Yes, the boyfriend I hadnt heard of until we were lying in bed.
She told her boyfriend she was staying with a friend and then punctuated her conversation with I love you.
Then, she hung up her phone and turned to me and started kissing me. I got in to the kissing for a while until finally my conscience got the best of me. I pulled away and said: Wait, how can you tell that guy you love him and then turn around to kiss me within the same five minutes?
This set off a discussion that resulted in her crying right there in my bed. I wondered why I wasnt like most guys who would have just gone for it, regardless of her situation. Suddenly this thing had gotten very mental and very un-physical.
I thought that my internal pleas to the figurative ride conductor: stop the ride, stop the ride, had been answered when her crying concluded and she turned and started to fall asleep. However, the ride had just begunor her ride.
Before I knew it we were making out even more intensely and she was on top of me as if I were gymnastics apparatus. The making out went on for a while but it was the makeout conversation I remembered most clearly. She whispered in my ear:
Tomorrow, I want you to find me in the back tents at Fashion Week and take me somewhere and fuck me right up against the wall. My entire spirit curled up into the fetal position and recoiled like a turtle into a shell. How was I supposed to do this? She wanted porn sex! Crazy thing is, as much as I love porn (and I do love porn), I have never been able to bring myself to take on the role of the porn character. The over-aggressive female puts me on the spot too much: satisfy me, now, this way, or that. Usually, I can avoid failure by not tryingand I apply this to these sorts of opportunities.
Ive never been able to be that porn guy. I want to be, because I bet its fun. But my lack of killer instinct, fear of failure (or success?) just wont let me try it.
I whimpered: Well see, but I dont know if I can. You know, I need to work my post at the Fashion Wall tomorrow.
This must have been the ultimate insult. The Fashion Wall was a collection of pictures of famous models and stars that were being auctioned off to charity. The person who was on the rotation to work the wall was required to simply stand there and provide information to passers by. I had just told this girl to her face that Id rather lean against the Fashion Wall alone than fuck her against the wall of my choice in the bowels of the Fashion Week tents.
The making out ended pretty soon thereafter. And, the next morning, she took one of my favorite t-shirts and never gave it back. I guess I deserved it.
I recounted the story to my gay work-obsessed boss who was very proud that I pledged my allegiance to the Fashion Wall. He probably also was proud that, in a way, I had made what looked like a pledge to gayness by turning down an insatiable cute girl and a sexy adventure.