I Came For The Sex, But Didn’t Come From It
New York is in the midst of yet another heat wave. I’m home alone, suffering, when Caleb texts me. I haven’t spoken to him in a year, haven’t seen him in two.
Hey lady—I’m in New York for the weekend, would love to catch up. xx
The last time we were in the same room, he was naked on my friend’s futon, breathless and frustrated that I was willing to suck him off but not fuck.
I smile at the memory. Men are so funny in those moments, desperate as they plead for release, as if unable to achieve orgasm alone. It’s all the more amusing when they’re good looking; there’s more fun to be had in holding back than giving in.
I text back: That’s great, would love to see you!
Caleb doesn’t waste time making his intentions clear: Can we hold hands and talk dirty?
Haha, sure. When?
I watch the gray iMessage ellipses pop up and down as he responds: Soon would be nice.
Then another: Leaving day after tomorrow… just come over and snuggle the heck out of me.
I’ll never make sense of the way boys move from romance to filth within a single line of conversation. A hook twice baited, right?
Where are you staying?
I consider what I’ve sent, realize I forgot something important, and fire off another: Is it hot there?
It’s a little toasty—friend’s place in Williamsburg, 9th & Bedford.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk from my house to the subway, but every step is torture—the cement and brick have absorbed a week’s worth of record highs and endless sunshine. It’s one of those funny things about New York: nothing cools down just because the sun has set.
I get off the train with a renewed appreciation for the MTA and their exemplary air conditioning. But my reprieve from the unrelenting heat was too fleeting. The muggy air feels hotter than before.
Caleb is waiting on the stoop, shining with sweat and smelling faintly of liquor. Though I’ve only barely kept track of him through Facebook since I last saw him, nothing appears to have changed. He is still gorgeous, still bears a strong facial resemblance to Anderson Cooper. He will be Cooper’s spitting image once his blonde hair goes gray—provided you can overlook the muscular disparity and copious tattoos. I’m not one to swoon over tattooed dudes, but Caleb’s attractive enough to supersede this preference.
After cursory hellos and a hug, I find myself staring at the swell of Caleb’s shoulders beneath his shirt. I’d seen photos of him when he was a southern California boy on steroids, but it doesn’t look like he’s gotten quite that big again.
“Working out again?” I ask with feigned idleness.
“No, just running,” he replies, struggling to turn his unfamiliar key in its unfamiliar lock.
“Really? You look bigger than the last time I saw you.”
This isn’t false flattery; just a few well-selected words of praise to help pave the road to ongoing good dick.
“Is this your way of paying me a compliment?”
“Something like that.”
The first of two security doors finally open. Either I’m that much of a distraction or Caleb is nervous. I choose to believe the former.
Three steps into the apartment, it’s clear Caleb calling the place “toasty” was a gross understatement. It’s an oven, the air heavy and oppressive. I know it will only become worse the longer I’m here.
“No A/C, eh?” I follow him through the unlit hallway.
“Nah. I don’t know how you can handle living here when it’s like this.”
The room he leads me to is small, which size is unfortunately accentuated by the sheer amount of furniture its owner has managed to pack into it. From left to right I spy a couch, an ottoman, three bookshelves, an easy chair, and an obscenely large flat screen TV. It’s an ambitious furniture arrangement for an unventilated 12’ x 8’ space.
I turn my attention to the couch against the south wall. The backside of the frame stops just below the only windows in the room, both of which are open. I plop down on the farthest cushion, hoping to catch a breeze. There isn’t one.
Caleb pulls a bottle of cheap red from his backpack and wanders through the apartment in search of clean glasses. We talk about the weather. It’s the best we can manage. No one sweating this much should be expected to maintain higher brain function.
“Can you handle a cougar pour?” he asks.
Confusion plays across my face and he motions to the nearly-full glass he just poured. I get it; instead of half-full, there’s just a pinch of space between the wine and the cup’s rim: the preferred vessel-volume-to-booze ratio of cougars, apparently. I can’t say I’m surprised Caleb knows this kind of thing. Taking the glass, I decide not to tease him by asking how.
