Last Saturday, I went on a date with a girl that I met on Herstory Personal Ads. We had a great back and forth via text, and she looked hot AF in all her pics. I was excited to meet her. We met at a sexy dark Brooklyn bar. I ordered a vodka soda, she ordered an IPA. We had effortless conversation for 3 hours — she talked about the Cyborg Manifesto and other super intellectual things without sounding pretentious at all so I was obviously wet AF. Either I’m better managing my anxiety or the girls that I’m meeting lately just have killer social skills. I’ve been on such fab dates! Maybe it’s the universes way of making up my death-by-dildo incident to me. We were doing a lot of ~arm touching~ and it was becoming pretty obvious that she was interested in doing more ~touching~. So I invited her back to my apartment and prayed that I remembered to put my weaves away and didn’t leave them strewn on the couch as I’m wont to do when I’m rushing around getting ready to meet a hot lez.
So after a walk in the bitter cold in which my body became completely numb (because I was wearing a slutty crop top and my version of a winter coat is my usual leather jacket with a faux fur scarf thrown around for decoration) we arrived at my lovely Brooklyn abode. I did my usual aggressively brush teeth and splash water on my vagina routine in my bathroom while I left her with a glass of white wine. I was super excited to sleep with her — little did I know I was headed for both the best and worst sexual experiences of my life in one.
After we talked some more on my sexy velvet couch (literally she was the best conversationalist ever, and my couch is the most dyke princess thing ever) we started making out. Still, everything was fine. Better than fine. I’ll save you step by step details so as not be to gratuitous.
I’ve had incredible, amazing sex. I thought I’ve had the best orgasms of my life. But this. was. on. another. f*cking. level. Like, I don’t even know why! We didn’t even do anything crazy — just standard vanilla lesbian sex. But MY GOD, was she skilled. I felt like Alice in the back of that limo with Papi. Like… amazing. My pussy still flutters when I think about it.
Except when it was my turn to f*ck her… everything went downhill. I can now say that I identify with straight men.
I’m not really good at much, but I do know I’m good at writing, spending money, and oral sex. So when I asked if I could go down on her and she said she had her period (I personally wouldn’t mind but I respect boundaries) I kind of had a little moment of panic. Though my couch is fab, it’s kind of hard to get a good angle for certain things, so we moved.
So I have a lofted bed. Okay? It’s embarrassing and unsexy but damnit rent in Brooklyn is expensive. There is honestly just no hot way to climb a ladder and heave yourself into bed. Maybe that threw my mojo off. Maybe it was because I could hear my roommate coughing through the wall. Maybe it’s because I need to be on the left side of a woman to properly finger her (one handed problems) and I was on the right. But I was bad in bed, that much I know. To my defense, I had just been served with 6 earth-shattering orgasms and my body wasn’t really working. Neither was my brain.
You know when you’re stuck in a loop and your hand is cramping like a motherf*cker and then time and space start blurring and you just pray to the sapphic goddesses that your girl will cum before your hand needs to be amputated? Even the most skilled at sex lesbians know what I’m talking about. Even the Shane’s. It was just. not. happening. And the more self-conscious I became about it not happening, the more in my head I became, and the worse in bed I was.
Sometimes bad things just happen to good people.
She was so nice about it and said it was because she was too in her head, but I low-key know it was just a failing on my part. So then she went on f*cking me a bunch more times, and I lived up to the pillow princess stereotype that some lesbians unrightfully classify me as. I could go on and on about the ~orgasms~ this girl gave me, ya’ll. I felt selfish that I had the most intense and plentiful orgasms of my life (which is saying a lot), but she said she derived pleasure from giving me orgasms, so I’m just going to tell myself that so I can sleep at night.
After she left, I spiraled into an existential lesbian crisis. Am I bad in bed? Will she never see me again? Will she get drunk at Cubbyhole and tell any lez in an earshot about how I couldn’t make her cum? Will I ever make a woman cum again? Like, I really freaked out, ya’ll. I had to have a glass of Pinot Grigio to calm down! But that only made me spiral more.
I googled how-to lesbian sex guides as if I haven’t been making women cum since I was 16. I doubted everything. Also, I have anxiety and OCD so that’s why I was acting like a crazy lesbian, cause I am one. I stayed in this I’m-terrible-at-sex-I-need-to-relearn-everything-about-vaginas rabbit hole until she texted me that she’d like to see me again. Whew.
These conversations about lesbian sex are uncomfortable but necessary. I am determined to make her cum and talk to her about it. And like GO’s executive editor Zara Barrie says, “It’s hard to give a woman an orgasm.” Lesbian sex isn’t always perfect. Sometimes, it’s awkward. Sometimes, it’s better than perfect. Sometimes, it’s sweet. Sometimes, it’s hot. Next time, you best believe I will have my game face on. Maybe we can even utilize the amazing sex position our sexpert Corinne Kai taught me about called ~communication~ about how we want to be f*cked.
Shockingly, she wants to see me again. And if I don’t prove myself to be the lesbian sex and dating expert ya’ll know me as, I’ll have to quit my job at GO, change my name, and go live as a straight person in Wisconsin or something. Wish me luck, bitches.