But it’s that vital gap between reading the signals, clearly having gone down a storm – making her laugh hysterically, lots of body contact, etc. – and ending up in bed together. Or the pub toilet. Or a poorly lit corner of the car park.
But it’s the potential misreading of said signals, which prevents the follow through. I mean, being the over-sensitive flower I can be at times, the idea of leaning in, following hours, days or weeks of transparent mutual flirting, and being rebuffed is totally mortifying (possibly another reason so many sensible women avoid doing it). The devastation is explosive. You start thinking whether she now sees you as a terrible person (or not terrible enough, in some cases). Then you start to feel like a terrible person, or even worse, a terrible failure. And once these feelings rear their ugly heads, your already faux confidence has gone off arm in arm with your masculinity for a yearlong trip around the world, leaving you even more sexually unappealing, or so it seems.
It’s just that space between doing everything right, little pressure, everyone enjoying themselves and ‘closing the deal’ where all semblance of charisma and charm you had at your disposal decides it’s time for a well earned nap. It always seems so crass to actually utter the words, “So, er, want to…?” (cue raised eyebrow). Or else you worry it’s a mood killer to openly question the other party’s interest. Hence the lunging in technique.
Perhaps it’s a combination of being unable to read the signals, low self-esteem, and that desire to be the one being pounced on?
Even if you do get further than a warm hug and a hefty handshake, the introspective concerns follow you to the bedroom. Having impressed all night through witty repartee, you worry about her perception of you altering somewhat when you oratory skills diminish into, “Oh yeah. Oooh yeah. Use your tongue. Oh God Yeah, baby. Bite that. That’s good. Do you want this? Do you? Huh?”
I have been known to come into some criticism for being too quiet. Understandably they’ve questioned their own abilities. The irony being that in response to their anxious query over whether I enjoyed it or not, internally the answer is at times, Well, actually No. But nothing whatsoever to do with them. It’s the fear of reprisal. Losing the sexual allure you portrayed by losing yourself honestly in the throws of passion. Incredibly self-destructive, really. But hey, what ya gonna do?