Pillow Talk

It was finally Friday night and I couldn’t have been more excited to start my weekend. My work week had been hectic, starting with a softball game on Monday, Trivia Night at Mad River on Tuesday, and a Britney Spears “concert” on Wednesday (concert in this case being a washed-up, pill-popping, nappy-haired pop star lethargically hip swaying and ass shaking while lip syncing). On Thursday, the extra bartending shift I had picked up turned near-fatal when a dirty, Jagermeister-covered piece of jagged metal sliced into right forearm.

By Friday morning, I was exhausted and on the cusp of gangrene. I couldn’t wait for 10:00pm to come, not only so I could be done working for two whole days, but more importantly, so I could hang out with Benjamin.

I had met Benjamin the past Saturday at a co-worker’s barbeque in New Jersey. He was my age, lived on Wall Street, and worked with my co-worker’s husband as a chemical engineer. His dorkish charm mixed with his Ryan Atwood a la The O.C. looks made me instantly smitten. We spent all day Sunday at the South Street Seaport and met for drinks before the concert on Wednesday. And I couldn’t wait to see him again.

Shortly after my shift started on Friday, he sauntered into Mad River and found a seat at the bar. Soon thereafter his college friend Bear joined him, and before I knew it, it was shot after shot of Jack followed by bottle after bottle of Bud Light. When my shift finally ended, I joined Benjamin and Bear on the other side of the bar. I could tell from Benjamin’s glazed, unfocused eyes and slight slur that he was not used to such excessive amounts of whiskey in one sitting. Since Benjamin still had a pulse and was able to make somewhat coherent sentences, we decided to head across the street to Gael Pub for one more beer with Bear.

After our final nightcap, we parted ways with Bear. I was exhausted and Benjamin was quite far from sober, so we hopped in a cab and headed back to my place. It was great to finally spend some alone time with Benjamin in a non-public setting—I was ready for more than PDA-ing in bars and on street corners.

We walked into my apartment and I led him down the hall, into my bedroom. I turned on my iPod and we settled in on my bed. Our kissing in between conversations eventually led to all kissing and no conversation. I was loving Benjamin so far—he was cute, smart, down-to-earth, and a great kisser. We had great chemistry and we were finally in a proper setting for addressing it. Eventually, things got hot and heavy. We were rounding third base and heading towards home.

And then he moaned in my ear, “Ohh, Jess.”

Jess was not my name.

The Realtor

It was a sweltering Friday night in the dead heat of August and I was behind the bar at Mad River while everyone else in Manhattan was at their summer shore houses. There was not one good-looking man in the bar for me to flirt with to pass the time during my shift—hell, there were hardly even any customers to serve $1 cranberry vodkas to. Three shots of Jack Daniels and four Bud Light bottles later, I was still hot, tired, and cranky. I had had a stressful week at work and hadn’t been touched by a man in weeks—I needed some below-the-waist action and a small battery-operated device was not going to do the trick.

I started to scan through my Blackberry to see who I could call on for a post-shift rendezvous. Before I could even get halfway through my contacts I heard someone call my name from the other side of the bar. Which balding, beer-bellied, unattractive, non-tipping customer needs another drink? I asked myself as I turned around. But there was no balding, beer-bellied, unattractive, non-tipping customer on the other side of the bar. Instead, I found a godsend—The Realtor.

I had met The Realtor the previous summer at a Mad River event. He was in his early thirties, well-dressed, soft spoken, and somewhat resembled Benjamin Bratt. He lived on the Upper East Side, a convenient three blocks from my apartment, drank Heineken Light, and chain smoked. Upon our introduction, I immediately knew that I would one day sleep with him. There was a chemistry between us that I couldn’t ignore—he had my panties dropping at hello.

So when I found myself face-to-face with The Realtor on this sticky summer night, I knew there was some higher force looking out for me above. After a little small talk, he ordered a beer and headed toward the back of the bar where a few of his friends were having dinner. As I served the next customer, I saw my Blackberry flashing red out of the corner of my eye.

It was a text message from The Realtor, which read: Hope you get a shift pay tonight.

I knew he was opening up the conversation for me to make a move—we had played this game many times before. So I replied with: I just hope I get laid tonight, really.

