The best sex I’ve ever had didn’t take place in my dorm room. It didn’t happen in the heat of a late spring night, in a space illuminated by the orange glow of streetlights nearby. It didn’t involve someone who I had grown to adore, who knew exactly how to kiss, where to touch and when to pull away to leave me wanting more. It didn’t entail me lying under him, feeling his strong, masculine weight pressed against my small, delicate frame.
The best sex I’ve ever had has never happened.
“D” and I met when I was a freshman and he was a senior. I was bright-eyed and impatiently waiting for the excitement of college to unveil itself. He was somewhat jaded, as he was nearing the end of his own four-year journey here. What started with a glance became a dance, which became a tryst at a later party, which became a kiss on a rooftop, which became sleepovers at his apartment — which, when all combined, gradually became the reification of an affinity so inexplicably delightful that I still find myself smiling from ear to ear when I recall it.
Whatever chapters in our story transpired as consequences of inebriation — of both the liquor and the loving kind — took us from cautious eagerness to unrestrained desire in no time. But all of these events never led to what literary analysts would call the denouement: D and I making love. As time continued onward, we grew closer and closer, but never reaching what I had believed to be the apex of every relationship. I grew restless in being constantly disappointed. I feared that I would never get to reach our story’s resolution.
I recall one summer night when D and I laid down in a hotel room into which we had spontaneously checked in the night before. As he caressed my face and traced the outline of my body with his hands, I realized I could bear the anticipation no longer. And then, after nearly a year of knowing him, I asked him why is it that we had never had sex.
He answered with a vague, “It’s complicated, my situation.” To which I replied, quite selfishly, “I don’t care about your situation. Your circumstances didn’t change your outcome; the fact is that you’re here with me.”
And every time we’ve seen each other since then, we’ve always just left it at that.
I find myself constantly wondering what it would be like were he and I to sleep together — how amazing it would feel if he touched me here and kissed me there and grabbed me this way and pulled me down that way. Sometimes I can’t help but hurt when I feel as though I’ve got nothing to show for our relationship because I’ve never had that part of him.
But it is during this daydream that I always come to realize: We do have all that, and I do have him. I have experienced the most impassioned kisses and affectionate embraces, all of which felt like they could keep me content forever, with him. In spite of us never having had sex, my bones still quiver every time he touches me, and I am always overwhelmed with the greatest feeling of elation. I feel as though we have the whole world — all we could ever need — in our bed, just as we are. I always come to the realization that our emotional euphoria transcends any expectation of sensual satisfaction, and that was the greatest resolution that we as a couple could reach.
You may find it ironic that I’m writing about not having sex in a newspaper issue devoted to the dirty deed. And the truth is that I originally wanted to write a column in defense of casual sex. I’ve dabbled — and am still dabbling — in the realm of friends with benefits, because I admit that I do have my needs and that they do need to be fulfilled once in a while. But I believe that what is said about every story also rings true about sex: There are always two sides. I believe that the side I took with D has made all the difference. The senses are heightened, the inhibitions are eradicated, and the passion is boundless, and I will always look forward to the next time we can indulge ourselves in it all again. Sex may be fantastic, but there’s nothing like crawling into bed at five in the morning and finding my niche in the bend of his arm as he envelops me in an unparalleled sense of comfort. It’s inimitable.
Sometimes I wonder if the story of D and me is still unfinished, and I let myself think that we’ll reach that physical climax eventually. Sometimes I don’t, and I remind myself that whatever is, is right. I can’t answer any of these qualms for sure, but one thing I do know is that with him, I will always be more than willing to find out.
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