Girl, I’m tired of playing around. I’m ready for that real deal romance. Flowers and butterflies and fireworks. Baby, I want to make love to you like in the movies.
That’s right, girl. I want to serve you that good-ass Billy Crystal dick. That sweet, tender lovin’ that’ll make you feel like Meg Ryan from 1989 or 1995, depending on which era of Meg Ryan you relate to more. I want to tear that up after a long and dramatic courtship where I slowly gain your trust, but lose it at the worst possible moment by revealing our relationship was part of a bet or that I have destroyed your small independent business. Then I’ll earn your confidence back with a grand, breathtaking gesture that was foreshadowed months earlier. I want to knock boots with you the way you do after holding a boom box outside someone’s window in the rain.
I want to take you home to my apartment. Though my living space is unfeasibly large and furnished well beyond my means with Crate & Barrel accouterments, you’ll find it unacceptably messy because men, right? Once we get inside, I’m going to tear your clothes off. But, I’ll leave the bra on. Women always talk about how they hate wearing bras. How they squeeze and shape and constrict them. But in the movies they always wear them during sex, which seems silly, because lots of great sex things can happen once you remove your bra. I’ll take my shirt off, revealing a body which is either way too good considering what I do for work or one that’s comically dumpy. I’ll leave my pants on. That’s how it works in the movies. Girls keep their bras on. Guys leave their pants on. My dick ain’t afraid of no zippers.
I want to go at it under the sheets no matter how hot it is. Our feet will extend past the end of the bed, even though you get no leverage that way. We will not notice any unexpected moles or embarrassing tattoos. Everything that happens will be sexy. There won’t be any gross sounds or sights. Just like in the movies, our sex will be tasteless and odorless. I will not kiss your neck and get a mouthful of perfume and then you’re like what’s wrong and I’ll be like nothing and you’ll get all distant and I’ll be like sorry it’s the taste of your perfume, and you’ll be sad because you only wore it because I said I liked it one time and then all of a sudden you’re not in the mood and I think about sneaking off to the bathroom to furtively masturbate but I don’t and I just hold you limply until you fall asleep then I check Twitter for like an hour. That doesn’t happen.
I’ll lay out rose petals across the bed, and they won’t get in our butts, though it seems some of them logically would. I’ll rub an ice cube all over you, and you won’t burst out giggling, causing me to grow self-conscious and lose my erection. I’ll drip wax on you, which will be erotic and not at all like the other times you’ve burnt yourself on something hot, which have not been erotic at all. We’ll eat dessert off of each other’s nude bodies like that’s not the grossest thing two people could do to their sheets and skin. “Can’t we just have those strawberries later? I’m going to get all sticky,” is something you won’t say, in this paradise of physical pleasure.
Then, when we can bear to wait no longer, I will fuck your brains out, which I can only say once because to utter that word again would jeopardize our PG-13 rating. We will make love in every way imaginable, assuming you only know two or three ways and don’t expect oral sex. One moment, you’re on top of me, gyrating, still wearing that bra. The next, I’m churning rhythmically from above you, my weight perfectly distributed. An instant later, still under a comforter for some reason, I have assumed the “big spoon” position, magically generating torque for each thrust.
We will reorient our bodies effortlessly through jump cuts and other filmic transitions. Your legs will not cramp. My chest hair will not become a sweaty carpet. After less than a minute of athletic, montage sex, you will have a loud, performative orgasm. Or I will have an orgasm before you and feel humiliated and promise to do better next time. Cut to that point, where I’m able to give it another go right away without sacrificing any amount of boner integrity. At the end of our lovemaking we will smoke in bed, like no one I know ever does in New York because of security deposits and lung cancer.
The sex will change the dynamic of our previous relationship drastically and irreversibly. It may bring us together forever. It may drive us tragically apart. That is what sex does. I have seen the movies.
If you suspect you’ve become pregnant, you will consider keeping the baby, even though you’re not religious and we live in a relatively pro-choice state and you had no intention of becoming a mother and I am for sure not ready to be a father. This anxiety will become the crux of our future dealings. You’ll decide to keep the baby. We’ll stay together, even though we’ve only been on three dates. One night, while I’m out with friends, contractions will begin, earlier than expected. An ambulance will rush you to the hospital. By the time I arrive, you will have miscarried, just like in the movie Up. Though we never discuss it, that night will permeate our relationship forever.
We remain married for sixty years. Childless. You’ll die in your sleep at age eighty-eight. I’ll pass away the following week, from grief.
That’s how I want to make love to you.