I'm Not Touching Your Penis

Last night, I had a Tinder date. A first date.
He backed out of our plans to grab a drink the next day, so we opt to cuddle and watch Planet Earth tonight. It’s late by the time we decide this and even later when he arrives. We have a time constraint, as I have therapy early the next morning.

Immediately, I lead him to my room and invite him under my blanket for the cuddles we agreed upon. After a few minutes of talk, he is kissing me as I lay on my back. I kiss him back. This is nice. His hand meanders down my pants. My legs are closed so he is only able to rest his hand on my vulva.

I check in with myself. Do I want this? Yes. I decide I would like to be touched, and receive pleasure. I open my legs and his hand follows. I pull my head away after a bit of manual stimulation and tell him “It would be nice to talk, too.”

“What do you want to talk about?”
There isn’t much after that before we resume making out. I don’t mind. It’s more stimulating than our conversation.

“Is it bad that I want to go down on you?” He asks me.
“It’s not bad. You can go down on me, but I’m not touching your penis.”
“Well that’s not very fair.” He says. I wonder how many times a woman has said this to a man when he fails to reciprocate oral.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” I remind him.

He proceeds to travel down my body, remove my panties and place his head between my legs. I hear the British accent narrating Planet Earth: “and now it’s time for feeding.” I giggle, which causes his head to shoot up in concern.

I encourage him to continue, “You’re doing great.”

Before I get anywhere close to orgasm he stops and comes up to my end of the bed. More cuddles and kisses.

“I really want to fuck you.” he whispers.
“Aw, I know you do.”
“And so humble.”
“I mean, everyone wants to fuck me.” I say “Of course you do, it’s nothing special.”

Cuddle and kisses. Kisses and cuddles.
“You’re so sexy.” escapes from his mouth between kisses.
“I know.”

Am I supposed to find this complimentary? It’s the context, but also the semantics. Telling me I’m attractive is worlds different then telling me how hot I am and how badly you want to fuck me.

Tinder date begins to remove his pants as he lay on top of me. I can feel the cold metal of his belt buckle graze my skin.

“What are you doing?” I ask him. I know what he’s doing, but I want to hear him confirm.
“I’m getting more comfortable.”
“Okay, but you are not penetrating me.”

This is the move I’ve seen a thousand times. He’s knocking, but not entering. Flirting with the boundary, but not violating it. His penis is dangerously close to my vaginal opening. I am now uncomfortable.

“You are not putting that inside of me.” I stop kissing and look him in the eyes. He climbs down from on top of me and lays beside me, stroking my body. Both of our shirts are still on. He continues to tell me how sexy I am, how much he wants to fuck me. I continue to tell him “I know.”

“Do you have a condom?” He asks.
“I do, but we are not having sex.”

He places a finger inside me, twisting and moving deeper.
I tell him, “I prefer clitoral stimulation.”
He proceeds to manually stimulate my clitoris from his position beside me on the bed until I shake and orgasm.

Cuddles and kisses. Kisses and cuddles.
“Can you just touch it?” He pleads.
“Just for a second?”
“How is that fair?” he asks.
“Don’t you want someone who wants to touch your penis? Don’t you want enthusiastic consent.”
I confront him head on. We already discussed the Aziz story and the “I’m a Straight Male, Now What?” workshop I organized a mere 24 hours ago.

He technically respects my no, yet continues this wearing down technique, preying on the socialization of women to be pleasing, to give in over time as they begin to question themselves. He doesn’t mean to do these things. He isn’t a bad guy. He has been socialized as a man to continuously pursue sexual gratification. It’s worked for him before, so why not try again?

I check in with myself another time. Do I want to have sex with him? I decide I do, though I’m conflicted because I don’t want to reward this technique. I decide, on my own agency, that I want to have penetrative sex. It’s been a while since I’ve last had sex. I’ve been ghosted, flaked on, and stood up an obscene amount in the past week. I’m lonely, and when I’m lonely I get desperate. “I’ll tell you what, if you make me cum with your mouth, we can have sex.”

“How about I go to the bathroom, you sit on my face, and then we have sex.”
I accept the negotiations and we execute the agreed upon proposal.

We use protection. I’m on top the entire time and give him little control. At one point he reaches for my hair with both hands pulling the ends on either side. I stop him and slink my head away. In return, I slide my hands towards the back of his head and grab his hair—the correct way—by the root and tell him this is the proper way to hair pull.

“I’m going to fuck you the way I want to fuck.” I whisper in his ear. I ride until I cum. Then I ride some more. He has not yet ejaculated and appears to be losing his erection. I climb off and ask him if he wants to take a break. I know he does, yet I ask anyway.

Cuddles and kisses. Kisses and cuddles. We face each other when tells me, “I didn’t expect tonight to go this way. Did you?”

He begins to snore in my ear as he spoons me. I give him about ten minutes of snooze time before I nudge him awake. “If you’re going to snore I won’t be able to sleep. You know you can’t sleep here tonight, right?”

He respects my time boundary, dresses, and orders an Uber home as I walk him out of my apartment, kissing him goodnight.

I don’t regret a minute of my evening. I hold no resentment towards this individual. Sure, there were times I could've stood my ground more. I could’ve called out his ignorance of both my verbal and nonverbal cues. I could have chosen to kick him out of my apartment when he pressed the tip of his penis near my vaginal opening. Sometimes I feel that its my mission and responsibility to reeducate these men, one by one. I get a perverse satisfaction from doing the opposite of how I was socialized to behave as a woman. I stand my ground. I deny men. I don’t feel the need or guilt to please the other party. I put my pleasure first. I’m abrasive and confrontational.

This was—I’m sure—an odd experience for him. The male “feeling used” for sex.

If that’s how he behaves on a first date, I don’t think I want to see him again. The physicality wasn’t particularly mind blowing, so it leaves no reason to drag him along. The irony is not lost on me. Usually I’m the one who is ghosted, flaked on or let down due to my comfortability in the conversation and act of sex.

I checked in with myself to make sure I was comfortable advancing sexually in the encounter with this Tinder date. Sometimes I do want to pleasure my partner, if I enjoy them and think they are deserving. In this instance I had no desire to give pleasure or give a part of myself. I didn’t want to touch his penis, so I didn’t. It’s as simple as that.

I identify as a slut, not because I have some insatiable desire to have sex with anyone who raises a hand. Frankly, I’m quite picky. I identify as a slut in that I enjoy sex and can choose to have it with whomever I want, whenever I please.

His words post-coitus stuck with me: “I didn’t expect tonight to go this way. Did you?”

No. No, I didn’t.