The Problem Of Bad Sex, Or, Why Everyone Should Own A Vibrator

An anonymous lady over at The Frisky tells a tale some of us have lived too much: the tale of that dude whose sexytime skills leave more than a little bit to be desired.

They go out, he admits to Googling her, she freaks and the date heads downhill, but she re-ups for a free meal (bad call) and then a second date.

At the end of our second date, I let him kiss me and was impressed such a beta male actually took the initiative. The kiss wasn’t something to write home about, but at least it wasn’t horrible.

Um, ok, first off, in defense of so-called beta males (who, I suppose ,are the ones who seem unlikely or even incapable of conking you on the head and dragging you back to his cave): I have slept with men that don’t seem sexually aggressive — it’s usually a sign of, you know, respect for women, their boundaries and even a little shyness. This is no indicator of their prowess in bed. What is at least a decent indicator that bad sex could be on the horizon is the lack of physical chemistry. But that’s the next paragraph.

Back at Peter’s apartment, we began making out, which was, again, OK. Things went downhill when we went into the bedroom. I’d heard of bad sex, but I didn’t truly believe in its existence. Usually, I’m able to turn mediocre sex situations into something fine through my talents.What happened next with Peter was bad sex. We’re talking epically bad, a-scene-from-an-“American Pie”-movie bad.

See, in my mind, “OK” making out generally doesn’t get me excited enough to bother, third date and months-long dry spell notwithstanding. If a guy can’t kiss my neck well enough to make me tingle without leaving a mark and immediately starts to ineptly paw at my breasts, it’s generally time to take my leave. She continues:

During the first few minutes of jackhammering, I thought, OK, maybe he needs to warm up. But when it continued and increased in intensity, I started to think, You’ve got to be kidding me. Then came the audio component. As his body convulsed, a heavy breathing began. Not a sexy heavy breathing, but a fast hyperventilating that sounded asthmatic. I stifled a laugh as I listened to the repeated, wheezing “Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw” in my ear.
Just as I was about to reach my limit of 13-year-old boy sex, he finally finished.

Now, I don’t know what her mad sex skills are, but they apparently didn’t include “communication.” If a guy was pounding away like he was trying to mine diamonds out of my pussy and I didn’t like it, there would be no quiet acquiescence from down under — especially if he’d gone from Mr. Beta Male who I didn’t expect to initiate a kiss to Mr. Harvey Headbanger. You can ask to switch positions (although, I had this fail utterly once when the dude couldn’t figure out the mechanics of reverse-entry), request a slow-down, a breather, pull him closer (onto his elbows, say) where it becomes more physically difficult to slam away without some knowledge of what he’s not paying attention to happening underneath him. Or you can lie there and wonder why a guy that you don’t really like — who also maybe doesn’t really like you — isn’t noticing that he’s not really doing it for you sexually.

But what’s your worst sex story? A one-hump chump (give me the jackhammer any day)? That guy who insists on telling you how good he’s giving it to you? The guy who had no problems asking you for a post-condom BJ but wouldn’t eat pussy? An inveterate nipple pincher? And — maybe more importantly — was it a dealbreaker, or was it with someone you liked enough to give a second chance at mutual ecstasy?

Dealbreaker: Really Bad Sex [The Frisky]

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