Our dating correspondent returns from his self-imposed exile to document what would be a close call in the dog-eat-dog world of break-ups, fuck-ups, rich boys, and premature engagements.
Emily had a lean sensuality to her and a pretty face that had only recently caught my eye. She was a ballet dancer in high school and she played the part well: 5’8″, nice posture, great arches in both feet. Emily was a practicing Buddhist, a tradition bestowed upon her by her healthfoody mother, but the observance of which seemed little more than an appreciation of beans and “spirituality.”
Emily spent 100 dollars a month on groceries, 25 dollars of which was reserved for Luna bars. Her father was an entrepreneurial ophthalmologist in a posh Boston suburb. He was supposedly buying an apartment in the fall for Emily, one of his several real estate investments.
She arrived at the New Hampshire lake house in the last car, hours after the rest of us. Somehow I found myself standing alone in the kitchen with her doing a shot. Something lemon flavored. Maybe Absolut Citron. She was undoubtedly an inch my superior.
“So I broke up with my boyfriend yesterday.” She sounded neither relieved nor remorseful. It was tough to get a read on her across the liquor bottle in her hand. She was excited to be up in New Hampshire and she liked to party.
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that, I hope you’re doing okay,” I said in an obligatory tone that sounded like the mandatory offering of condolences to the bereaved. I was lying on both accounts. I wasn’t sorry to hear that Emily dumped Brad. I had only met him once, but he was a dull undergrad with no spark. Emily was effervescent and personable. Brad was also as stocky as she was lithe. After meeting him previously in march of that year, I remarked to my friend Nakul that Emily’s boyfriend of 5 years was quite disappointing, a real bore.
My friend replied with a tale of a major blunder he had made months before. Emily and Brad were out with a bunch of medical school folks at a local place and Nakul, after meeting Brad, didn’t realize who he was and turned to Emily asking, “Who brought the douchebag out?” As if it’s any mystery why everyone finds it impossible to integrate their social life into the the med school scene. It’s an unwritten rule at my school never to bring lay friends from college or high school out to meet medical students at a bar. For whatever reason, both parties find the experience exceptionally alienating.
Emily leaned forward to pass a bottle of tequila to her drinking partner, a classmate of ours who was eager to celebrate the end of our first year. I couldn’t help but notice Emily’s black thong with its delicate lace trim. She was, after all, sitting next to me. So Emily came to New Hampshire where half a dozen of her friends and classmates were “chilling out” and she wore a sexy pair of underwear. Was she looking to get down?
And that’s the other part of my lie: I told her that I hoped she was doing okay, but what I really hoped was that she was doing just enough not okay that she would hook up with me. I’m at least as good looking as her ex-boyfriend Brad and I’m so much more charming. A few of our mutual female friends (we’ll just call them “my detractors” for the sake of simplicity, since calling them cock-blockers is rude) would later reveal to me that they considered their friend Emily to be “vulnerable,” an emotional state which I personally don’t believe exists.
What was Emily vulnerable to? Vulnerable to having a good time? Her conscious effort to drink tequila from the bottle with her friends on the porch was not as my detractors might claim, an attempt to dull the pain of her (apparently painless) breakup, but rather to catch up to the party that she joined hours late. I’m a libertarian and a libertine, we’re all as vulnerable as one another.
Back to the thong. It was black and trimmed with lace, but you already knew that. I would never see it again. Emily and I got around to making out soon after she fed me chocolate cake and asked me to hold her drink while she took her birth control pill.
There isn’t anything quite as enticing to this male future physician as the pharmaceutical industry’s firsthand reminder that women are having vaginal intercourse. Oral contraceptives say out loud “I’m fucking a man right now or admit to the possibility of fucking a man in the near future.” The flamboyant public pill popping of birth control is a peculiar display. True patients prefer to swallow pills privately lest anyone pester them about their thyroid condition or lest they reveal to the world that they are being treated for major depression.
Why do women sometimes bring their private sexuality into the public sphere? Are they intentionally advertising their sexual liberation? Do other men find women taking birth control to be as big of a turn on as I do? Maybe I’m just sexually repressed. After all, I find the act of applying a condom to be erotic. A man who appreciates the sexiness of contraception might have more than just a few problems.
So we were lying on a bed in this secluded New Hampshire lake house, wilderness all around, and we were kissing. Her kiss was assertive, forceful, and delightful. I had been without female affection for months, at least female affecion without another man present. Emily was aggressive but restrained, like a cocktease who has had too much to drink. What a coincidence.
“I’m so horny right now, I want you so badly.” Was she serious? Was this really happening to me? Why did I sense hesitation if she was so horny? I used my left hand to unhook her bra and I gently caressed my way back around her right chestwall, stroking towards her right breast. It’s a B-cup, maybe a B+.
“Emily, I adore you,” I whimpered. Perhaps that was too much. Her bra fell down to her tremendously flat stomach as if to protect supranumery nipples. This was getting heavy: “Seriously, you have no idea what I could do to you.” Emily was my classmate and a future physician, she was bright and motivated and hot.
“I would like to reciprocate.”
“NO,” she said in an emphatic tone that only a drunk girl would use as she held up a finger perpendicular to my mouth. “I don’t need that right now.” As the victim of a post-feminist, post-jewish, post-medical household, I wondered if she was on the rag? Maybe she’s having her period? A woman’s libido increases during menstruation, right?
In one moment her tongue was caressing my own and then a moment later we were suddenly disbanded and returning downstairs to join the rest of the party. They were watching television and Emily and I sat together on a love seat in perfect view of our friends, without a view of the TV.
How did she re-attach her bra so quickly and why did our lovely foreplay end so suddenly?
Stay tuned to this space for further misadventures in the dating world.
PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING
Our dating correspondent’s initial foray.
There’s a lot of ins and outs when it comes to e-mail correspondence, dude.
These guys filled in while our trusty correspondent was on sabbatical.