“I read this survey that said that unattractive girls are better in bed,” a friend of mine said and looked me dead in the eyes, “No offence.”
I have no idea what you just told me. That I am either attractive or good in bed. Or worse — that I am either unattractive or bad in bed. The silence he left between us asked of me to respond, forcing me to chose which quality I would rather claim I had.
“I, uh,” I stuttered, “I think I’m good in bed. I might not be. I mean… I haven’t asked guys to rate me. I judge on their… you know, sounds? Like, I rely on my instincts. I’m pretty sure most of them have enjoyed it. But… I don’t know. They could have been faking it. Oh God. What if they have all just been faking it?”
My friend’s rather panicky stare told me that I had taken it too far. It had just been a witty remark that I had turned into a whirlpool of my own insecurities. I forced a smile and went down the safe road,
“Why don’t ya see for yourself?” I winked excessively and he chuckled. I got out of it.
The argument is that unattractive people try harder. Meaning, if you are so lucky to get a handsome man so drunk that he will fall into your arms, into a cab and into his flat, you better fucking try and please him. Eat him up like he’s the last piece of chocolate cake and that chocolate cake is the last chocolate cake in the entire universe. Oh, and you’re starving to death. You better try and recall some of those techniques you found when you researched.
You’ve been ready for months — You’ve been to that bar every night. You’ve seen beautiful people come and go. They haven’t seen you, obviously, as you’ve been crouched between two broken pinball machines in the corner, whilst chewing on a piece of fried chicken. Every night the beautiful people have found each other. “A mirror!” one once exclaimed before leaving the bar with another one. One guy fucked up. You knew one of them would eventually. It was just a matter of time. One got away from his crew. You could tell by his dead eyes that he had been drinking jäegerbombs. He wouldn’t know an unattractive person from a real person. This was your time to strike. In one quick movement, you’ve slipped in under his arm. Your tongue is in his mouth. He’s not responding; he doesn’t have to, he’s beautiful. He is not as much kissing you, as he’s just drooling down your chin and down your clevage (don’t get too excited, a clevage doesn’t count when you’re fat) and creates a small puddle. It’s okay. He doesn’t have to kiss well. He’s beautiful. An übermensch. His drool on your boob is like a gift; a touch from a God. You drag his almost lifeless body to a cab. You’ll pay for the ride. He won’t have to. He’s beautiful. And passed out on the backseat.
“You need help with that?” the cabdriver will ask you concerned when you lift the beautifully chisseled body to your back. You’ll gasp for air but shake your head. You got this. You’ll get him upstairs and into your bed. Cold water in his face. He comes to his conscience, his beautiful conscience, for just a second, but that is all you need. You remember everything you need to do. You’re not drunk. You have to be completely aware of your every move, if you wish to impress someone of his stunning stature. You remember to fondle his balls, you remember to make the sounds, pretend you’re enjoying it (which you would be if you didn’t have to focus on him) and pretend that his penis is big. Not that it has to be, because it’s simply the most beautiful penis you’ve ever seen. It’s also the only one – of course you’re a virgin. You’re ugly. You finish your work by swallowing every drop. You lick the leftovers off of your lip, your chin and his chest. Remember chocolate milkshake. Pretend it tastes like that. Look like you do when drinking chocolate milkshake. That’s it. He’s buying it. He’s smiling with his beautiful smile. Good girl. He almost forgot that you’re ugly. You made it – before the cruel reality made him lose his erection. Congratulations.
Or maybe it’s true. I haven’t slept with any women, especially beautiful ones, so I have not the faintest idea if they’re good in bed or not. And even if I had slept with a lot of women, heck, if I had done nothing but sleep with women from the day I reached an age where such thing was legal till now, I still wouldn’t have slept with enough women to be able to justify making such a statement.
My friend used to say, “You can tell if someone is good in bed by the way they dance.”
I very rarely sleep with people who dance in public. I wish I could tell if people are good in bed on how they sit alone and drink.
I recently heard the same myth again, but this time from the mouth of a guy I had slept with. He phrased it so, “You’re fat. You just tried harder.”
Today, four days and three cheesecakes later, a small mountain of pancakes are looking at me. One goes, “Did someone call you fat this weekend?”
My poor and tired gallbladder sighs, “I thought we had dealt with this. You are fat. But we’re okay with that now, right?”
The glass of diet Fanta is now laughing at me, in my face, “Did you shout at that poor man because he confronted you with society’s view of fat people?”
The melting piece of ice cream on one of the pancakes chips in, “Some people will think that fat is negative, because that’s what corporations behind dieting products, fitness centres, fashion magazines, fashion and beauty products want you to think. Deal with it.”
The pancake is now angry, “Yeah, deal with it. Don’t hate people for pointing this out.”
My gallbladder, close to dying, gasps for air, “Yeah, and can we please stop binging?”
The diet Fanta’s laugh dies out and it shouts, “Besides, he said you were good in bed! What more do you want?”
“Right now,” I mumble and stuff my mouth full of pancake, “I just want to eat.”
And I ate. In bed. Turns out I’m really good in bed. At eating.