Most guys like to be told what girls like and don’t like in bed. Whenever I hear this, I nod vigorously and spout my agreement, “Oh yeah, I definitely do that.” In reality, I never do that. And it’s because I have Sympathetic Embarrassment Syndrome. SES occurs when I see something embarrassing happening to someone else, and I feel embarrassed for them. In fact, I probably feel twenty times more embarrassed than they actually feel. I’m also one of those obnoxious people who giggle when they get uncomfortable, which is why I don’t get invited to funerals anymore. But I digress.
Back in the era of dating Twatface (ex #2), I was rudely introduced to his aggressive style in bed when he bit me. On the shoulder. In what world is behaving like a cannibal attractive to a woman? I’m so turned on right now by your attempt to eat me alive. Don’t be shy with the salt! That was sarcasm. I like a guy’s teeth to stay on his food. But, I was much too embarrassed to say anything in fear that Twatface would be embarrassed, which would make me more embarrassed; it’s a terrible loop that’s going to end up with me dead in a ditch. Twatface continued to bite, mostly on the lip. The first couple times were more like painful nibbles, and when I didn’t protest, they became increasingly harder. With each bite, I would giggle like a girl and squeak “Ow!”, but I think that just encouraged him, the sick bastard. I contemplated telling him that when he bit me I wanted rip off his lips and feed them to piranhas, but then I thought about how embarrassed he would feel when I told him I didn’t like his style, and the SES kicked in and I stayed quiet. The more I waited to say anything, the more embarrassed I got.
This resulted in heavy makeout sessions with me constantly backing away from his chompers. By the end of one night, my bed would be pushed back 20 feet and there would be a giant dent in my pillow. Sometimes I would stop him and subtly-to-the-point-of-obscurity ask, “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat [other than my flesh?!]”, but he never got the cryptic message I was sending. It got to the point where one night, he bit down so hard I yelped and feigned lethargy, fake-sleeping for the next two hours. The next morning, my lip was still sore. I crept out of bed, careful not to wake the snoozing bastard, and looked in the mirror. Sure enough, I had a fat lip. He actually bit so hard my lip was bruised and swollen. How romantic. I touched it tenderly. You would think this would be the last straw, right? YOU IGNORANT FOOL. For him to find out that he had given me a fat lip would be the ultimate embarrassment (SES, remember?), so the rest of the morning involved pulling my hair in front of my face to cover up the evidence and ushering him out the door. That afternoon, I iced my lip and fantasized about punching him in the face.