What happens when you go back to someone from your past? Is there such a thing as ‘the one that got away’? When this week’s guest blogger pitched me this post I was positively gleeful about it – she’s got a fabulously funny, chatty style and regular readers will know that I’m a sucker for a trip down memory lane. Not to mention sex with an ex. But is it possible to recapture the magic when you’re having sex with a guy you last saw a decade ago? Let’s find out…
Having sex with the guy from a decade ago
When my consultant asked what would be my ideal treatment plan, I asked for a lobotomy – but apparently they don’t do them anymore. I want a lobotomy to forget about all the cringe moments that live in the hairs on my arms.
One of those moments was sleeping with Michael. Michael was in the year above me at drama school, eyes like honey pots, and veins in his arms that rip through the bark of his biceps.
We physically couldn’t be in the same room as each other, I couldn’t look at him without wanting to get on my knees for him. Thank fuck we didn’t have any classes together, otherwise I would have failed.
A group of our friends travelled outside of New York to visit him. Four of us, which meant at some point we would be alone together.
We hit the sands, peeled off all our clothes and ran into the sea. Asher and Soph dwindled back to the shore, and the two of us were left in the waves.
There’s something about being in water that is primal. I kept my distance. I wanted him to know I was onto him, when really I wanted to be on top of him.
“I’m not going to fuck you, you know,” I yelled, our heads bobbing above the water.
He laughed. “Okay, no problem.”
“I’m not!!” Reaffiriming myself.
My friends got the train back into the city, and he asked me to stay.
“Okay, but I’m not going to fuck you.”
Anyway, the walls of his bedroom were bright and overlooked the lake. We sat on his bed, my back against his headboard, my knees locked together. He ran his fingertips down the back of my neck.
He smells so good, all I wanted to do was turn my head and eat him, but that would mean making the first move – social suicide.
“Nope. Let’s watch the movie.”
I was determined to out-stubborn myself. Not because I didn’t want to – oh, I definitely wanted to. But I was nervous. I was making it clear that I wanted it, but I was terrified at the same time. I had only slept with two people at this point – at eighteen, I had maybe one solid move. Michael’s confidence was airborne, and I was terrified I wouldn’t live up to his expectations.
Six minutes in, he moves his face to mine, blocking the TV, cups his hand under my jaw and kisses me. He’s pulling me in, taking off his t-shirt – his body – an action man figurine, I roll my eyes.
He sits back on his knees and slides off his shorts.
I laugh. Oh no.
The hands were enough. The body enough. The ability to make me and my friends laugh? Fine, but this?
TEN INCHES. Ten as in ten lords-a-leaping, ten-pin bowling, the ten commandments that I was about to follow religiously.
My bestie Rachel tells me I’m a chuckle-fucker. She doesn’t even ask for pictures of the men I date, she asks me if they can “commit to the bit”. If I take the man’s hand in public and say “What design are we thinking today” and he brings up a Pinterest board of nail designs, we are fucking.
Michael does both. I’m screwed. And I was.
But here’s the cringe, because I was a rookie in the field – APPARENTLY I refused to go on top.
He would move me around, and I would say “nope, I hate that angle”, and lie down on my back. Put me on that hospital bed and slice and dice my brain.
I kept my bra on? I can’t cope with myself. I only took it off in the dark. I had a birthmark on the right side of my chest. My first prick boyfriend told the entire high school and took the piss until prom. So the PINK VS polkadot is staying on.
We did this for two months and he didn’t complain. After graduation, I moved to LA, he went back to New York, and the Top Gun fantasy would shake my legs occasionally, then disappear.
Two years passed, I found myself in Times Square and we met in an Irish pub. Still not looking directly at each other.
He tells me “I’m the one that got away”, when all this time I figured I was just a fuck. I shaved, but I didn’t invite him up to my hotel room.
I KNOW. WHY. And once again, the firework burst and the smoke ran in opposite directions.
Now eight years pass, a divorce and pilot license for him, a stand-up special and a cocktail of chronically ill meds for me, led to – shock – an Instagram DM.
“I’m flying to England soon, can I take you for coffee?”
Let me tell you – the body fucking remembers. I remembered how big it was and how there was a lack of bigness in my London flat.
I actually hate when you go to use your favourite sex toy and it isn’t charged. Lying on your back like a loser, Sesame Street hoodie on, pantsless, waiting for the light to go green.
I was ready.
Coffee didn’t work so he booked a rooftop bar. I wanted to appear mysterious, so I only brought a small suitcase to meet him at the bar.
“You’re staying the night then?” he laughed.
“No I’m not?”
I scrunched my forehead.
“Your toothbrush is falling out your backpack.”
Shit.
Like the same teenagers, our backs were against the wall, looking out of the London skyline, our knees locked together. He’s even more ruggedly handsome, I wear glasses now, he loves them. We reminisce about skinny-dipping the Jersey Shore, moped rides and fucking in house party bathrooms. Still not looking at each other by the way.
He told me he was nervous to see me. We both wanted each other and I was not going to mess this up.
A few drinks in, we muddled our way back to his hotel room and sat at opposite ends of the bed.
“Can I kiss you?” He whispered.
We were back. Colliding, tongues merging, and begging to be inside of each other. I wanted to show him what I had learned. He took off all of my clothes (thank you very much) and ran his finger down the milky scar that was once where my birthmark was.
“You got it taken off?” He was shocked.
“I did, I can’t believe you noticed” I said sheepishly, annoyed at myself for allowing a man to alter my body.
“It’s gorgeous.”
Never mind, I’m back in the room.
One thing that hadn’t changed was when he took off his jeans. I pulled him to the edge of the bed, grabbed all ten inches with both of my hands (obviously) and slid him into the back of my throat.
When I was soaking wet and felt his legs start to jerk, I laid him down and rode him like he had paid for it.
We’ve been inseparable ever since, lobotomy revoked.
EDIT: He’s spoken to my parents, and I found a ring box. Tens across the board.
