Exposed by Jessica Love Page B

control if we weren’t smooth or tried to do too much.
    Some of the same techniques apply.
    If men are willing to spend thousands of dollars on golf lessons or driving lessons, why won’t they spend a few hours learning to be better lovers? Anyone can improve, and the practice is so much less tedious!
    My first few attempts to help, if they were lacking style or stamina, drew various levels of resentment. Sometimes this was passive. They would not call again, even if I made it obvious I wanted them to.
    If I said that perhaps five or ten minutes of overly athletic pumping right after a meal wasn’t quite enough foreplay, I was called demanding.
    If I said I liked giving and receiving oral sex, both as an appetizer and dessert, I saw in their body language they thought that was a bit gross.
    If I took forty-five minutes to reach orgasm for any reason, I was called greedy or cold.
    Other times, they turned it around on me, and actually attacked me for answering the question they had asked.
    If I wanted more spontaneity, suggest we have sex after a concert while driving home on the Alaskan Viaduct, I was called perverted.
    I tried elevating my vocabulary, but it was no use. Even when I said it was “great,” they knew I was also saying, “But it wasn’t the best.”
    Maybe the worst were the “hurt feelings.” Somehow, by not saying something that bolstered their self-esteem, I had betrayed them. All of which quickly brought me to the conclusion that if I wanted a child in my life, I would have had children. Every now and again they tried harder, sometimes they gave up. Other times I gave up, too, which was okay because I wasn’t emotionally invested.
    A handful of men were good, almost as good as Mark, but I’m not going there. They were fun and adventurous, but something always screwed it up. Often it was their fantasies. Several times I was asked what I thought about bringing another woman into the bedroom.
    Mateo was a good example. He was a banker whose parents were Spanish, but Mateo was born in the US. God he was handsome. Maybe it was his Latin blood, but he was a great lover, too.
    One evening after dinner and a second glass of wine at a restaurant over in Bellevue, he asked if I would like, or “consider” I think he said, bringing another woman into our sexual relationship.
    I’d heard this before and had a ready reply.
    “I would definitely consider it…” I said, then paused and looked off, slowly rotating my wine glass in my fingers as if I were reviewing the sensual possibilities at that very moment. I saw his eyes light up as endorphins soared and the blood rushed from his brain to other organs.
    “But of course we’d have to have a quid pro quo. Do you know any men who’d be willing to join us on occasion? If not, I may have a phone number or two.”
    The light drained from his eyes as if I’d splashed him with icewater from the glass on the table. His lovely eyebrows knit together. He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s my thing,” he said at last.
    “Too bad,” I said and shrugged, leaving him wondering whether I was jacking him around or if I really wanted a couple of men for my entertainment. I knew the discussion would not end there, though our fling probably would, and I was okay with that. As pretty as he was and as good a lover, we didn’t have a lot in common and the relationship was starting to get old.
    For fun I decided to be noncommittal when he brought up the subject of whether I’d had more than one man at a time. God, he tried to ask in so many ways without appearing to be asking at all. I’m a lawyer, so, duh, he got no real answer, and sure enough, by the time we got back to his place, he was “very tired” and ready to sleep.
    I let myself out and didn’t hear from him again. As I said, that was okay.
    And don’t get me started on jealous men, or those who feel that because we’d had sex once, or a half-dozen times, they need to “take care of me,”