Jordan is a nymphomaniac, and I am graysexual; which is probably the reason why no one thought we should get married.
“It’ll never work,” is what Belinda had said. Not to me, of course. I overheard her at my bridal shower, as she whispered furtively to someone I hadn’t invited but who nevertheless had shown up.
But what Belinda didn’t know was that Jordan and I fucked like bunny rabbits.
No, not as often as rabbits. But often in the same position, him behind, in and out with the precision one would only pick up from years of applying your trade in a multitude of ways; and me, perfectly content to let it happen every third Friday, his birthday, the day we got the dog, football Sundays, and especially during lunar eclipses.
“You know,” he said, hand running up my thigh. “I have a high sex drive.”
It had been our second date. We had been in the back of an Uber, zooming down MLK Blvd., running yellow lights, because we were fifteen minutes late for our reservation at a so-called Michelin-starred restaurant. Jordan (and I’d only find this out later) had been masturbating for the third time that day and had lost track of the time.
I looked into his big brown eyes, the way the shadow of his beard accented his cheekbones. I smelled the vanilla that wafted from his cologne and felt the heat that emanated from desire.
“I don’t,” I replied.
“You sure?” he asked as his hands crept perilously close to my new pink Victoria’s Secret set.
The Uber driver’s eyes flashed at us hungrily in the rearview mirror.
I shoved his hands forward. “Feel.”
Dry as a pancake.
Jordan’s eyes widened; I think he liked the challenge.
Dinner was delightful, though the portions were insufferably small. He picked the wine; I picked dessert.
We laughed even when his eyes drifted to the waitress’s ginormous tits whose areolas were undoubtedly bigger than the mousse they served us. And even I had to admit that it looked like the busboy had a big package. Not that I wanted to see it.
“He’s Black,” Jordan said.
“Is that racist?” I asked.
“It’s a fact.” Then he ChatGPT’d it.
His mom called twice. “Gotta get this,” he would say.
She lived with him. Her husband, his father, hadn’t been kind.
We left the restaurant at ten and walked three blocks to the pier.
He placed his hand gingerly on my ass as we walked. I swatted it away.
“Don’t you think the pier is a little sketch?” I asked as we strolled through the moonless night. He occasionally and gently bumped into me as we walked.
“They’re unhoused. They won’t hurt you.”
Seconds later one wandered over, pushing an empty shopping cart.
“Can you—”
But Jordan already had a ten out. He stepped between us, placed it in his hand and fistbumped him.
Moments later, as we sat on a bench, he asked, “You ever had a threesome?”
The ocean smelled like the ocean, but the sounds of the waves were soothing. His jacket was wrapped around me because I had left mine in the Uber and I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was shivering.
“Are you always this romantic?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I can only be me.”
We sat in silence until another unhoused approached us. He gave him our doggie bag.
“We can get tacos, if you get hungry,” he said.
“Tacos?” I almost said. But then I remembered I had told him on our first date that tacos were my guilty pleasure.
I looked around as the pier began to empty. “Should we go?”
“And ruin a perfectly good evening?” He slid closer to me, reached his arm around, and grazed my left breast. When I didn’t respond, he moved his hand away but placed his head on my shoulder.
We sat there until an officer told us the pier was closed.
“I’ll call the Uber,” he said. “Shall we go to your place?”
“I’m not going to have sex with you.”
“I know.”
He had the Uber stop at 7-Eleven first. This time I chose the wine and he chose the dessert. Two oatmeal raisin cookies.
“Nice place,” he said as we walked into my apartment.
“You like?”
He looked around at my beige and browns. My single family photo. My tiny TV but huge soundbar. “It’s sterile.”
“And you like sterile?”
“I like that it seems authentically you.” He put the wine on the coffee table. “May I use your bathroom?”
He was in there entirely too long. Maybe ten minutes. I put my ear to the door. He was definitely masturbating.
“So about this sex thing,” I began as I handed him a glass of the six-dollar chardonnay he had just purchased.
“Yes?”
“Is it really just a high sex drive?”
He looked left and then right, as if choosing where to sit, before deciding on the sectional. I handed him a coaster. “Doctor calls it compulsive sexual behavior.”
“So you like to have sex a lot,” I responded as I sat down beside him.
“I do.” His phone went off. He put up one finger. “Hey Mom…” I stepped out of the room.
He was off when I returned. “Everything okay?”
“It’s late. She worries, I worry…” his voice trailed for a moment. “But yes, I like sex a lot.” He smiled. But it was more sincere than devilish. Dimples emerged that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Well, I’m graysexual.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t.”
“Oh yeah. I kinda figured that much.”
“Well, I do. It just… well it depends…”
He looked like he was about to ask me on what? Instead, he crossed and then uncrossed his legs like he was trying to mask a boner.
“Would you like some coffee?” I offered.
“Sure,” he said as he followed me into the kitchen. No boner.
“You know, nymphomania… I mean this behavior comes from something.” I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was… well… he had brought up the subject.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… there’s a reason that you’re a nympho.”
He looked at me, coffee in hand, face clouded. “Oh I… I haven’t always known good people.”
I shuddered; neither had I.
We finished our coffee and then the bottle of wine. And then I remembered I had one more in the fridge, so we finished that one too.
When I woke up at 6 a.m. he was gone.
But my jacket was on the couch.
Three weeks later I met his mother.
An extraordinarily beautiful woman who looked like she might’ve once been broken. She sat in a wheelchair and he stood behind her brushing her hair.
That was the first time I felt a little moist downstairs.
But not long after, it dried up.
I was on my way to his house. I saw someone leaving.
“Who was that?” I asked his mom.
“Belinda,” she said with a frown.
I gave her a hug. Made small talk. Then I left before Jordan got home.
His number was deleted by the time I got to my car.
But he texted.
Then he called.
And texted again.
When I finally replied, I texted back:
Belinda.
And he responded.
Belinda used to fuck me. She still tries to. But you see me.
And then my body reacted in the most involuntary way. Suddenly I was filled with an undeniable desire to fuck him. Not just like rabbits. But like bonobos do—missionary-style.
It was another month before we did. And it was damn good. Best sex we’d ever had, and there wasn’t even an eclipse.
Twelve months later, and here we are at my bridal shower.
I don’t even know why I invited Belinda. It all feels so petty when you think about it.
Maybe it’s because she’s kinda right.
It shouldn’t work.
A graysexual would never bag a nympho. At least this one wouldn’t even want to. But if I made Jordan feel seen, I realized that he never asked me to be anyone but me.
That’s when I started updating that damn sex calendar. Third Fridays, two Sundays a month.
And I knew from all the times he came over and we just watched Netflix, he had updated his, too.
