Two days ago, I reached a personal sex record: six times in 12 hours. Six.
When I got home (and thank god I actually left or who knows how many more times we would have done it), I headed straight for my bed and promptly passed out for nine or so hours. Marathon sex is a tiring endeavor. And I had a midterm the next day. Yikes.
It is not physically possible to sustain my sexual routine of late. I have had more sex in the past two weeks than I have had during the rest of junior year combined (that would be the previous six months). This overindulgence is the result of finding the most sexually compatible partner I’ve ever had. He’s attractive, sure, but more importantly, he knows exactly what I like in bed, picks up on all of my physical cues, and makes me love things I never thought I’d even want to try. We’re well-matched, and I’m honestly enjoying the best sex of my twenty years. I can’t wait to have more of it. I’m just not certain my body can take it.
Take, for example, last weekend’s physical wear: chafed lips and an aching jaw. Giving blowjobs too frequently actually rendered my mouth useless for more conventional activities (like you know, eating). Have you ever given so much head that it hurts to chew food? I didn’t think it was possible either, but a few days ago, I found myself in enormous pain during a multi-course dinner. This was after I spent the whole weekend with lips so dry and swollen red that I was seriously beginning to channel the “competitive skiier” look.
And still we can’t get enough of each other. Last night, I met him at the T station and handed him a treat from BerryLine, the local frozen yogurt place. “How sweet of you,” he said, meeting my upturned face with his lips on mine. “Let’s get on the train.”
“Wait, I’m not coming,” I laughed and resisted the tug of his hands on my arm. “I’m just here to say bye.”
“Oh, you’re not?” he said. His surprise was evident. We’ve been spending every spare second together. Of course the assumption was that I’d follow him home.
“No, I should stay here. If I go back with you, we’re not going to work. Besides, we’ll see each other tomorrow. We’re going to spend the whole night together.”
“Well, actually … that’s good. I’m proud of you. I’m glad you have the self-control.”
“One of us has to have some!”
“Come here,” he whispered. He cupped my face with his hands and leaned in slowly for a kiss. This is awfully public, I thought, but the gentle flick of his tongue over my lips brushed away any concerns about being spotted. And then quickly: a confirmation of the next day’s plans, a promise for feedback on the yogurt, a hasty glance back as if to say goodbye again, and I was off.
A half hour later, I was back at the frozen yogurt shop chatting with my girlfriend when he text messaged me, “The yoghurt was excellent! Thank you so much!”
“You’re excellent,” I responded.
“Haha, enjoy your night of rest,” he wrote back.
I think I laughed aloud. In the immediate future, at least, rest will be a rarity.