want to know. He'll feel good knowing he's making you feel good. Men feel a sense of satisfaction when they can make a woman come, 'cause they don't know what the hell's goin' on in there. And he'll be more willing to tell you what he likes."
"But what if I don't like to do what he wants me to do, or what he likes? Or what if I don't like what he likes to do?"
"Well, then, he might not be the right guy for you."
I looked at him, confused. "Just because we don't agree on foreplay?"
"Depends on how important it is to him, or to you."
I pondered this and sipped my water.
"Isn't it true that most men would rather skip the foreplay?" I asked.
"Not if it's the best part of the sex."
"I thought the other part was supposed to be the best part. You know, the 'biggie'."
He leaned in close, and I could still feel the heat coming off his body from our role-playing before. "Let me tell you a little secret, Andi."
"I was hoping you'd kiss me instead."
"Everything they told you about sex is wrong," he practically whispered.
"Who is 'they'?" I whispered back.
"Whoever told you what you think you know." He then leaned back on the sofa, and looked at me more quizzically. "How did you learn about sex?"
No one had ever asked me this, and I'd never really given it much thought. I grew up in an Italian, patriarchal household on the North Shore of Long Island, the youngest of three. My two brothers, Joseph and Anthony, were handsome, popular, and extremely talented musicians, both playing professionally by the time they were adolescents. Joey was a jazz pianist, Tony a rock guitarist. They were quite protective of me until they moved out and went on the road with their respective bands. They would beat up bullies and each would walk on the other side of me, like bodyguards, regardless of whether we went to the mall or the movies. I certainly didn't turn to them for sex education. Whenever I went to one of the seamier dives where they performed, they would actually announce to the audience that I was their little sister and "off limits", much to my embarrassment. In sixth grade, when Gary Whitmore sent me a Valentine along with his phone number and a picture of himself, Tony called Gary and warned him to "stay the hell away" from me. The next day, Gary stopped speaking to me; the week after that, he gave my friend Rosie a little stuffed bear.
I don't remember much about my father; he died from a heart attack shortly after my thirteenth birthday. He worked a lot and played golf and guitar on Saturdays and attended church on Sundays with the rest of the family. He forbade me to watch soap operas ("those things are disgusting"), wear two-piece bathing suits ("you're not a woman; you're just a girl"), and swearing was absolutely forbidden in the house, dammit. After my father died, my mother was too consumed with grief to usher her daughter through any pubescent curiosities. And the older I got, the more she seemed to resent me for my youth and vitality and figure. She criticized every accessory I wore, and the sound of my laugh was "too suggestive." She bought me baggy sweaters and spandex leggings. By the junior prom, I had gained thirty pounds and the boys reviled me and gawked at the Heather Locklear-types instead.
Public school treated the matter of sex education like something as rote and sterile as the SATs, and I was simply too scared to ask my friends, one of whom called me a prude after I refused to look at the Playgirl magazine she had managed to get her hands on.
I babbled all this to Devin, barely pausing for a breath. So then, how did I learn about sex?
"Judy Blume books, I guess," I finally answered.
"Trust me, there are better sources."
My head sunk; God, how pathetic. I'd felt this feeling before. Shame penetrates every internal organ like bile, churning and eating away from the inside out.
Despite telling me that lovers aren't mind-readers, Devin responded to my thoughts as if I'd spoken them out loud.
"What are
"But what if I don't like to do what he wants me to do, or what he likes? Or what if I don't like what he likes to do?"
"Well, then, he might not be the right guy for you."
I looked at him, confused. "Just because we don't agree on foreplay?"
"Depends on how important it is to him, or to you."
I pondered this and sipped my water.
"Isn't it true that most men would rather skip the foreplay?" I asked.
"Not if it's the best part of the sex."
"I thought the other part was supposed to be the best part. You know, the 'biggie'."
He leaned in close, and I could still feel the heat coming off his body from our role-playing before. "Let me tell you a little secret, Andi."
"I was hoping you'd kiss me instead."
"Everything they told you about sex is wrong," he practically whispered.
"Who is 'they'?" I whispered back.
"Whoever told you what you think you know." He then leaned back on the sofa, and looked at me more quizzically. "How did you learn about sex?"
No one had ever asked me this, and I'd never really given it much thought. I grew up in an Italian, patriarchal household on the North Shore of Long Island, the youngest of three. My two brothers, Joseph and Anthony, were handsome, popular, and extremely talented musicians, both playing professionally by the time they were adolescents. Joey was a jazz pianist, Tony a rock guitarist. They were quite protective of me until they moved out and went on the road with their respective bands. They would beat up bullies and each would walk on the other side of me, like bodyguards, regardless of whether we went to the mall or the movies. I certainly didn't turn to them for sex education. Whenever I went to one of the seamier dives where they performed, they would actually announce to the audience that I was their little sister and "off limits", much to my embarrassment. In sixth grade, when Gary Whitmore sent me a Valentine along with his phone number and a picture of himself, Tony called Gary and warned him to "stay the hell away" from me. The next day, Gary stopped speaking to me; the week after that, he gave my friend Rosie a little stuffed bear.
I don't remember much about my father; he died from a heart attack shortly after my thirteenth birthday. He worked a lot and played golf and guitar on Saturdays and attended church on Sundays with the rest of the family. He forbade me to watch soap operas ("those things are disgusting"), wear two-piece bathing suits ("you're not a woman; you're just a girl"), and swearing was absolutely forbidden in the house, dammit. After my father died, my mother was too consumed with grief to usher her daughter through any pubescent curiosities. And the older I got, the more she seemed to resent me for my youth and vitality and figure. She criticized every accessory I wore, and the sound of my laugh was "too suggestive." She bought me baggy sweaters and spandex leggings. By the junior prom, I had gained thirty pounds and the boys reviled me and gawked at the Heather Locklear-types instead.
Public school treated the matter of sex education like something as rote and sterile as the SATs, and I was simply too scared to ask my friends, one of whom called me a prude after I refused to look at the Playgirl magazine she had managed to get her hands on.
I babbled all this to Devin, barely pausing for a breath. So then, how did I learn about sex?
"Judy Blume books, I guess," I finally answered.
"Trust me, there are better sources."
My head sunk; God, how pathetic. I'd felt this feeling before. Shame penetrates every internal organ like bile, churning and eating away from the inside out.
Despite telling me that lovers aren't mind-readers, Devin responded to my thoughts as if I'd spoken them out loud.
"What are
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