Deliver us from Pleasure: An Experience of the Jesus wedge
I had been introduced to- and promptly started chatting up- this young woman. My jokes were on point and my wit well timed, not too cocky not too cliche. In short, my game was on fire.
Two days later (with my game still ablaze), we started to talk about sex. She told me how she had been with a woman for three years without ever having had penetrative sex with her. They would kiss and cuddle but nothing below the belt… ever. I was utterly shocked to hear this.
Looking at her one would think they were staring at a sculpture. I soon found out that she was a part time model and this got me excited-I had never been with a model but had always wanted to. I mentioned her to the woman I was seeing and was given a license to try to fuck her. The only obstacles were the doubts that nestled in my mind because of her inexperience.
My model friend assured me that she was indeed very attracted to women and that her reasons for denying herself and her former girlfriend the connection, intimacy, fun, joy and laughter that come with sex were religious. She was afraid that if she indulged herself she would be condemned to eternal damnation by the Most High Jesus Christ.
Feeling confident, I brushed her superstitions aside and arranged for us to spend that Friday bumming around town (either Camden or Spitafields markets). Before I could furnish any further detail I was promptly informed that she did not own a pair of flat shoes. What a coup! I immediately imagined fucking her while she wore a pair of black patent leather Louboutins. I didn’t think to ask if she owned a pair of wedges and simply offered to bring along a pair of my converses for her to borrow. She declined and went ahead to confirm our date.
I had chosen for us to hang out at Camden or Spitafields because in my experience first dates are usually less awkward when you have some form of activity to distract you from each other’s nervous energy. I had also tried to ensure that the locations I suggested were convenient for the both of us and cheap for me.
When she threw out the question of whether or not I would come to pick her up, my charm wouldn’t let me say no even though it was journey and a half. I lived on the other end of London and I had neither the time nor money for all of that. I was simply for a thrill, and cheap and minimal effort would do it for me.
I made sure to steal the pink rose peeking through my neighbour’s garden fence, a move guaranteed to lock in my points. Why spend £8 buying a bunch at M&S when the effect of single rose on a first date trumps that of a bunch?
It wasn’t asphyxiatingly sweet; instead it read cute and thoughtful.
I turned up half an hour late and nonchalantly handed her the rose while spinning some tale about how acquiring it made me miss the train. The fib was something about how the neighbour (an old man) had stepped onto his back porch to yell, cane in hand, until I apologized.
I already knew she was a couch potato and I wondered if I making myself appear comfortable would be enough to nix the possibility of Camden or Spitafields occurring. I prayed that we could just fast-forward to “sexy time”. We ended up taking a long walk along the docks and it was nice but I kept thinking of the quickest way to get her into bed.
She was one of those cocktail sipping girls so I put my cocktail-making skills out there. We bought a bottle of Smirnoff Vodka on the way back from our walk and I proceeded to make us the drinks: generous amounts of vodka, lime juice, a dash of lemon juice, pink lemonade, cranberry juice and orange juice, and (of course) a lime wedge to top it off. My off-the-cuff cocktail proved to be a hit. I made several more rounds and next thing you know we are getting all cozied up on the sofa.
I remember her being the one to make the first move. I feigned ignorance and continued with the jokes until we started to talk about breast sizes. She placed her hands on my chest- to “check” which one of us had bigger boobs. Now, I couldn’t really ignore that, could I? She jokingly asked me take off my shirt- I wasn’t wearing a bra and she knew this. I replied that I only take off my clothes in front of people who are also taking off theirs. She then looked up at me with that look that says ‘I know you know I’m touching your boobs and if you like it you need to show me you do’. I knew it was time to go in for the kiss.
We moved it to bedroom and the clothes promptly came off. We found ourselves sprawled in bed, kissing, touching, boob sucking, clit rubbing…you name it, we did it. When the timing felt perfect I proceeded to go down on her and, by God, my hair has never been pulled so much in my life! I wasn’t sure if it was a good old pleasure based reaction or a “stop, this is beyond my Jesus limits” hair tugging. I eventually came up to kiss her on the lips, partly to have her taste herself on me but mainly because I love my hair right where it is on my head. More importantly I wanted to fingerfuck her slowly until she came.
In our text conversations she had asked me what lesbians do in bed -specifically the things I enjoyed doing to a woman’s body. I had told her how I adored eating pussy, how I enjoyed making a woman come in my mouth, how I liked to fuck them from behind before turning them around and having them straddle their legs around me “missionary style” then riding my fingers until their bodies buckled. I wanted to feel her moist contractions against my fingers over and over again- and imagined her groans as I plunged myself deep inside of her.
We kept kissing and when I reached down to play with her clit, and all the other areas involved, I tried to slide a finger into her but she declined. I was so hot for her that I asked her repeatedly to fuck me. She readily obliged and although I can’t say she did it like a pro but she was definitely on her way to getting the job done. Still, she still wouldn’t let me touch her in her “special” place. I tried over and over again but she wouldn’t let me. All this while, she’d been sliding her finger in and out of me.
I decided it was time to end the charade. I like to know that whoever I’m having sex with feels just as good as they are making me feel. I recognize that different people like different things in bed and it’s important for their partners to respect that but it’s also important for me to have these reasons explained to me in a rational way. In my frustration, I decided to get up and take a shower. When I got back I chose a side of the bed and set my phone alarm.
Jesus had successfully planted a wedge between us and it was sour as lemons. I couldn’t believe that this hot model friend thought Jesus was okay with us having incomplete and illogically restricted sex and I stewed over that until I fell asleep.
The next morning I woke up early and decided that Jesus probably would want me to have a bit of courtesy and not sneak out on her so I waited for her to get up too. There was none of that spooning shit. I simply got up, dressed and took my place on the living room sofa. She was really sweet and offered me some breakfast. She made me overly salty eggs with no bread. These models, they don’t eat bread. I ate quickly and left feeling utterly unaccomplished. I walked to the train and for the entire ride I wondered whether JC was having a right laugh at me.
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