Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn. This is a conundrum.
My first date with Fiji (read about it here) was a breath of fresh air. A hurricane of it, really. He came off as witty, liberal, kind-hearted, well rounded, kinky, intelligent, and totally confident in himself. (I failed to mention previously that he also makes a pretty ridiculous 6-figure salary. Handy.) He had me laughing, and opening up, and nodding in agreement all evening, and flirting like crazy. And his kiss was perfection.
The sex, though. God dammit. The sex was not perfection.
We had a second date at his place. It began as lovely: Fiji is a bit of a wine connoisseur, and we sipped a high-quality wine flight he’d prepared while enjoying the breeze from the balcony of his downtown apartment. We discussed wine and food, family, religion, sex, everything, with laughter interspersed throughout the conversations like flutes in a symphony or something.
Then we got into bed. The symphony ended and suddenly it was more like a 1st grade recorder lesson. With a really, really small recorder.
The moment Fiji’s clothes came off, his body seemed to change proportions. His belly was larger than I’d seen, his ass flatter, his legs a bit spindly. But here’s my disclaimer on that, and I’m only going to say it once: I don’t have a perfect body, and I don’t need my partner to have one. I’ve got 40-plus lbs I could healthily lose, I’m pale, there are areas I need to bulk up, and a few that should lean out — I’m imperfect. I’d rather have a partner who is similarly imperfect, so that judgement doesn’t flow either way and we both feel comfortable. Fiji’s body, in this case, could not escape my judgement.
You know what, though? I’d like to think that, if it were just the body, I could get over the aesthetics and enjoy the ride. The real trouble came when he reached down and started poking his little penis into me. I wasn’t sure if it was fully in, but then he brought his hand back up and started pounding away. Yup. That was fully in. And because of his lack of athleticism, he couldn’t pound away for all that long either. I feel it’s time to give my second disclaimer: I am not a size queen. I don’t like huge dicks. They hurt. I generally like anything near average — sure, maybe with a little extra on girth, but that’s certainly not a requirement.
I enjoyed the feeling of his body hitting against my clitoris. I enjoyed our kisses. But the sex part? What sex?
“You feel amazing,” he groaned into my ear.
“Mmmm. …Good,” I replied.
He brought me to the edge of the bed and went down on me for a while. My pussy doesn’t get off on oral — it never has — so I eventually asked him to put his fingers inside of me. I didn’t climax until I’d later added my own fingers to rub my clit. He’d told me previously that oral is his ‘superpower’ (and, to manage expectations, I did tell him I don’t get off on oral), so I can’t help but think he felt a little let down by his own tongue. I hope he knows he did a fine job.
On the upside, he was quite an enthusiastic fan of my oral skills.
“So,” he said afterward. “You’ve given a blowjob or two before, have ya?”
I laughed. “What, me? Never!”
“Did you study up or something? That was like porn star head, seriously.”
Blowjob appreciation is always welcomed with open arms in my book. I thanked him sincerely. I like giving head, even on a small dick like his.
While I was down there and had a chance to examine, I was actually surprised it wasn’t smaller. We aren’t talking micro-penis here — more like 4 inches, with girth pretty proportionate to length. My understanding is that this is not far off average for someone of Asian descent (although I’ve been with men who were of partial Asian descent, Fiji is actually my first fully Asian dick). So why had I hardly been able to feel it? Was it in part to do with the belly? Or was the motion in the ocean just all wrong?
Regardless of the reason, the sex absolutely sucked. Physical chemistry in general sucked, and this I was frankly not expecting, because I’d felt attracted to him beforehand, and because our kiss was so amazing.
“Physical chemistry is such a funny thing,” Fiji mused while cuddling me in bed. I gulped and said nothing. “Some people can be incredibly hot, but the chemistry just isn’t there. And other times, it’s way better than you hoped!”
Playfully, I said, “I’m assuming, because you said that out loud, that you mean I fall in second category.” I felt immediate regret, panicked by the idea that he might ask me the same. Thank goodness he didn’t. If I were to lie, it would be knowing full well that that kind of lie is impossible to maintain.
…It was while writing this last paragraph that I finally, two days after the date, settled my conundrum. Although a mental connection is much more difficult to find than a physical one, and although he is a great match for me in more than one way, and although it is incredibly important to me to be in a relationship with someone as kinky as I am…physical chemistry needs to work. It just needs to. Fiji isn’t my guy.
“Hey Fiji,” I texted him (texting isn’t considered cold blooded when it’s only been two dates, right?). “So, despite everything and despite me really liking you, I feel that I should speak up and cut things off. I don’t think I feel the chemistry as much as I want to, and I’d rather not continue things half heartedly. Which is a huge bummer for me because you are fucking awesome. You’ve shown me a really good time.”
This predicament certainly is that: a huge, tantalizingly-close-to-perfect, frustrating bummer. Still, it has shown me that there do exist men who are not only great boyfriend material, but kinky as hell. And that knowledge alone is comforting.