What's Your Number? #9

This was a hard one to write.

Not because it's hard to admit Peter is #9 on this list. But because it's hard to talk about him without delving into our relationship and I just don't have the time or energy to do that. So let's just focus on the sexual aspect (the dirty details, if you will) and we'll skip all that other stuff.

Welcome to my countdown of the Top 10 (and only 10) men I have slept with. I recently reached this mile stone and decided that there was truly no better way to celebrate than to take a look back at the best of the best and the worst of the worst. And I guess that means we have to talk about Peter.

Peter came into my life about as quickly as he left it.

Oh, crap. Sorry. There's that emotional stuff. I'll try again.

Peter knew how to kiss, which is more than I can say for his predecessor, Mr. French-Kiss-Salivia-Lips #10. So for that reason, I put him ahead at #9. But for so many other reasons, I put him way behind at #9. You'll see what I'm talking about soon enough.

My first time with Peter came at the end of what had to have been my longest dry-spell ever. It had been SEVEN MONTHS of zero physical contact. I don't think I'd even kissed anyone in that time. Why? That's another story. But it should be said that when Peter and I collided, I was fairly ready (and desperate) for him to help me forget those seven months of absolute hell.

But we took our time. Lord help me, we took our time.

We went on dates. I met his grandma. We held hands and he kissed me on the cheek and we parted ways at 11 pm like a couple of little high schoolers with a curfew.

I was positively aching for him to make a move. Sure, I could have made it myself. But if you read the introduction to this series (see: "What's Your Number?") you will recall that I was an overly shy and anxious teenager. And while I did manage to shed most of that after graduation, I was still a little nervous to really put myself out there. So this prevented me from ever grabbing his face between my hands and kissing him, like I so badly wanted to do.

I think it was probably a month after we first started seeing each other that Peter finally made a move.

We were sitting on his couch in his basement. Wait, that's not right. We were sitting on the couch in his Grandma's basement where he lived. Yeah, he was a grown man living in his Grandma's basement. But I didn't hold that against him.

O.K. Maybe I did, a little.

We were asking each other questions, a silly habit of ours that was beginning to wane as we felt like we were running out of things to ask each other. I remember I was turned towards him, our knees touching, our fingers intertwined, and all I could think in that moment was, "Why hasn't he kissed me yet?"

It was beginning to feel personal. Was there something wrong with me? Did he not want to? Did I disgust him?

"I have a question for you," I began hesitantly, not looking at him.

"Shoot."

But I couldn't even say it. I was so badly dreading the answer that the question got lost on my tongue. I tipped my head back against his couch and closed my eyes, sighing quietly.

"God," I mumbled, "I wish you could just read my mind so I don't have to ask you."

And that's when his hand found the back of my neck, pulling me towards him so our lips could lock in one of those frenzied, teeth-mashing kisses that left me dizzy.

Like I said before, Peter knew how to kiss. Good God, did he know how to kiss. I clambered into his lap, wrapping myself up into him in this hot desperation for more contact. That's what Peter made me want: more, more, more. I just wanted MORE.

I know what you're thinking -- why is Peter #9 if I clearly wanted him so bad? What makes him so low on the list when he had me ready to jump his bones?

All in good time, reader. All in good time.

His lips left mine and continued down my neck, biting me, teasing me, making my eyes roll back into my head. I couldn't get enough of him. I was soaking wet before his hands could even dip below my waist.

But that's the thing. They never did.

Yes, Peter was an amazing kisser. But he was completely oblivious to everything else that might make a girl want him more. We kissed, we rolled around on the couch, and his hands did grope my breasts. But never once did I feel him touching me between my legs, stirring something inside of me that only the most talented of fingers can awaken.

He just never did it.

I'm still not sure why, and I don't think I'll ever know why. I touched him. I palmed him through his jeans, made him hiss and swear. But he never thought to reciprocate, which just may be one of the most confusing things I've ever encountered.

Although, perhaps not quite so confusing as Peter's unwillingness to undress.

He was quite an attractive man. He played football in high school and had the body to show for it. Well, I assume he did. I only ever saw it through his shirts and pants. I couldn't even tell you what his cock looked like, or if he had chest hair. He never showed me. He could have had a secret tattoo or his nipples pierced -- I wouldn't know.

Another thing that should be mentioned here is that Peter liked missionary. Only missionary. I offered up different positions but he always refused, saying "this one gets [him] off best". Perhaps I should have dug my heels in a bit more. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so willing to go along with everything Peter wanted, and insist my own pleasure should be taken into account. But I never did.

So it was always the missionary position. Fully dressed missionary.

Let me just stop here for a moment and say, I do not condone faking orgasms because a) that's stupid b) you'll never achieve real orgasm that way because c) he'll think he's doing exactly what needs to be done to make you cum when in fact, he's doing the exact opposite.

However, I will admit that I did often fake it with Peter, simply so the sex would end. It always seemed to just keep going with him. He'd crawl on top of me, still fully dressed. We'd kiss slowly, deeply, and I'd feel that familiar ache telling me he was definitely doing something right.

And then he'd shimmy down his pants a little and enter me, and that'd all go away.

The sex was slow. Too slow. Not the kind of slow sex that's deep and sensual, but slow as in a ridiculously slow pace that leaves you plenty of time to think about that paper you have to write for Thursday. Is your thesis too general? Should you be more specific or is there such a thing as too specific? Did you professor talk about this at all when he assigned the paper?

I'd end up faking an orgasm because whenever Peter looked down at my feigned expression of ecstasy, he would feel encouraged -- nay, proud. And he too would cum. Well, not "too". But he would cum and it would be over.

That's a terrible attitude to have about sex, but Peter just wasn't willing to change. That was something I had to accept about him. No matter what or who for, he just wasn't ready for a change. And if that meant living in his grandma's basement and never going back to school or trying to have an adult relationship --

Oh. There's that emotional stuff again.

Let's wrap this up.

Peter could kiss me and make me feel like I was bursting into flames. For that, he's not #10.

But he did push me to fake an orgasm. Many orgasms. And I still don't know what his cock looks like. For that, he's definitely #9.

Here's hoping #8 will be better.

(Spoiler: he will be, but not by much).