Sarah, part 3

09 May

Sex happened.

Sex is a thing that happens. Sometimes, at least, it happens. I guess sex is the point of dating. Well, one of the points. A point, certainly. If we’re going to talk about dating, and success, and successful dating, sex serves as a metric we can use to measure these things. The last time I’d been undressed with someone I’d been living on a different continent, so I counted this as progress. Further metrics exist; for example, we can consider the question of enjoyable sex. We can also consider how we feel after the sex happened, regardless of how much we liked it at the time.

Sarah sat across from me on the opposite side of my futon, still unclothed. She had turned away from me and was fidgeting with something on my dresser. The air felt heavy and humid. After I sleep with someone for the first time, I always feel strange about things. Analytical, almost. I try to think about what I did, and what she did, and whether it was good, or okay, or whatever, and what it meant, assuming that it meant anything, which is a big assumption. I looked closely at her. Her hair was long, blond, and untied. A completely unnecessary and currently smeared mascara accented her blue eyes. Her nose, curved and hawkish, dominated her face. She possessed thin lips with an attractive curve. The tips of her fingers and toes came to odd little points. Her breasts were uncommonly large. At least, they were uncommonly large for breasts that I have experience with. I looked at them also.

“You’re staring at them again.” Sarah had turned away from my personal clutter to look at me. I looked up from her breasts to her face.

“Um, what?” I could feel my face reddening.

“My boobs. You’ve been staring at them all night.”

Suddenly I was very conscious of my own naked body. She was looking at me also, critically perhaps, and I felt glad we’d decided to have sex in the dark. What she’d said could be true. I couldn’t remember. I have a bad habit of staring off into the distance when I’m thinking, and if someone else happens to be in my field of vision when that happens, it tends to creep them the hell out. In the midst of conversation, often I will lower my eyes for the same reason. (Thinking, I mean, not creeping people out). Typically my gaze falls roughly to the torso, which is where most people keep their breasts. These habits are completely unconscious and uncontrollable.

Also, sometimes I just like to look at boobs.

I decided to assume that I’d been doing it on purpose. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Well, they’re very nice.” I smiled at her.

They were very nice, but I couldn’t think of them erotically just then. Earlier, between moments of physical intimacy, she’d said, “Watch this,” and clapped her breasts together like she was applauding.

Every time you sleep with someone new, something happens that you’ve never seen before.

I’d never seen clapping breasts.

I had no idea how I was supposed to react, so I buried my face between them in order to make it stop. In retrospect, it seemed like the right decision.

Before I could invite her to stay the night, she’d gotten dressed again with the supernatural speed of the post-coital, cheerily excusing herself with something plausible and work-related. Inwardly, I felt relieved.


Leave a Reply


  1. Kate

    May 10, 2010 at 10:51 pm

    I don’t know about you. but I keep my breasts in my pants.

  2. Dan

    May 11, 2010 at 3:06 am

    You know, I always knew there was something different about you.

  3. Antonio Strange

    December 28, 2010 at 12:22 am


    I would have done the same thing