What's Your Number? #8

How does #8 compare to the others? Let's find out in the third installment of my 'What's Your Number' series.

Jordan was a mistake; a mistake I made several times.

He was also completely wrong for me in every possible way a person can be. And although I was fully aware of this, I still found myself going back to him again and again and again. What started out as a one-time hookup somehow managed to turn into a shameful friends-with-benefits situation that lasted a couple months (my first and only one of those, by the way). 

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 now it's time to talk about the one I'm really embarrassed about—Jordan.

But Kate, you ask, why are you so embarrassed about #8? It's not like he's the absolute worst of them all. He's not even the second worst. So what's there to be ashamed about?

Well, dear reader, it's because I have no excuse for sleeping with Jordan. Not the first time, nor however many times we did it again after that.

(Note: I just counted, and while I won't say the exact number in a lame attempt to preserve some of my dignity, I will say it was a disgusting amount of times and let's just leave it at that.)

When I look back on #10 and #9, I have reasonable excuses. Whether it be because I was a horny virgin or a love-blind fool, I can at least reflect on those guys and say, "This is why." 

With Jordan, it's a little bit harder. I can't even really think of an excuse right now beyond "I was pretty fucking horny." And while I do consider myself a woman who embraces her sexuality and should not feel ashamed of having casual encounters, I do think I could have done WAY better than Jordan. He is, after all, #8; certainly no Casanova if he's that far down on the list.

So why did I keep going back? Why did I return to the guy who made me feel cheap and used after each unsatisfying romp? 

I guess that's a question only my future therapist can answer.

One night, I received a Tinder message. Yes, I'd finally discovered Tinder by this point. I hadn't done a casual hookup yet but that felt imminent. I wasn't really swiping with much passion—mostly I was just interested in seeing how many matches I could get, or what asshole from high school was suddenly interested in me after years of pretending I didn't exist (the answer is six, by the way. Six assholes).

Jordan sent me one message after we matched: "Hey, want me to give you an Australian kiss?"

Don't know what that is? Neither did I. But Jordan was happy to explain that it's "like a French kiss but down under."

Swoon?

Usually these sorts of ridiculous lines don't work on me. But Jordan happened to catch me on a night when my body was literally humming for physical attention. You're probably beginning to realize that happens to me a lot.

So I texted him to say we could meet up that night if he wanted to demonstrate this Australian kiss in person. I think he was genuinely surprised his line worked because he immediately replied, "Actually????"

His shock was a pretty good indication of how the evening was going to go, but I had already put on perfume and was searching for my keys.

Before we continue, I want you to think of your city. If someone said to you, "Let's meet at the spot," would you know where to go? Of course you would. I'm convinced every city has a "spot," like how every city has that one street consistently plagued with bad traffic, or that place tourists flock to but locals avoid. We can say every city is diverse but who are we kidding? No matter where you go, there will always be a "spot."

In my city, that happens to be an empty parking lot at the top of a large grassy hill kids use for tobogganing in winter. During every other season, it's used for shameless car sex. 

Actually, I can't say that for sure. Maybe people do that in the winter too. Do people have car sex in the winter? That's got to be cold, right?

Sorry, moving on.

We met up at a halfway point Jordan suggested, where our cars were parked parallel to each other and I was given my second indication of how this night was going to go. Why do I say this? Well, because Jordan truly had the douchiest car I think I've ever encountered in my entire life.

Good God, that thing was awful.

I guarantee that whatever you're picturing in your head right now as you read this is exactly what his car looked like. You're thinking silver, right? Maybe with blue lights underneath, glowing like a poor man's Fast and Furious street racer? And I bet you pictured it with some heavy bass blasting out the subwoofers as they cruise down the street at a sexy 5mph because traffic doesn't move any faster for you, even if you have a window sticker of the Monster Energy logo.

"Let's take my car," Jordan said. 

I was quick to shake my head. "That's O.K. We can take mine. The seats fold down." And, I thought, I won't feel like an absolute tool driving through town in it.

Jordan was already opening up the passenger door for me (such a gentleman) and gesturing inside his car. "I cleaned it just for you. Let's take mine."

"Cleaned" is such a generous term here. What Jordan actually did was throw all his shit into the backseat, not including the big case of Redbull he had stashed between the two front seats for easy access. I suppose he did put in some effort, but absolutely minimal effort at best. So basically I knew I wasn't about to be swept off my feet by any means.

We drove in silence to the "spot." I say silence because we weren't talking. However, there was plenty of music blasting from every direction inside this car to fill our empty conversation fairly easily. By the time we finally parked and he shut off the engine, I had a migraine and was seriously reconsidering having ever signed up for Tinder.

