Sex Too Soon After Heartbreak
Watch me self-destruct in real-time.
Less than an hour ago, I had sex with someone.
Someone who isn’t the guy that I love.
For nine months, I was head over heels for Jeremy. Checked off all the boxes except the most important one: didn’t want to commit and wanted to date other people as well. I was gutted.
With the agony at peak level and my fears of being too old to find a quality guy in the land of excessive beauty (Southern California), I jumped onto Facebook Dating and met up with a nice guy named Ray.
The guy is eight years younger than me. Eight. He has his shit together with a good job, a house, and has his kids on a bizarre custody schedule. I needed a distraction for a few hours but the date turned out pleasant. Ray is smitten with me.
I, on the other hand, am still a bawling hysterical mess over Jeremy.
Ray lives five minutes from my house. That’s a twist from every other guy I’ve dated who lives closer to the ocean. He looks like the poor man’s Jake Gyllenhall with a receding hairline. There’s no question that this is a guy who would treat me like a queen.
Cue the tears. But he’s not Jeremy.
He offers to swing by after our work meetings and hang out before I pick up my kids. I’m nervous because conversation doesn’t flow easily and he’s a little too complimentary; the Avoidant in me balls its fist in discomfort.
Ray arrives at my house wearing a T-shirt and shorts. I’m wearing a cropped T-shirt, no bra, and jeans. We sit on my couch and despite some small talk, we make out. As things progress physically, I push back occasionally and tell him that we need to wait until the second date.
He’s not pushy but somehow his hands end up between my legs. “Might as well see if he can use his fingers properly,” I tell myself. Jeremy wasn’t a pro with his fingers. Ray is phenomenal. So far, so good.
I had an STD test three days ago and the results aren’t in yet (except for HIV, which was negative). I don’t trust Jeremy and his dick. Sex isn’t an option.
As we continue making out on my couch, more clothes come off. I’ve been burned by a micro-dick before so I might as well check out the goods. He’s a solid size between the legs, which makes sense since he’s 6'3.
Ray’s body is meh. He shaved his chest and it’s like Brillo pads against my skin. He’s mushy and it hangs over his cock. There’s no excuse for a guy who is under 40 and wakes up to work out at 4:30 am to have a bad body. Jeremy is eleven years older and smokes Ray’s body out of the water. I long for the view of Jeremy’s body when his cock is in my mouth. I long for his abs, his shoulders, the feel of his hands, and how smooth his skin is from slathering on excessive Cerave (he was comically obsessed).
I compliment his body because I know positive reinforcement does wonders.
One thing leads to another and Ray’s dick magically lands in my vajayjay. While he’s thrusting, we have a safe sex talk. I mentally think that my results aren’t in until later this week but it’s too late now. If Jeremy gave me an STD, I’ll throw a brick through his window and make him tell Ray the unfortunate news.
Ray does the sex move where he lifts me with my legs wrapped around him and fucks me while standing. It’s an impressive move because it feels good. Maybe this guy with a weird dad bod (not a normal dad bod, it seems “off” because he still works out) is skilled in the bedroom.
I lead him upstairs. I get on the bed and he pounds away. Ray’s got weird pacing. Like Bro, pick a speed and a cadence, and stop mixing it up every few minutes. He keeps asking if what he’s doing is okay. I want to tell him to shut his pie hole and just fuck me in silence if he’s going to keep asking if I’m alright.
After missionary with my legs around his shoulders, I rearrange myself to get ready for doggy-style. My bedroom is boiling because I didn’t anticipate this and the air conditioner isn’t running. Flipping over gives me breathing room from the heat between our bodies. Jeremy loved doggy style, I flipped over out of habit.
Ray pounds me hard like a rock star. Okay, well played. Later, when I ask him to do it again, he puts me in a different position where I’m stuck laying flat on my stomach and he takes forever to slowly fuck me. I can feel buckets of his sweat dripping down on me and I know it takes a man forever to cum, if at all, if he feels like he’s banging in a sauna. Gobs of sweat fall in my ear.
He asks again if I’m okay and if I’m enjoying what he’s doing. I take the conversation in a dirtier direction but even which his attempt at sex talk, it feels vanilla and boring.
I long for Jeremy’s arm wrapped around my neck as he’d whisper, “You love this cock because you’re a little whore, don’t you?” which drove me wild. Don’t call me names outside the bedroom but when I’m naked, call me a whore and a slut to your heart’s content. I adore it.
I almost yell out Jeremy’s name and stop myself. I don’t want to yell out Ray’s name (“Ray” isn’t his real name for the sake of anonymity but I assure you, his real name isn’t something anyone can say sexily). Ray finally finishes with a slight grunt. We engage in a quick post-coital chat until Amazon’s Alexa tells me I need to jet.
“Hey,” Ray tells me as he gets ready to leave. “I really like you. You’re amazing. I’ll plan something for our next date.” I remind him that I’m old enough to be his mom. He kisses me and tells me he doesn’t care about the age difference and that he thinks I’m wonderful. “I want to learn more about you on our next date,” he says. The guy is worried that I think he thinks less of me because we fucked so early and wants to make sure I’m not insecure about it.
“I’m content just sitting in a dive bar, drinking and people-watching,” I tell Ray. “Yeah, you’re a big drinker? I don’t drink that much,” he replies. No, I’m not a big drinker. Even with Jeremy’s excessive drinking, the most I ever had in a month was six glasses of wine.
As soon as he leaves, I run to pee. This was straight-up urinary tract infection central with the duration and excessive, slimy sweatiness. I pop a prescription pill to ward off UTIs.
While sitting on the toilet, I begin sobbing. I miss Jeremy. I miss his body. I miss sex with him. I miss hanging out.
I learned years ago that I can’t have sex with someone if I’m in love with someone else. Here I am, sobbing while holding toilet paper, remembering that emotional boundary.
A short while later, Ray sends me a text. “Guess what?” he writes. “Do tell?” I reply. Fuck, I’m even responding the way Jeremy would to such a question.
“It’s been 30 mins and I still like you. And the age thing…that’s in your head. Doesn’t matter how old you are, I like you.”
I fight back tears because I’m at my kids’ school and composure is mandatory. I don’t want to tell myself that a good body or being overly nice during sex isn’t important. I had a sexless marriage and after endless sexcapades, I found the one whose body, personality, and looks made me sublimely happy.
But Jeremy didn’t feel the same way about me. He wanted me…and he wanted others. Meanwhile, I’m over here sobbing because I feel wretched after sex with a perfectly sweet man.
