It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After by Andi Dorfman Page B

most unbelievably blue water I had ever laid eyes on should have been picturesque, but the dark mystery of what he would look like naked on top of me blurred my vision. I had one thing on my mind: sex.
    When nightfall finally came, we found ourselves alone in a private villa with no cameras, no producers, no microphones, and no rules as we uncorked a bottle of wine and made our way into the candlelit bedroom. **DAD STOP READING NOW!** More passionate kisses (complete with rib cage groping) ensued, and as one thing led to another, I found myself having full-blown sex with him. Thirtysome odd minutes later . . . I had experienced the most cringe-worthy, lady boner–killing, awkward sexual encounter of my life.
    Not what you expected to hear? Yeah, me neither. And it was all because of one very distinct, mortifyingly awkward conversation that I wish (and he probably does too) I could erase from my memory forever.
    Oh, where do I even begin? Everything was going so well, he was on top of me as he gazed adoringly into my eyes. As he opened his mouth to speak, I was certain he was going to tell me he loved me. But instead, he asked, “Would you rather?” Naked, and caught completely off guard, I thought, What the fuck? I got it—this was a game he and I had played a few times, where one person asks “would you rather” this awful thing or that awful thing and then the two of us would hysterically go back and forth with outrageous answers. But in twenty-seven years on this earth, never have I ever (there’s another good game) played it while having sex. Though mortified for him, myself, and this moment, I still decided to throw him a bone and go along with it.
    “Umm . . . would I rather what?”
    “Would you rather make love . . . or fuck?” he asked without hesitation—or the slightest sense of how bizarre this conversation was.
    What the fuckity fuck? We’re finally doing the deed, I’m trying to make the scenario less embarrassing by leading him toward romance, and all he can ask is would I rather fuck or make love? What was I suppose to say in response? If I say fuck, then I sound like a slut; if I say make love, then I sound sappy, if I say nothing, he goes limp—or maybe not, actually. I decide to spare myself the slut shaming and in an effort to avoid whatever kinky shit I feared could come next, I reluctantly responded.
    “Ummm . . . make love.”
    Considering we are still having sex at this point, this should have been the time to take the hint and stop talking, right? Yeah, right! Men, taking a hint . . . ha ha ha, now that’s funny.
    “Well, if I had four times, I’d like to fuck the first three times and make love the fourth,” he said.
    So now, really, WHAT THE FLYING FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK? Mind you, we are still having sex at this point—our first time having sex (or should I say the first time we are fucking?), and this is our pillow talk. We’d gone from passionate tingle-producing kisses, to a debilitating arid joke in a matter of one conversation. And while I’m all for overlooking first-time jitters, I’m sorry, but under no circumstances do you play a game like Would You Rather. This is sex, dammit . . . kiss me, love on me, and if you can’t talk without making an utter fool of yourself, then stay silent.
    Mind you, had the sex been mind-blowing, I could have maybe overlooked this blunder . . . but it wasn’t. It wasn’t anything he did wrong. The fireworks between us just weren’t there. All of the kissing and groping and chemistry we had atop the sheets just wasn’t the same underneath them. And as promiscuous as it may sound, I was no longer sexually attracted to him, and began to question if I was emotionally attracted to him anymore either. All I could think was, I endured a Brazilian wax for this?
    A few days passed before my next date, and as I sat on the beach I couldn’t get Twenty-Five’s question out of my mind. Despite feeling like a disappointed