Sex and the Ivy

Saying yes was never so easy.

Filed under: Berklee, Facts and Fiction, Sex — Elle September 18, 2006 @ 2:40 am

EVEN as he slid my panties off, I remained convinced that this was not going to end in a regrettable mess of bare limbs and sweat. So with my back to the bed and one less piece of clothing on, I lifted my head and reminded him, “You know, I’m not having sex with you.”

I figured this was the polite thing to do. My statement was not going to prevent blue balls, but at least he knew what was coming. Or rather, who wasn’t coming.

“Why not?” he asked, more inquisitive than aggressive. I said something indefinite in response. “I’m just not” or “because” or another half-hearted answer that sounded unpersuasive even to myself.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to do a good job of convincing you.” And then he slipped his fingers between my legs and pressed down into the hot center.

BEFORE I met up with him at Canton Junction earlier that night, I boarded the commuter rail with a fistful of promises to myself and every intent to keep them all. As the sky darkened outside the windows and the train tumbled closer to my destination, I shivered at my seat. Reaching into my purse, I retrieved my lipstick and reapplied it as if my lips would matter this evening.

He pulled into the parking lot and got out of his car. By the time I walked close enough to get a good look at him, I noticed his hair was shorter than I remembered. And for once, he wasn’t wearing a baseball cap. Slight changes. I wondered if I looked any different to him. Older. Thinner. Any more beautiful in autumn than in the spring.

Our conversation moved easily like it always has. As we drove deeper into Canton and then Stoughton, my eyes followed the suburban world passing us by. Then the roads closed in between looming branches and leaves, the colonial residences grew larger with every mile, and Boston’s urban landscape became a distant memory.

A shred of self-doubt started forming as I climbed the stairs of his Stoughton apartment and realized that I still remembered all the right turns to take and doors to open. My resolve weakened when I met his new roommate Jeff, tsk tsked at their empty beer bottles, and found his dining table as cluttered with bills as it was months ago. But I didn’t break completely until Jeff’s dog pounced up at me eagerly – Abby was the least expected addition of all. She was a female companion in male territory, and I fell for her faster than I fell for him.

He poured two glasses of red wine, sat us down on the couch in front of an episode of Will & Grace, and rubbed his thumb against the small of my back. As his hands wandered, so did my attention.

“You’re getting fresh,” I teased as his fingers grazed my bare upper breast. He smiled and I turned my face toward his, catching his breath, his tongue, and his lips on my own. His freshly trimmed stubble scratched at my cheek and I pulled him closer.

WE drove to a jazz concert in Providence, the pretense for my visit this evening. Jazz is a foreign tongue to me, a language I tried to pick up when we dated. Still, I found some appreciation for the smooth tones that competed against the Yankees game for attention. And easily, the band won. In the dim glow of the bar, I caught sight of a dark spot on his throat and fingered it apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He shook his head at me. “I work with kids. I can’t talk to their parents with hickeys on my neck.”

I offered up a grimace and stole a sip of his beer, even though I had a feeling that I could’ve gotten away with ordering my own.

The telltale mark at the crux of his neck proved too tempting to resist once we were alone on the drive back. So I pulled at my seatbelt and leaned over for another taste.

“I bruise easily,” he warned, and I was quite happy to ignore him. “You know we’re going back to my place, right? I have to water my mint plants before I take you back. Very sensitive pH levels.”

I laughed, more than willing to indulge in his charade. The next morning, I would find an unwelcome splotch of red on my panties. Even when I lost my virginity, I didn’t bleed.

“YOU still have all your clothes on,” I said to him with a hint of indignation. The last of my outfit had finally made it onto the floor.

“Well, you haven’t done anything about them,” he retorted. Lying naked on his bed, I felt unusually comfortable. But in the interest of fairness, I made him strip down until he was as bare as I was.

By the time I felt him against my inner thighs, slowly nudging his way inside me, my protests had long ceased and my claims to chastity had fallen away like my clothes to the ground. He entered me with a sensation altogether familiar and unexpected. My eyes shut, and I moaned low and throaty.

His name was what I said the most, and I ground it out between my teeth with a ferocity reserved for sex that happened for sex’s sake. Behind me, he breathed hard and I squeezed my legs together and he sucked in his breath even harder. He was large and slick and filled me deeper than comfortable. But I liked it that way. Half-breathless he asked, “Is this okay?” and I silently winced but nodded at the courtesy. Straddling him would have made it easier, but the only time I was happy on top was when my mouth was on his cock, taking him down inch by inch and lapping him up again with the tip of my tongue. So instead, I found contentment on my stomach, on my back, and on my knees, as I dug deeper into his sheets and asked him, gasping, to fuck me harder.

Afterward, I sighed into his chest, let the hair dance between my fingers, and traced the long scar that ran between his ribs and under his navel, a remnant of the surgery that saved his life. “Your battle scar,” I murmured.

He picked up my earrings from the creases of his sheets and held them up to my face. I laughed and thought to myself, “He fucked me so hard my jewelry came off.”

WHEN he dropped me off on the corner of Plympton and Mt. Auburn, I left his car with a quick, chaste kiss and a hurried goodbye, stumbling out into the Cambridge cold on my unsteady stilettos and even less steady judgment.

He drove away as I ran off in the other direction, ready to face the night. Were he my boyfriend, I might’ve looked back to catch a last glimpse. But he wasn’t. So instead, I tugged at my skirt and flipped my hair out, readying myself for the festivities to come.

At the steps of the Phoenix, I greeted the bouncer’s familiar face with my right hand on his chest, a warm smile, and a “hey there.” He opened the door just wide enough for me to slip inside and I clutched at the oak of the staircase as the bass pulsed against my chest. The second the warm air and chatter engulfed me, it was like Stoughton and Providence and even Boston were worlds away.

