Published in the April 12 issue of Creative Loafing

I didn’t see it coming. We’d been “dating” (whatever that means nowadays) for two weeks, and we still had not had sex. My friends were vocal with their opinions. “Dude, you better hurry up,” advised one of my guy friends. “Homeboy isn’t going to wait forever.”

I don’t see anything immoral about having sex on a first date, but generally the more I like the guy, the more likely I tend to hold off on the sex front. Aside from some painful pink or blue balls (pink balls are real; look it up), leaving room for mystery never hurt anybody. On the flip side, the sooner you have sex, the sooner you find out whether you’re sexually compatible. (I should keep the latter in mind more often.)

The night finally arrived. A group of us were out drinking on a Saturday night when I turned to my new guy friend and smiled. “Let’s go play.”

The next day I came home to find one of my roommate’s lounging on our sunny deck. Some people have a therapist and a couch, I have an awesome roommate and an awesome patio set and deck.

“So … ” I eventually tell my friend, “we had sex last night.”

“And?” she asked. I can’t remember if I even told her about the good times, or if I focused on the downside of the situation.

“He can’t stay hard. Or orgasm,” I told her. “I’m not gonna lie, I was kind of insulted. This has never happened to me before.”

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