What better way to spend my one day off this week, than with a man who wouldn't be able to find a clit if it were advertise with a neon yellow flashing sign? Twice, I've tried to redirect his hand, but it seems the only action I'm going to get is the rubbing of the inside of my left labia. I should have seen this coming the moment the words "I lost my phone number," parted his plump lips. But I'm a simple woman. I went to the bar looking for a hookup, spotted kissable lips and large, veiny hands, and thought why not? With a hand the size of my face, I thought there was no room for error. So, when the conversation flowed and his advances were respectful, I didn't hesitate to bring him home. I had no one and nothing to blame but my poor judgement for my current predicament.

       I had spent every minute of nursing school dreadfully anticipating the moments I'd have to participate, and role play in mock scenarios. I claimed myself to be a bad actress. But moments like these made me reconsider. The pornographic moan and tilt of my head were enough to have his dick twitching on my thigh.

       "Fuck." He groans. "I'm not going to last long."

      Kind of what I was going for. The quicker he got his two pumps out, the quicker I could make a grab for my purple best friend.

      I stare up at the ceiling, letting him do his thing as I contemplate the same question that haunts most of my hookups: Is something wrong with me? I haven't finished without the use of a toy or my own hand since my early college days. I've slept with people with a variety of skills and experience in the sex department. I'm easy to please. You rub my clit long enough and I'm bound to come eventually. No talent needed. But there always seems to be something lacking in my hookups. Tall, dark, and handsome thrusting above me is more than capable, but there's a lacking passion, lacking chemistry, from which I won't be satisfied without the help of extra vibration and a sprinkle of imagination.

      My bar date doesn't take direction very well, but his hips hold a surprisingly good rhythm. The friction of his good movement in my mostly dry vagina isn't great though, so I speed things up. I practice my pompoir exercises, and the long grunt that follows marks my success. I lay still as he trembles and moans through his orgasm.

       The second he finishes twitching, he pulls out and rolls onto his back to catch his breath. I don't waste any time. I take my chance of escape and rush off to pee. I take my sweet time in the bathroom, hoping by the time that I come out that he'll be nearly dressed and, on his way, out the door. The aftermath of hookups is usually enough to put me off hooking up for a few weeks. Ideally, the used condom would come off, we'd shake hands and go our own ways. I have yet to have that happen, and today was proving to be no different.

       I open the bathroom door a crack and close it immediately. His faded jeans and polo shirt still trail the floor from my bedroom door to the bed. Worst of all, he is nuzzled deep into my comforter, his bare ass surely intending to leave its print in my memory foam. He has no plans of leaving any time soon.

       That left matters into my hands...

      Cheating is no joking matter. It can be pride and trust damaging. I think it's one of the most disrespectful things someone could do to their partner. It's not something I would ever encourage... But desperate times call for desperate measures. I pull my phone out and flick my best friend's number.

       Me: SOS

      Me: A man is making himself comfortable in my bed.

     Me: I don't want to be rude. Please help.

     Ivy: ** eye roll emoji**

     Ivy: On my way.

      Ivy lives down the street, and with her driving, I know I won't have long to wait. I dare to step out of hiding, giving my bar buddy a few more minutes of my attention. He looks up at me with a soft smile, as if it's not a problem that he's cuddling my pillow with sleepy eyes. I stand awkwardly by the bathroom doorway, unsure how to handle myself until the arrival of my savior. Mr. Big Hand's nudges his head towards the empty space in the bed, holding the sheet back for me. "Come back to bed."

       The man is actually inviting me into my own bed. I crinkle my noise, moving forward as slowly as possible. I'm two feet away from my bed, when my front door slams shut. Per her usual Ivy announces her entrance with a bang. My hookup startles, jumping at the sound. Ivy doesn't beat around the bush. She stomps around my living room, as though she were a 6-foot football player rather than my five-foot nothing bestie. I pretend to startle at the noise and shoot a fearful glance at the bedroom door. There's a loud bang followed by shattering glass, and I pray she didn't just break my new vase.

       "What the hell is going?" Big Hands is suddenly out of bed, tugging his clothes on in a rush.

      "Oh my god!" I whisper shout, kicking up the drama. "I'm so sorry. Scotty must be home."

      "Who is Scotty?!" he demands, desperately searching the room for his exit. Who was Scotty? Great question my friend. Scotty is what I named the vibrator that I will be using in a few hours.