Our across-the-bar text messaging conversation proceeded to get more and more inappropriate with each of our replies.

The Realtor: You must be horny.

BacchusG: I hate that word. But yes, something like that.

The Realtor: OK, you must be in dire need to get f*cked then. Is that better?

BacchusG: Yes that’s much better and much more accurate. I get done at 10:00pm.

But rather than replying via text, The Realtor got up from his seat, sauntered over to the end of the bar, and whispered in my ear exactly what he wanted to do with me after my shift. Before I could even respond, he turned around and went back to his table. There was more sexual tension hanging in Mad River than the entire back room of Ricky’s could even tackle.

I couldn’t concentrate, let alone recall the three sole ingredients that comprised a Red Headed Slut. I looked at my watch to find, with utter disappointment, that it was only 8:37pm. My shift didn’t end for another eighty-three minutes and I couldn’t get my mind out of the gutter.

Soon thereafter, The Realtor and his friends finished their beers and got up to head to a bar in Murray Hill. As we said our goodbyes, The Realtor and I looked at each other with knowing eyes. We were both fully aware of what would happen come my shift’s end.

The second half of my shift dragged, but eventually the clock struck ten. As Jimmy Whisk doled out our tips, I got a text message from The Realtor: Pulling up in a cab now.

I quickly grabbed my money and headed outside just as my "chariot" pulled up (chariot being a yellow taxi cab reeking of tabouli and patchouli). The Realtor opened the door, I slid in, and gave the cabbie my address. But why wait to start our rendezvous when we had a perfectly good five-minute cab ride ahead of us? Let’s just say the cab driver must have been relieved that he only had to drive us ten blocks to our destination—who knows what would have happened in that backseat had I lived across town...

Selfish Lover: The Defense

While spending my Saturday afternoon enjoying a facial at Skin Thera P, I couldn’t help but think about all of the comments and emails that flooded my inbox after last week’s posting of Selfish Lover while Connie picked, prodded, and poked my face. I found it extremely interesting how so many men took offense to the fact that I failed to reciprocate twice, as if men would never or have never dared to be selfish lovers themselves. So, I have decided to take this week to defend my actions against all of those “Anonymous” men who apparently get an orgasm for every orgasm they give.

Anonymous #1 stated: I think it was really nice of him to want you to spend the night and make you as comfortable as you could be. It sounds to me like he was "offering" not "demanding" as you say. You seriously misinterpret and assume the worst, my girlfriend does that and it's hugely annoying. And for not reciprocating - that's just plain wrong. Who do you think you are? I hope Jeremy realizes he can do much better.

The Defense: When I think of “really nice” I think of helping your neighbor carry their groceries, sending birthday cards, and buying your friends vibrators after a bad break-up. What does not come to mind is an invitation to stay over from a guy who is trying to nail me. If you invite a woman into your home strictly for a sexual encounter, as Jeremy did with me, an invitation to stay overnight is typically a given, especially at such a late hour in the evening.

And while I would not consider myself “assuming the worst” in the given situation, I would say it wouldn’t be totally out of line to do so, considering the whole holding-my-hands-behind-my-back move Jeremy pulled. Had I known I would be romping around in the WWF Raw ring, I would have worn my spandex singlet and brought a totally different type of game.

And if not reciprocating is “just plain wrong” I guess it’s a good thing we’re not dating. I wonder why your girlfriend always assumes the worst…


Anonymous #2 stated: Appropriate title. He rocks your world, again, and you leave him again? 3 strikes and you're out, so don't mess up next time ;+)

The Defense: Hi Jeremy.


Giggidy stated: anonymous is so Jeremy, and you are certainly a beeyatch.

The Defense: Hi Shapiro. Aren’t you glad you didn’t marry this beyatch in Vegas?


Anonymous #3 stated: Wow! He goes down on you twice in one week and you can't reciprocate.......Where's Leigh Lewis when you need her?

The Defense: We need to remember that Jeremy actually enjoys pleasuring women—he was in a multi-year marriage with a woman who would not permit said actions. When he declared that he had a lot of oral sexual energy built up the first time around, I decided to fully take advantage of it. I like to call it utilization of resources rather than a lack of reciprocation.

