Sex Is Like Pizza. When It's Bad, It's Still Pretty Good

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Not too long ago, I copulated regularly with a woman who screamed a lot during the act, invited me to attend an anal sex workshop with her, insisted on giving hand jobs in taxicabs (to me, just to be clear), exclaimed, “Fuck me!” with such enthusiasm and urgency that I couldn’t help but believe her—and comply—and who shuddered and moaned when she had an orgasm, which was most of the time we shared nakedness, at least in my fevered and admittedly sort of credulous brain. She was 20 years younger than I was, had been a professional dancer, and had confided, on our second date, before we’d even kissed, that “really intense sex is very, very important to me.” In other words, I was—according to men’s magazines, frat-house guidelines, and most of my male friends who watched more than 30 minutes of televised sports weekly— having great sex. Ideal sex. Worldclass sex. “Living the dream,” one guy said. “Don’t fuck this up,” said another. “Does she have friends?” asked more than a few.

But to me, it wasn’t ideal sex. It wasn’t world-class sex. It wasn’t even fun sex. To me, it was just bad. It was bad sex.

Such a thing would never happen. Adventurous, orgasmic, shuddering, emotionally undemanding, former dancer sex with a woman 20 years my junior? Such a relationship could not bring a man anything but unadulterated glee. A man who would complain about that type of sex does not exist. Right? 

Gentle reader: It could. He does.