Across the river, I lose myself.

19 Responses to “Saying yes was never so easy.”

  1. jay Says:

    From a purely literary perspective, this is some of the most amazing writing I’ve ever read.

    Of course, that comes from the emotions behind it. The words, the nuances of your writing: they allow them to come through in such a wonderful way. That first line probably attracts a lot of readers looking for a tale of smut, or details of sex.

    But that’s not what you deliver.

    Even with the most raunchy subjects, you find a way to deliver the classiest of writing; you find a way to remain the classiest of women.

  2. wendy Says:

    so good….

  3. steph Says:

    wow lena, you’ve captivated me.

  4. Gary Says:

    I agree. You have and show class. Making love to you must be as beautiful as your writing.

  5. elle Says:

    Making love to me is actually a pretty traumatizing experience.

  6. Alex Says:

    Great writing style; interesting blog. Take a look at http://girlwithaonetrackmind.blogspot.com/ - your blog shares something with the other and I like what the intersections contains.

  7. lewis brown Says:

    i have a massive stiffy because of the picture a the top of the page

  8. Get a Life Says:

    Any female can screw herself silly in college, Lena. But it takes a real attention whore to turn it into a campus-wide blog. I wonder, did your parents ever imagine just how popular you’d be in America?

    Lena Chen, face (and pussy, and ass, and more) of the new Chinese-American campus, um, experience.

  9. JB Says:

    That is the sort of writing I love in a great book, not the sexual comments or anything of the sort but they way you use the words to convey such a vivid and lovely picture in one’s imagination, great work

  10. JB Says:

    OH I just realised JB is the name of one of your friends, well i’m not actually him, i’m from Australia and only today came across your blog from a link off a link off collage humour

  11. Sex and the Ivy » Sex and the Ivy: Best Sex Blog Finalist Says:

    [...] Required Reading A History of Depression The Purge of Purging Saying Yes Was Never So Easy Reflections On My California Summer Lessons From My High School Sweetheart A Letter To My Assailant [...]

  12. Michelle Says:

    i think that ur writing is incredible. the way you write moves me. i also applaude you for talking about such a taboo topic. i have been thinking about doig a sex chat show at the radio staion on my campus, but so far i havent been able to work up the curage to do it.
    personaly i think we should all talk about sex. it is stupid to ignore it and assume it doesnt happen. we are human. its human nature to have sex and to enjoy sex. people need to realize this and get over it.

    keep on doing what you do. its your body.

  13. Gary Says:

    I came via a Newsweek article and was left gasping by your writing skills. This is the only well-written blog I’ve ever seen. You are fantastic and I wish I could meet someone with your powers.

  14. prodigy Says:

    Good writting. Still that makes you a slut…and I say that knowing that you are probably a cool girl, a good writer and probably a smart girl. Now I am not hating, but I have 100 reasons as to why I think I am right in passing judgement at you and your lifestyle…As much as I get judged EVERY FUCKING DAY… for being born without a silver spoon. And does does not speak about who you are specificially, but as they say: you live by the sword you die by that same sword. That makes you a glorified internet whore…. But that is just my perspective and my own opinion.

  15. Mikko Kemppe Says:

    Beautiful writing. Why can’t a women enjoy sex without being called immoral, slut, or a whore just like a man can? Thanks for sharing.

  16. bigrfishdoc Says:

    Ms Chen,

    You show a lot of talent and skill in your use of the language, but I am concerned about the subject matter of this piece. Pay particular attention to the fact that I said I am concerned about the subject matter, not you per se…no attacks, no harm, no foul. Our culture as a whole suffers from a great confusion regarding the differences between lust and love, and that extends even to the definitions of the terms and concepts. Essentially, the popular culture has reversed the two. The results of this have been deterioration of various aspects of our collective lives in both temporal and spiritual aspects. Let me interject in a timely manner lest you reject my comments out of turn: I am a 60 year-old white male, and I have had experiences in my life very similar to what you so exquisitely describe in your well-crafted words, so in that we have a lot in common. What I want to impart today is that I would advise you to more thoroughly research the cultural and the spiritual implications of this sort of exposition as you go along down this course. Because of the ubiquitous confusion about what love really is, we as a culture suffer terribly. Evidence of this is readily available, as one has only to pick up any local newspaper and read about the collapse of Wall Street empires, the ruination of personal estates, violence, blood, and murder in the streets, dysfunction and sorrow from disintegrating families, corruption in government, threats from terrorism, and a general feeling that our lives are deteriorating by the second and a great confusion about what needs to be done to reverse these disturbing trends and redeem what we have historically enjoyed as a better way of life. Notice that I am not blaming what you write for all these societal ills, but I am saying that if you are going to write this way, you have a responsibility to do some research about the setting in order of our loves and the brokenness of our individual images as true human beings. This is not a scathing indictment, merely a gentle suggestion that you fully inform yourself about the true definition of love and the implications of our spiritual and cultural misunderstanding of it, and your own role as to whether you are contributing to the solution-vs-problem. I think that is a reasonable observation, even if radically different from what you are accustomed to hearing. I hope and trust you will take these remarks in the spirit they are intended. I am sure you would be very pleasant and engaging in person, and I am pleased to learn of you and your work. Have you ever thought about turning your attention to longer works, perhaps on the level of the novel??

  17. Chelsea Says:

    WOW… first of all, beautifully written. Second of all, Chris is my roommate… I NEVER knew he was such a casa nova. Wow. I think I might be scarred though… LOL

  18. Erin Says:

    I know all those other people are just stating their own opinion about your blog, but personally I like it, and I’m offended for you.

    Jerks.

  19. Dsheray Says:

    You are passionate about your writing and I love your stories. Thank you for sharing.

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