even a nibble on the ear and I know what's coming...
I trudge back into the bedroom, flop down on my side of the bed and pull the comforter up to my chin.
And it's all okay. (Hey, look at that.. I suppose it also ends with a "kay"!)
Rich: Thanks babe. I love you.
Me: I love you, too.
Every kiss may begin with "K," but every night ends with a clean-up...
Or perhaps that's a "Klean-up"?
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