This story is one of my favorites. Remember all those times when they say you shouldn’t have sex with a neighbor? Well, I did. And it was awful. So this is what happened.
The Pandemic & My Vaginia
I was in my room minding my own business. I live in a town of between 15-19 million people which means that I don’t like to go outside cuz there are people out there. We were in the middle of our very first COVID lockdown. Over here, they did contact tracing, scanned your QR code, security was everywhere, lock the gates to your community, some couldn’t leave their building.. blah blah.
The government here took the COVID virus VERY seriously. And my vagina was crying mutiny. I’m all for public health and everyone doing their part to help curtail the spread of a global pandemic. But y’all, my vagina did not agree to the mandates and was damn near ready to strike and riot! I had to calm her down with deep breathing and naps.
At the time, my building management had signed leases for about 12 tenants and half-ish were foreigners and the other locals. Everybody had left the country or gone to their hometown to wait out the COVID virus drama.
I was stuck and bored and horny.
How I Met My Neighbor
Bored and horny, for a former Black woman indoctrinated in True Love Waits white evangelical malarkey, results in less than wise decisions.
I hear a knock on my door and there is this lanky dude standing there looking bored AF just like me. I’m single-digit peen (I’ve counted) on my heaux phase list and pretty naive. He says he’s new to the area and wanted to get to know the neighborhood. I loved my neighborhood so I said I’d give him a tour to help him get acclimated.
Little did I know that when he said “area,” he meant “my vulva.” And “neighborhood,” he meant my titties. And by “Yeah, sure, I’d like a tour,” he meant, “Sooo are we fuckin?’ or ‘Nah?”
As the innocent damsel that I was at the time, I got dressed and put on my tour-giving shoes. We walked for about an hour in total. After about 57.5 minutes, I noticed that he started walking much slower—intentionally. It was getting on my nerves. And then I felt laser eyes on my booty cheeks. Is he not proud of the detail I’m going into about my neighborhood and its charm? Is he remembering all the nuances so that he can live independently without asking me dumb questions about where stuff is later?
I was annoyed and then he starts asking when we will be back at the house. He cut my tour short! The disrespect!
We arrive back at the house and I say my kind goodbye. I shut my door and he shuts his.
How I Ended Up Fucking My Neighbor
No less than five minutes and two days later, he knocks on my door again. And he has two oranges. He asks if he can come into Tiny Palace—my itty bitty-ass studio apartment. I’ll give you a tour of Tiny Palace later—don’t you worry, dear readers! It’s my sacred space amidst the chaos of my ginormous megacity. I welcome him in. I have no chair so he’s obliged to sit on my bed.
Oh no.
I thank him profusely for the oranges. I thought it was weird.
He was weird.
It was all so weird.
Then he starts asking me questions about my life. I find out he’s a post-doctorate fellow in microbiology. Smart man. He’s twiddling his toes (a grown-ass man twiddling his toes?? Are we 7?) like he’s never been in the company of a woman. With him being south Asian, it’s pretty obvious that he’s super new to the basics of matchmaking.
After some painstaking small talk, he stops mid-sentence and says, “Can I…can I…can I touch your boob?”
Again. Seven. Seven-years-old. This is what Seven-year-olds say after they sneak-watch their dad’s porn tape or something. Lord Jesus.
I sit there and respond, “Uh, yeah.” And I arch my back, straighten my posture, and stick out my titty about two inches just to make sure he can find it ok.
He finds it ok.
Do you know what one of those free automatic blood pressure cuffs feels like at Walmart right after you push the button for it to start tightening? And then do you know how it tightens, then loosens, and then tightens super tight before releasing?
Ok.
Now, do you know what a muscle spasm looks like if you’ve been working out and didn’t eat enough potassium and bananas?
Now mix those two images together and you’ve kinda got what my right titty had to endure.
My boob was confused. I was confused. And he was aroused.
Then he asks to put his hand under my bra. I’ll talk in a future blog post about how this is virtually impossible if you have voluptuous boobs like mine. I unsnap my bra and let my boobs hang low and his eyes look like he has seen a pot of gold. He then, in his post-doctoral fellow’s deeply unsexual way says, “Can I put them in my mouth?”
I say, “Sure.”
I’m not able to take this engagement seriously. At this point, I’m just taking mental screenshots so I’d be able to retell this story. He opens his mouth as big as he can, takes a big breath, and sticks as much of my boob in his mouth. I look down and he looks at me—WITH MY BOOB IN HIS MOUTH. He looked like a dog who went swimming and accidentally caught a flippity-flopping fish and then didn’t know what to do with it. No sucking. No licking. Just 1/2 my boob in his mouth. For no goddamn reason and with no goddamn plan.
He then asks to take his pants off. I tell him he needs to get a condom. He says he doesn’t have one. He puts on said pants. He runs to the store to get one. He comes back breathless. He takes off said pants. He opens the condom. He takes off his underwear.
Microdick.
I open my legs and he’s on top of me. There’s a solid 1-3/4 inches of condom hanging off the tip of his peen. He starts going at it. Breathing hard. Sweating.
It took me 2 minutes to realize, “Oh my god! He’s in already!” And then he comes. I didn’t even know my vagina and his peen had even connected. He lays on top of me. Recovering. I’m befuddled. He then pushes my boobs together in order to get as much contact with them as possible, I guess.
After several minutes, he asks if we can just lay together. I tell him I have other things to do with my day. He’s heartbroken. I kick him out.
Why I Ended Up Fucking My Neighbor Twice
My “I have other things to do with my day” was, in actuality, me staring at my ceiling wondering, “What the hell was that?”
Here’s the kicker.
Two days later. He asks to come back over. And guess what? We had coitus again. I can’t even call it sex. I don’t know what it was. People, when I tell them this, look at me incredulously and ask why I would endure such again willingly.
Well, two reasons. One, I was bored and I don’t make good decisions when bored. Two, I had to make sure—to double check—that the sex was as bad as I thought it was. I couldn’t believe it could possibly be so I had to try again.
It was just as bad the second time.
You may be wondering what happened to the two oranges. They rotted on my counter. I couldn’t bare to eat them cuz I would get flashbacks every time I got in their vicinity. Kinda poetic cuz part of my hopes and dreams also died a little that week…just like those oranges.
Until next time,
Have a Heauxly week. Besitos.
Ms. Heauxly Coitus
~To be a heaux is to engage in consensual sex or no sex at all, be kind to your yourself and partner(s), creative, fully embodied, unapologetic, powerful, and free.~
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