Tuthmosis is a Columnist-at-Large at Return of Kings. You can follow him on Twitter. I started out my young-adult life thinking the best of women. As I entered adulthood, this fable had crept into the sexual arena. Sex meant more to them. They were reluctant to have it. We were the nasty ones.
So, once in bed, sex was all about finesse. It took one incident to shatter this pretty little lie for good. I had gone out on a date with a tiny, nerdy girl with big glasses and a little voice.
She was a senior in college and a stand-out athlete, despite her diminutive stature and mousy features. Apart from her wide, tree-trunk, rock-hard quadriceps and other subtle physical cues, she was a timid, even weak-looking specimen. Olympic team until she demonstrated some of her impressive skills in some online videos. After a round of drinks at a bar, we ended up at my place, and before long, we were making out.
Things were escalating and, at the natural moment, I smoothly unbuckled her shorts. Until that point, everything was familiar. Suddenly, out of no-where, she gave me a massive shove.
I looked up, only to see a huge, smug grin on her face. Figuring this was her odd, abrupt way of halting things, I sat up, ready to call it a night, only to be kangaroo kicked in the chest with both her massive legs. Against my better judgment, I accepted this ambiguous, and potentially dangerous, challenge. This was either going to be my Penthouse-Letter moment or the beginning of some drawn-out legal troubles. But this girl turned out to be strongest 5-foot-2 chick on the planet.
Over the next several minutes, she taunted and laughed at me while I struggled to get her shorts off, pushing me off periodically with her powerful haunches, slinking loose of any pin move, using her massive thigh strength to crush me, and holding the smile on her face the entire time.
Underneath her was a dinner plate-sized puddle. In the aftermath of this incident, I told a lot of my buddies the story. But one of them—an older guy with game—said to me: This one just made it a point to tell you.
They like their hair pulled. They like to be thrown around. Their faces smashed into the bed. Some more than others, but they all like it.
Like the Apostle Thomas, I had to see this for myself. I started pushing heads into pillows, slapping ass cheeks, firmly clutching forearms. I noticed the change immediately. I had girls texting me at odd hours, acquired my first legitimate stalker, and got several more noise complaints—some of them in writing.
One time after sex, a girl informed me that I may have bruised her neck. I wonder if my parents will notice again.