As the sexual encounters with Late Night continued to hover below expectation I took to the Internet. With an idea of what was causing the problem, the goal was to find something that would confirm the theory. And boy, did I find all kinds of stuff out there. Quickly drifting from research I found myself reading blog posts of people that had experienced similar bedroom results.
In the end it was confirmed as best possible, without psychiatric assistance, that the problem is all in my head. Which is what I had assumed, but was secretly hoping wouldn’t end up being the case. This means the big bag of crazy I was expecting to let loose made an appearance, it just wasn’t in the old familiar package. Suppressing my natural date-craziness created all kinds of pressure and expectations. And that’s all on me, Late Night hasn’t done/said anything that would urge me to pursue personal perfection.
It became my mission to chill the F out and attempt to just let things happen. No wonder there are so many pills on the market to help people relax – it’s nearly impossible. The next night at Late Night’s house I was weighing my options. The fool proof way to ensure a relaxed situation is to become intoxicated, but then there’s the risk of being sloppy or running my mouth. The other option, and what I was obliged to take, was the natural route. No drinks. Just me.
When we made it to the bedroom I had to put the nonstop chatterbox in my head inside a bubble. Literally trying to drown out the internal voice that begins asking questions and analyzing what’s occurring. Through some sort of gay miracle it actually worked. In the end it was definitely better than the first few experiences and everyone walked away much more satisfied.
Sex is so much harder when you like the person.