The Tiniest Penis

The foreplay was sweet—connected and intimate, with curious and intertwined fingers sweetly exploring crooks of arms and slope of neck, angular curves and vast expanses of smooth, soft skin. When he pushed himself inside of me, there was resistance—it had been a minute since I'd danced with a man, and while I was attracted and intrigued by this one kissing me and touching me and pulling off my clothes, I wasn't yet turned on enough to be wet and slippery. Still, I was happy to (finally) have him inside of me. It had been a tumultuous year of courtship—passionate highs, temperamental lows, a series of cross-country journeys and lots of patience.

But once he was inside of me, something wasn't quite right. I couldn't put either my proverbial or fleshborne fingers on it. Conceptually, I knew that I was having sex (it was obvious; I was pinned beneath a naked man who was grunting, heaving and thrusting over me) but my feeling experience—down there—just wasn't quite right. No matter how wide I straddled, or how high I tilted my pelvis, I couldn't quite meet his level of passion or excitement. What the fuck was(n't) going on?

In the past, I'd been easy to excite, effortlessly multi-orgasmic. My lovers had, for the most part, been at least a decade younger, and thus quick to cum, which was fine by me, as they were lovers, not partners, naked and near me specifically for the purposes of getting off, with nary a pretense of any sort of shared Happily Ever After between us. The five to eight minutes of sex was perfect, as I was ever and always slammed with some sort of deadline or inspired collaboration and beholden to a lengthy morning meditation/yoga ritual that demanded my early to bed, early to rise tendencies. And so, quick and effective with young and gorgeous worked fine by me, until I had the inkling for something more, which landed me in bed with Adam, who was still pumping away while I lay dry and confused, wondering, like any good springtime Jewish girl, what made this sex different from any other sex I'd had.

There were a ton of reasons for this uncontextualized confusion. Adam was A. available and B. loved me, which rendered sex suddenly safe—not the thinly laid trap for annihilation I was used to—and that was new and strange because the heightened, visceral terror that I'd previously associated with love and sex was absent. In its place was an overwhelming tenderness that I hadn't experienced in eons and didn't quite know how to process. Still, why would it make the sex so dull?

And then it hit me: My G-spot wasn't being stimulated. He wasn't big enough to reach it. It all made sense in some tragic, twisted way. This was a real-deal man who adored me and treated me like a princess and flew across the planet to spend the weekend with me—he was, in fact, partnership material, and I was finally ready to go to the scary places in my heart with him and give this intimacy thing a try. And now, here we were, consummating our year-long chase with sweetness and vulnerability, and I couldn't hear the symphony that we were co-creating. I simply wasn't that stimulated, the volume having been turned way down on my feeling experience such that I grew drier and drier—crossing over from willing and active participant to entirely over it, now thrusting back with a vigor that matched his, bruising the shit out of myself in the process, hoping he'd just get it over with and cum already.

As I lay there, getting pummeled by the undersized penis attached to this otherwise amazing man, I pondered the make-believe future in which we shared a bed and a life, while my G-spot, lonely and forgotten, shriveled up inside of me and died. I wrestled with an imaginary string of tomorrows, searching the ethers for an algorithm that would help me determine whether vaginal orgasms were worth sacrificing for this real-deal dream guy who sees me the way most don't, and who showers me with affection and who can be simultaneously silly and brilliant while saving the world and making me laugh.

Sigh…

The beautiful, wretched irony is that the day after we had sex, Adam—freaked out by the intimacy demons clawing at his heart and gnawing on his twisted brain—disappeared into the internal realms of check-out and disconnection, and so after I couldn't really, truly feel him inside of me, I couldn't feel him in front of me, either.

Sigh, again.

Santa Fe Reporter