Leigh Lewis—your thoughts? I hope you’re enjoying that vibrator I sent you.


Anonymous #4 stated: As a guy I feel a need to point out that there are men out there who LOVE going down on girls all the time, without the need for reciprocation. I know because I happen to be one of them! Love your articles.

The Defense: Are you single?


Anonymous #5 stated: Ladies first. Not ladies first and second...Pig.

The Defense: Pig? After a large glass of vodka, an entire episode of Chelsea Lately, coercion of face washing and teeth brushing, and a near Stone Cold Steve Austin-style smack-down on a queen size bed, I’m a pig? I was exhausted and unfocused, confused and mascara-less, and not to mention, in the presence of tighty whities.

Furthermore, I recall many sexual encounters throughout my un-chastised years where my head dipped below the wasit of a man until climax, yet such measures were never reciprocated below my waist afterwards—are these men pigs? Women understand that they’re never going to get road head, back row Saturday matinee oral action with a side of popcorn, or mile high under-the-blanket lovin’ ever in our lives, so why can’t men understand that they don’t get an orgasm, let alone a blow job, for every sexual encounter they have?


Anonymous #6 stated: Bacchus - based upon your last comment it sounds like you've given before without recip and it bugged you, am I right? So you know how it feels. Don't bring past experiences into a new relationship i.e. punish new lovers for things old lovers did to you. You'll just keep getting it back.

The Defense: Miss Cleo or Dr. Phil? Either way, damn you’re good. But where were you when I woke up in a clown suit next to a Ringling Brother, a billy goat, and an empty bottle of Malibu? Please check your emails more consistently in the future.


Anonymous #7 stated: Ok let’s face it there are a few issues here. 1. expecting a girl to prepare for and spend the night in the way that he did was creepy, who does that? This is not the 50's and it is no longer referred to as "bedding someone", and for a good reason. Get real. I was 100% expecting him to pull a house coat out of the closet for her. To Anonymous who thinks this is "really nice", get a grip, grow a sack and I feel bad for your girlfriend. 2. Reciprocity requires a level of passion. Sounds like although he knew what he was doing in bed, he for one reason or another didn’t turn you on enough to be "worth it". 3. And as for running out - Thank God! We do NOT need another episode of Law and Order filmed on the UES "based loosely" on this murder suicide. He sounds like a pervert and you sound like a lot of fun! Keep it up lady!

The Defense: I don’t know who you are or what you do, but if I were a lesbian and you were a lesbian, I would totally call you. Cheers to your housecoat-free, sack-growing demands of these anonymous men who are too selfish themselves to ever consider giving without getting.


Crystalow stated: I hear that. You dont give just to receive, what are we? Eight? And seriously, you have more strength than I do. After his bathroom vacation, I would’ve bolted - awesome oral or not.

The Defense: Thank you for pointing out what a trooper I was in this whole situation. I could have easily bolted, as you said, but I chose to stay and weather the battle.


Closing Remarks: While I do believe that it is important to maintain an equal orgasm opportunity attitude in a sexual relationship, it’s not going to be one-for-one every time. As Margaret Thatcher once said, “You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it.”

And I say, “You might have to give thrice to receive once, but that once will be awfully nice.” So gentlemen, get off our backs so you can lay us on our backs—it will be worth it for all parties in the end.


Skin Thera P: 301 E. 81st Street at Second Ave. (More Info)

Selfish Lover

So here I was in Jeremy’s bed, anticipating the same great things that had come to me (or I had come to) on Monday night. He laid his head down on the pillow next to me and I waited for him to make his move. Considering I had already been waiting for close to thirty minutes, I was starting to lose patience. I looked over at him, waiting for him to come in for the kill.

But rather than leaning over to kiss me, he asked, “Do you want to wash your face?”

I looked at him inquisitively, both stupefied and speechless. The only response I could muster was, “Ummm…”

“I promise you will look just as beautiful without any makeup.” he assured me.

While I had encountered a number of odd and a few highly inappropriate requests in the bedroom over the years, I had never faced this type of query. I didn’t know how else to respond, so I dutifully got up and headed to the bathroom, where I half expected to find a family of geese in the bathtub, considering the soundtrack that had come from there only minutes before. I found a clean washcloth and washed my face, per Jeremy’s request.

