The elephant that came too soon

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room, the one who came too soon and, get down on the record once and for all, that premature ejaculation is never the woman’s fault. Sure, our feminine wiles and bodily charms might contribute to you blowing your load before I’ve had the chance to part my legs. But never, under any circumstances, is your embarrassment a reasonable excuse to make the next nine excruciating minutes my fault.

But first some context. As we all know, I’ve been with more than a handful of men. Some play a long game and others a short game. I’m a fan of both, subject to the state of arousal we’re both in, how many times we’ve hit the snooze button already, and how hungry I am for breakfast. If I’m starting to think about what I’m going to wear to work that day, it’s gone too long. The point is, quickies can be just as passionate and hot as marathons that require stretching and Gatorade.

I think everyone has an experience where the desires did not align. You wanted long, he went short. He held back, trying to “do the right thing” but you were ready to go. All you needed was to hear him come to tip you over that sweet edge. When he didn’t, you got frustrated, maybe had a quick sex sulk and decided to hell with him and you made yourself come without bothering to see if he caught up.

The dynamics of sex are ever-changing. Sure, after a while there’s a routine you could set a grandfather clock by, but by and large, that point between getting there and not getting there can be the difference of a few thrusts.

For some men, a few thrusts might be all it takes. When it’s a new guy, it can be hard to tell if he’s as surprised as you are by the rapid turn of events, or he knows his gear. This is his thing. He’s a premmie. Likely always has been. Maybe always will be. But unlike with babies born before term, we don’t celebrate the miracle of his manhood, and so he executes what I like to call the Taylor Swift.

“Oh. Look what you made me do.”

Meet Rob. Rob and I started chatting on Tinder. Chit chat, how’s this weather, plans for the weekend, wanna fuck? Or that’s pretty much the gist of most Tinder conversations so let’s skip the pleasantries. Rob was keen. Rob was coming over. Rob requested a risqué but not nude pic. Rob seemed happy with what I had to offer.

Hi Rob, welcome to my house. Don’t mind the dog. Yep, she’s big. A Great Dane actually. Hope you’re not scared of dogs. Awkward laughter. Dog goes outside.

Rob leans in for a kiss and we start making out. We both know why he’s here. The pashing is hot, he’s a great kisser. His hands are wandering under my shirt where he discovers I’m not wearing a bra. See above – we both know why he’s here.

I’m unbuckling his belt (which, sidebar, I am totally bad at this. Am I the only one?) and he kneels down in front of me to trace my puss with my tongue.

We discard clothing as we move to my bedroom. He pushes me down on the bed and tells me not to move. Pulling off his socks (mandatory), he is watching me, unmoving on the bed.

He kneels over me and leans in, his his cock pressed against me. I use my hand to guide it in.

I hadn’t even got to my “ah moment”, the moment when you’ve been craving dick and he first slides inside you. It’s a definite “ah”, not replicated in the subsequent thrusts. Anyway, I was mid “ah” when he announces he’s going to come.

Say what now?

He pulls out his cock and jerks it to finish, spilling all over my puss and thighs. I watch on with interest but I can’t pretend like the sight of it is going to make me spontaneously explode in sync.

This is when Rob turns into a dickhead.

“You don’t have anything I should worry about do you?”

I was hoping my startled expression might convey the inappropriateness of the question given a) it’s a bit late for that and b) if I had secret chlamydia, I’m sure it would have taken longer for the disease to realise there was another host in the vicinity of my vagina than the time his dick spent seeing the sights.

“Um, no. No, I don’t. I get tested quite regularly.”

“OK. Can I have a shower?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

I thought maybe he was being a dick because I hadn’t said anything first so I offered what I saw as a very compassionate chestnut in the circumstances.

“I take it as a compliment, by the way. It’s really, totally fine.”

No response. He’s standing there a little aimlessly. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower, adjusting the flow of water while I continue my efforts to make him feel comfortable.

“So, what do you do Rob?”

“I work.”

We’re both in the shower.

“Great. What do you do exactly?”

“I’m in marketing.”

“Oh cool, I’m a similar field. Whereabouts?”

Rob does not want to tell me. I change the subject.

“So, I saw on Facebook you play chess?”


“Maybe you should have brought a board, we could have played … first.”

OK, I was floundering, but Rob was giving me nothing to work with. Being in such close proximity without touching was beyond weird. I got out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel. A few minutes later, he turned the taps off and stepped out. I handed him a towel.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, I think it’s best if I just get going.”

“Oh OK. You don’t have to run off you know. I’m cool. We can hang out.”

“No, I’m just going to go. But we should … stay in touch.”

“Yep, sure,” I said.

He leaned in for a hug, which I couldn’t have been less enthused about and I walked him to the door.

Closing it on him all I could think was, what the fuck is wrong with me.

I spent the next 20 minutes texting a few close mates sharing my angst, feeling somehow that I had fucked up. I felt rejected, not by his premature climax but by his behaviour after. At no time during the time he was in my house did he acknowledge what had happened or even throw me a compliment to make me feel like he just couldn’t contain himself.

A few drinks later, it was only 9.30pm, my phone started ringing. It was Rob.

“Hey, I just wanted to apologise, I shouldn’t have run out like that. I just, I forgot to ask, are you on the pill?”

I should have hung up right then and there, rather than explain to him the mechanics of conception, the fact I was infertile and that even the Virgin Mary got more out of her exchange with God than I did with him.

But instead I explained while no, I was not on the pill, it was impossible for me to conceive, so he definitely did not need to worry.

“Are you sure?”

Really dude, really.

“I am so sure Rob, I divorced my husband because I couldn’t give him children. So, I’m pretty sure.”

“OK. It’s just, I wasn’t expecting … that. I thought we’d make out a bit, and then you came on really strong – ”

“I’m sorry, are you saying this is my fault?”

“No, I just … I was really horny … and I hadn’t done it for a while and I didn’t think you’d actually be real.”

“You didn’t think I was real? You drove an hour to see if I was real and then when I was, you were surprised we had sex?”

“I’ve handled this badly.”

“Oh, by all means, continue telling me how it’s my fault that you came quickly, which I was totally fine with by the way. What is not cool, Rob, is you leaving and making me feel like I had done something wrong. Like I had something to be embarrassed about.

“I know. I’m sorry. Maybe we can hang out again some time.”

“I don’t think so. Men come quickly sometimes. It happens. But you’ve insulted me in several ways tonight so I think I’m good with not seeing you again.”

“Oh OK. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be. Night Rob.”

I realised I had actual tears in my eyes, I felt so humiliated.

Ping. A Facebook message from Rob.

You have a great body btw

Another time?

Halfway home I was keen to go back

Fuck off Rob.




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