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Not Sexy by Liam Klenk

They look deep into each other’s eyes. Something clicks. They kiss. Passion overwhelms them. Frantically, they rip off each other’s clothes, barely able to make it to a secluded corner. There, they fall into a tight embrace. Hands and tongues explore each other’s sweaty bodies. Soon, both lovers are moaning. Their limbs become ever more intertwined, and then sweat and bodily fluids start mixing. The lovers are strong, confident, and comfortable. Their satisfaction rises in tune with their heartbeats. Their bodies are almost bursting with the need for release.

Then they climax. Together. He ejaculates. She gushes. One last powerful, muscular thrust, one last moan as the glowing lovers collapse into each other’s arms.

And cut right there.

Ever since I was a child, this is what I was shown in every movie. In every romantic scene on screen where lovers are consumed by their passion and where lust and physical satisfaction are depicted as being on an equal level with love.

This is who I felt I had to be. This is what was expected of me and what I had to aspire to. I had to be strong, in control, self-confident, sexy, driven by lust, and acrobatic in bed to be truly wanted and loved.

I tried and was found wanting.

During my attempts at one-night stands, I find myself strangely unresponsive to my lover’s charms. I feel neither sexy nor excited. I am not attracted by my unknown lover’s abundant suggestiveness and even caressing her feels wrong. I feel repelled, anxious, and bored, and I keep wondering how I can gently bring this to an end without being horribly rude.

In relationships, my sexual acrobatics are never up to par. No matter how much I climb around during the act, without fail, I end up making a clumsy move.