I returned to Jeremy’s bedroom and lay back down next to him. Let’s get this show on the road, I thought to myself. What other distractions pertaining to the bathroom could there be? I turned to face him again, this time with a make-up free face.

“Do you want to brush your teeth?” he asked.

Now I knew for a fact that my breath did not smell, nor my face, nor any other part of my body. All I had consumed since leaving my apartment was Captain Morgan and Ketel One, which in my opinion, could have only improved my breath—it wasn’t as if I had been drinking garlic-infused Natural Light the past six hours, for Christ’s sake. I had both brushed my teeth and thoroughly showered before meeting Jeremy at Opal and this was starting to get a little too Law & Order: SVU for me.

“What is going on here?” I demanded to know. “Does my breath smell? Are you some kind of clean freak or something?”

“No,” Jeremy calmly replied, “I just thought you would want to get ready for bed.”

“Oh am I staying here or something? I didn’t get that memo or else I might have brought a toothbrush and a bedtime story.” I quickly retorted.

“Well you’re invited to stay, just like you were on Monday, except you ran out of here before I could even ask you to.” Jeremy replied as he got up to find me a toothbrush.

Before I could argue, Jeremy had fished a toothbrush out of his dresser drawer.

“Here. It’s one of those one-time use toothbrushes. Just wet it a little.” he explained as he handed over the next step of my personal hygiene routine that he had devised for me.

How about we wet me a little? I thought.

Why he had a stockpile of these creepy toothbrushes that were most likely handed out at homeless shelters, I will never know, but I dutifully took the toothbrush down the hall and into the bathroom. I had never intended for either one of us to spend this much time in the bathroom. I had hardly even gotten any tonsil hockey action and it was already nearing midnight.

While I was pretty weirded out by the chain of events that had just taken place, from the noisy bathroom session, to the tighty whities, to the demands for face washing and teeth cleaning, I couldn’t give up now. That would have been like Sam Ronson giving up on Lindsay Lohan after living through her abandonment of heterosexuality, Cirque Lodge, and her role as a stripper in I Know Who Killed Me. Once you’ve come so far, you just have to ride out the storm—or in my case, the bathroom breaks.

Finally, Jeremy got down to business and it was even better than the first time. I knew I had stayed for a reason and this was it. As I was revering Jeremy for his golden tongue, he suddenly flipped me onto my stomach, grabbed my wrists, and put my hands behind my back. I turned around to find him watching us in the reflection of his mirror.

“What the hell is that?!” I shrieked.

“Oh do you not like that?” he innocently asked as he let go of my arms.

I wasn’t exactly in the mood to play Scott and Lacey Peterson here, so I stopped all activity and sat up on his bed. I couldn’t figure out if tonight’s chain of events was a result of our age difference or a sexual freakiness-personal hygiene difference. It appeared to be a little of both.

He obviously didn’t notice that I was not impressed nor turned on by his WWF Raw behind-the-back move because then he asked, “Can I know what it feels like to have your mouth on me?”

Unfortunately for Jeremy, he had no idea that this was one of my top bedroom behavior pet peeves. Never ask me for head and especially never do the whole head nudge towards the crotch region. While it may work on some girls and it may be selfish of me, I absolutely can’t stand a request for oral sex—I give blow jobs when I damn well feel like it, and after tonight’s string of events, this was not going to be giving night.

I stood up and started getting dressed. It was after midnight and I actually did have a meeting tomorrow.

“Where are you going? What are you doing?” Jeremy asked, with confusion.

“I’m going home. I want to sleep in my own bed.” I truthfully replied.

“You’re the most selfish lover I have ever met.” he replied.

“I’m just using you before you use me.” I explained as I kissed him on the cheek and headed for the front door.

A few somewhat angry text messages later, I never thought I would hear from Jeremy again. His quirky habits, seven-year-old son, unresolved divorce, and underwear preference just weren’t going to work for me. In a city like this, you have to be picky, or in my case, selfish, when it comes to dating men. But it ends up that Jeremy wasn't going to give up on me just quite yet…