       I bite my lip in way to express guilt, letting him come to his own conclusion. As expected, thick brows fly into a healthy hairline. "Boyfriend?" he growls; his jeans in distress under the sudden harsh yanking of his hands. He can barely look at me, fury rolling off his shoulders. I don't blame him. I almost feel bad.

       "I hope he breaks up with you. He deserves better." Without further ado, he bids me farewell and hops out of my window. I lock the window behind him and wait until he's out of sight to venture out to the living room.

       Ivy is already settled onto my sofa, longs leg stretched out. In the short minutes she's been here, she's had the chance to pore herself a glass of wine and draw a mustache on her face. I eye the mascara stick sticking out of her purse and know that's what's on her face.

      "Hello, darling." She grins. "Your old friend Scotty, here to the rescue."

      I groan and cover my face in laughter. This is far from the most embarrassing situations she's caught me in, but this wound is fresh. I pore myself a glass of wine from the bottle she left on the counter and join her on the couch.

       "So?" she prods. "What was wrong with this one?"

      "There was nothing wrong with h—"

      "Pardon me," she interrupts. "What did he do that failed to meet your unrealistic expectations?"

      I pucker my lips and narrow my eyes at her. This is a never ending, reoccurring argument we have. Still, I indulge in her request, and tell her where things went wrong. "He wanted to stay over."

      "Most people like that."

     "Not when we're talking about one-night stands."

      "I mean most people let the one-night standers stay longer than a half-hour. At least let the cum dry... Plus, how could you possibly know so soon there wasn't potential for more?"

       The vibe wasn't vibing. While I don't believe in love at first sight, I do believe in lust at first sight. Even though you need to build love, sometimes you know your tools aren't compatible with a certain construction zone.

      "There was no fire. No chemistry."

      "Poor guy didn't even get the chance to brew a reaction." Though she chastises me, humor marks her features. "How was he to know you like to be slapped and thrown around a little?"

      I groan. Not this again.

     "I'm just saying, the shit you're into doesn't happen without communication," she says. "You're trying to bake with only vanilla ingredients. I'd be satisfied with those ingredients, but you can't be because you're trying to make a chocolate cake."

      "I hate your analogies."

     That doesn't stop her from rambling on. "You're looking in the wrong places. You say you're searching for fire, but you've got your head underwater."

      "I'd like to clarify that when I said fire, it was metaphorical. I'm referring to passion, not the actual burning part."

     "You say that as if you don't have a pain kink."

     She got me there. I fall silent and shrink in my seat. She laughs because we both know she's right.

       "You want to know where you'd find people with your interests?" she challenges, as if she hasn't told me 100 times.

      "No."

      "A sex club. That's the closest you'll find to the type of fictional men you read about."

     I roll my eyes and take another sip of wine. Ivy has so long reprimanded me for all the reading I do. She blames fictional men for my unrealistic expectations.

      "Real sex clubs aren't quite like those I read about... Plus just because I think something is hot in theory doesn't mean it will be in practice."

      "It's certainly worth a shot. What you're doing now, clearly isn't working."

     I pucker my lips distastefully, mind blank of any potential rebuttals.

      "See?" Of course, she has to point out my silence. "You don't know what to say. You know I'm right. It's hard to meet a man who shares your kink level the natural way. The chances of you walking into Mr. Perfect in the grocery is very unlikely... So, again, I maintain that one day you're going to find yourself in a sex club and think, Omg. Ivy was right. Again."

      My lips remain puckered, exasperated with her analysis. "If I'm to ever find myself in a sex club, I pray to God, I don't think of you."

      She grins and wiggles her brows. "Come on, Dez. I could totally rock your world... Or you could rock my world. Show me to the dark side of sex."

      "Please shut up."

     "Bet you could find some interesting ways to do so—

      "We spend way too much time together." I interrupt her, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Can you go home, now? I'd like to do some self-reflection on the unsolicited life analysis you just delivered."

       "Nope." She pops her P and sinks deeper into my couch cushion. While I can't recall her reaching for the Tv remote, she points it at my dark screen. "There's a new Drag Race episode tonight."

      When I finally get to lay down on my fresh sheets, any trace of my bar date washed away, I'm woken by the dinging of my phone. It's way too early for any normal person to be texting, so I already know the sender. I groan at the stream of links I receive from Ivy. Links to nearby sex clubs. I swipe the messages away from my screen and fling the ringer off. Despite my sexual interests, I'm a hopeless romantic at heart. I'm looking for sweet and spicy, and I cling to hope that I will find that without airing my interests for the world to see in a kink parade.