Settled beside me, Caleb asks a string of questions about my life and career while we watch the single worst Woody Allen film ever made. We make it through the entire movie and halfway through a project of Caleb’s before I feel the inevitable shifting of weight beside me. His five o’clock shadow is sandpaper against my face, too distracting for me to enjoy the kiss. Between all the sweat and his facial stubble, I’m hoping to forego an extended make-out session.
He fumbles with my zipper. It seems as good a time as any to stop and fuck with him.
“Uh, I haven’t… I haven’t done any trimming or whatever down there. In like… a while.”
This is not exactly true—I didn’t forget so much as forego prepping, because this is likely to be a one-night stand.
He snickers and pulls my pants down, planting his mouth firmly against me. He is enthusiastic, pushing fingers inside me. I forget the heat and let my mind wander from the slightly weird sight of his blue eyes looking up at me; his nose nestled in my pubes is reminiscent of a pair of cheap Groucho glasses.
I’m soaked, but desire isn’t the only reason—a combination of sweat, saliva, and natural lubrication have begun to puddle on the couch cushion beneath me. After fighting to reach two smaller orgasms, I tilt my head back enough to note that outside, the sky is beginning to change from purple to blue. If I’m going to get any sleep, I need to get cracking on reciprocating.
I stop the double-assault of his mouth and fingers. “Take off your pants,” I murmur. He doesn’t need encouragement, and I’m teasing his head with my lips before his jeans have made it below his knees.
It takes longer than I hoped to determine the particulars of pleasing Caleb. Deep-throating leads to a near-instantaneous deflation, and it takes a while to find the rhythm that keeps him somewhere between gummy and erect. Pistoning up and down on the first three inches, I wonder how long this will take.
The longer Caleb goes without providing any kind of guidance, the more irritated I become. He doesn’t push my head down or make any sounds. His hands barely rest against the base of my skull, fingers dancing lightly along my hairline and pushing stray strands back to get the best view.
I wonder about potential causes of his early onset erectile dysfunction as I find the right angle from the tip to slide over the ridges of my upper palette, until he gently pulls himself from my mouth.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask. I’m eager to move on from blowing him at half-mast.
He wanders into a closet-sized bedroom I suspect can only fit a twin sized bed. The couch’s thick cotton coverlet is damp under my back. The cougar pours have taken the reins. This lull in activity is just long enough for me to start thinking too much: What kind of guy travels with condoms in his backpack? How many girls has he fucked on this couch over the course of his stay? The crinkle of foil tearing pulls me back into the moment.
The wooden joint where the armrest meets the back of the couch grinds against my back as Caleb drives himself into me. It’s too hot to focus on what’s going on between my legs, and our combined sweat quickly begins to pool in the dip of my sternum.
Although the view of Caleb’s contracting stomach muscles is spectacular, it is apparent I’m not going to come. Not for lack of trying on either of our parts, but sheer physical mismatch; his equipment is not going to please mine. If I’m going to feign effectiveness at work tomorrow, I have to end this.
I spit onto my fingertips and begin working my pussy with a well-tested stroke, trying to command myself to orgasm.
It almost works for real, and is convincing enough to drive Caleb into a predictable frenzy. We uncouple, lying on opposite sides of the couch, panting and sweating in unison.
Caleb returns from disposing of the condom with a t-shirt and sad little desk fan in his hands. I can make out its “VORNADO” emblem. If nothing else, at least he’s provided me with the Cadillac of desk fans.
Caleb flops down and puts his hand on my thigh. “Thanks for coming over to die of heat stroke with me,” he whispers. Though our sexual chemistry was lacking, the fleeting—if casual—tenderness was enough to convince me to stay for a few hours.
While it’s easy enough to nod off in a sauna, doing so on a sweat-drenched sofa proves difficult. Struggling to fall asleep, I start thinking about where the night’s events had led me. Small intimacies are of greater importance than air conditioning, right? In that case, did it matter that I came for the sex—even though I didn’t come from it?
At least now I could remember why I’d been reluctant to fuck him on that futon two years ago. It’s hard to reconcile when what’s pleasing to the eye is not to the touch. Settling further into the seam of the couch, it occurs to me that the only physical comfort to be found in this expedition was the air-conditioning enjoyed en route—and in this instance, that is good enough. 