Let me take a moment and set the scene for you.

It was after midnight on a Wednesday. The "spot" was empty. His car smelled like a gym bag I knew was in that backseat somewhere and the remnants of whatever fast food chain Jordan had been frequenting lately. Ah, eau d'romance. 

Jordan reclined his chair back a bit and I did the same, stretching my legs out in front of me and settling in for what I assumed would be a few minutes of half-hearted conversation before we climbed on top of each other. But Jordan had other ideas.

 As soon as my chair was back far enough, he crossed the distance between our seats and folded himself over top of me, one hand diving between my legs while the other grabbed a handful of my left breast. Not only was this surprise attack completely unwarranted, but Jordan was also heavier than I'd thought. His weight on top of me crushed my ribs and made me audibly gasp, which he misread as me enjoying this moment. 

"I know, baby," he groaned, and began kissing me with the intensity only a man believing he was giving someone the night of their life could muster.

Now I will say, all things considered, Jordan wasn't particularly BAD at what he was doing. Yes, he was pretty fucking awful at choosing his moment, as well as choosing cars. But he tasted like cinnamon gum and his fingers were fairly adept as they crept under my panties and curled inside me. I remember actually crying out at one point when he made this sort of "come hither" motion against my G-spot and my entire body had responded like he'd shocked me.

So the foreplay was going well. I was still trapped under him with my dress hiked up around my waist and his elbow crushing my tits, but he was doing some pretty amazing things with his other hand. Things I truly didn't expect from him.

Suddenly, Jordan flopped back into his own seat behind the wheel, face pink and dark eyes set expectantly on me. I stared back at him with a dazed expression, feeling the pleasure quickly receding from where he'd so cleverly orchestrated it between my legs. What'd happened? Where'd he go? Why had he stopped when it was just getting SO good?

Jordan rested one arm on the driver's side door and the other on my headrest, wordlessly opening himself up to me. I noticed the tent in the front of his shorts and finally realized what he wanted. 

So I'd had my two minutes of pleasure, now it was his turn.

If I can be blunt, I really hate sucking cock when it's expected of me. I hate when a guy thinks he's done enough to be rewarded with a blowjob. I hate when a guy touches me for a moment and then sits back so I can choke on his dick for five minutes while he fists my hair and thrusts up into my mouth.

I hate that.

Don't get me wrong, if we're having sex and you ask me to go down on you, I'm more than happy to. Most of the time, I do it before they even have a chance to ask. If we're having sex and I'm enjoying myself, I want you to enjoy yourself too. I get off watching guys react while I'm pleasuring them—their little moans, breathless encouragements. I go wild for that shit.

But if you think you can just focus on me for a second and that's earned you a blowjob, think again.

I looked at Jordan with my eye brow raised, pretending I had no idea what he wanted. 

He unbuttoned the top of his shorts—a clue. 

I could have continued feigning obliviousness but I was so tired at that point that I just gave in. 

Hey, you. Yeah, you reading this. If a guy ever does that to you, please don't do what I did. Don't oblige to a blowjob—you have to WANT to give one. Don't let him decide what you're doing. Sex is a two-way street. There's give and take. Don't let him take and never give.

Learn from my stupid mistakes.

 I gave him the most half-hearted blowjob I think I've ever given. It only took a moment before Jordan groaned and told me to stop or else he'd "blow."

Hot, right?

I found myself on my back again in my reclined chair, Jordan on top of me as he struggled to push his shorts down to his ankles with one hand and my panties down with his other. Once we were both sufficiently nude from the waist down, he fished out a condom from his glove compartment (!!) and just sort of hovered over top of me while he struggled to put it on.

A moment later, he pushed his freshly wrapped cock inside of me, collapsing all his weight on top of my body with the effort of this one thrust. Really, I thought bitterly as I received all his weight into my chest again. Couldn't you even TRY to hold yourself up?

I'd say the sex was mediocre if not less than. He thrust inside of me a few times, hard and shallow, and then froze, shoving his face into my neck as he shuddered his release. I laid underneath him, my panties bunched at my knees and the wind still knocked from my lungs, believing I'd never see Jordan again.

Of course I did end up seeing him again which just sort of perfectly explains why I'm so embarrassed about this one. And believe me, it never got any better. 

And I never did that get that Australian kiss he'd so deceptively lured me to the "spot" with in the first place.

Come on, #7. Show us that sex can actually be good. The bar is just so low right now. So very low.

Now Reading
What's Your Number? #8