Years ago I had a roommate called May. She came from one of those tidy square states in America’s heartland. She was tall, thin, and very pretty with long brown hair. She had fantastic tits. For real, they were nice, perky D cups. Sometimes she would say, “I’m not for sure” instead of just “I’m not sure” and that struck me as a strange way to talk, but she seemed easy to get along with and pleasant enough. During her first week or so after moving in she spent a great deal of time writing letters to her boyfriend back home. In addition to May and myself, there were two other girls living in the house. One had a long-term boyfriend, and the other recently went through a nasty breakup with said boyfriend’s best friend. Anyway, it was late October when May moved in, and soon after she arrived it was time for a bonfire/cookout.

For several months during my misspent youth I worked a second job waiting tables at a neighborhood bar and grill. After finishing up one Friday night, all the closers went out for a drink. Somehow Mike the bartender and I ended up being the last ones there, and we subsequently left together.

I must have enjoyed his company at the time, or at the very least not minded it. This was back when a 14400 modem was cutting-edge technology, and you were either on AOL or Compuserve. He was new to the internet, and I agreed to help him set up his AOL account since I had been online for months already and considered myself a chat room expert. I think that’s how it all got started. At the time I thought I wanted to be a bartender and he was a bartender, so I’m pretty sure that had something to do with it as well because Mike wasn’t all that attractive. He wasn’t ugly; he just wasn’t really my type. There was a certain coarseness about him I didn’t particularly like. And a funky mustache. But I was young and horny.

Anyway, that night we ended up back at my place and started fooling around. I remember really getting into it and enjoying myself immensely. Then he did asshole thing #1 and tried to slip it in without covering it up. I promptly pushed him away and handed him a condom. To his credit, he put it on without protest, so we continued. I mounted him and things really got going. I could tell I was building up to a biggie, and that was making me more excited by the second. Right as I was on the cusp of climax, Mike all of a sudden rolled me onto my back into missionary position, which totally threw me off my rhythm. “Wait, why I don’t get to be on top anymore?!” I gasped, and in two thrusts he was done. The bastard totally left me hanging. So that was asshole thing #2. I waited a few minutes for him to compose himself, thinking he’d realize that there was still work to do here and would go down on me or at the very least use his fingers, but he made no move in my direction. Yep, asshole thing #3. So, resolving that I wouldn’t ever be having sex with him again, I went to the bathroom and took care of myself. He was passed out in my bed when I returned. I don’t know why I didn’t boot him to the door at that point, but you know, sleeping dogs and all that, so he stayed the night. The next morning I had to get up at the crack of dawn and go to work, so I left him there. Thankfully he was gone when I got back home, but not without changing all the settings on my clock radio. Under normal circumstances I’d probably let that one go, but I’m on a roll here, so let’s just go ahead and call it asshole thing #4.

As luck would have it, we were both on the closers list the following night. It was a super-busy Saturday shift, so avoiding conversation with Mike was easy. I was exhausted from closing 2 nights in a row and working my day job in between. I was seriously looking forward to going home and getting some sleep, but Mike was waiting for me in the parking lot. Ugh. I couldn’t avoid it. I had to deal with him. I was all prepared to tell him that we could just be friends or whatever, but before I could even say hello he started rambling on excitedly about how he was off the next day and brought a change of clothes with him. I didn’t even know what the heck he was going on about at first. It actually took me a few seconds to realize that the presumptuous jerk intended to spend the night with me again. Without any prior arrangement! Yep, that would be asshole thing #5. He then started going on about how he couldn’t get back to sleep after I left that morning–I guess he figured screwing around with my preprogramed radio stations would somehow help–when I finally clued in and cut him off, saying that I was worn out and going home ALONE to SLEEP.

After about a week or so of me pretty much avoiding him at work and ignoring his emails, Mike decided to put the moves on one of the hostesses. I was relieved. That is, until some of the other guys at work started teasing me about getting dumped. Wait, what? Yeah, all the male servers thought I was head over heels infatuated with him or something based on his delusional version of the story, which he apparently shared freely with plenty of details. This is asshole thing #6, by the way. When I confronted him about it, he actually had the nerve to deny ever saying anything, implying the other guys just made it all up, and he even went so far as to make empty threats to thrash whoever was “running their mouth.”

After that I refused to have anything more to do with him, so I don’t know if Mike even realized the extent of his assholery. I always thought people were on their best behavior at the start of any new relationship, but was that really the best he could do? Like everything else, my encounter with him was a learning experience. Since I believe that in most cases you deserve what you tolerate, I established my own zero tolerance policy on assholes. In the interest of sharing life experience for the benefit of others, I present you with a few tips on how not to be an asshole, based on Mike’s mistakes. Of course, this is by no means a comprehensive list. Please feel free to leave comments with your own.

1. Be a considerate lover. This includes, but is not limited to, the following:
a) Always make sure your partner enjoys it at least as much as you. Pay attention to body language, vocal cues, and responses instead of just blindly pleasing yourself then considering the job done.
b) Recognize when more effort is required and then willingly put in the overtime.
c) If you’re not in a fluid-bonded relationship, use protection without having to be reminded.

2. Respect people’s personal space. Don’t mess around with their stuff without asking.

3. Never presume anything.

4. Don’t gossip to mutual friends, especially if the tale you tell has very little basis in truth.

I knew Paul from the pub. He was only 18 and just old enough to legally drink there. He seemed rather quiet and shy, but friendly enough. Plus, he was a babe. Very good-looking, well-built, blessed with thick mahogany hair and deep brown puppy dog eyes, oh yes, he inspired desire, and I fancied him something fierce. I was too old for him, but I figured there was no harm enjoying the view.

There weren’t all that many young people among the pub regulars, so I hung out with Paul quite a bit. We had practically nothing in common, and he wasn’t in the habit of saying much, but I loved listening to his rural West Country accent and enjoyed the challenge of getting him to speak so I could hear it. He always looked into my eyes with the most sincere expression, and while he rarely smiled, sometimes the left corner of his mouth would curve into the most adorable wry smirk. He was devilishly laid back, with a relaxed confidence I rarely saw in guys my own age, much less one several years younger.

Near closing time one night, I was sitting on my own at the bay window opposite the back entrance. I watched as the the door flew open and Paul appeared, hesitating as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to enter. He hovered unsteadily for a few seconds while our eyes met, and in that moment we were the only two people in the pub. Keeping his eyes locked on mine, he strode towards me. I didn’t even have time to stand up before was right in front of me, his face so close to mine I could feel his breath on my nose. Without saying a word, he leaned forward and gave me the most passionate kiss I had ever experienced. A kiss fueled only by pure primal impulse. Starting at my lips, I could feel arousal spreading throughout my body. I felt as though every nerve ending was alert and reacting to what was happening in my mouth. I never realized how powerful a kiss could be until that moment. So of course I went home with him.

Sounds like the prelude to a fantastic night of shagging right? Well, it was. But that’s not the whole story.

The next morning was fairly awkward. It was a bit like that scene in Trainspotting when Renton realizes just how young Diane is. See, Paul still lived at home with his parents, a detail I either didn’t know or somehow didn’t think about the night before. I convinced myself that his parents would hate me, brand me a harlot, and cast me out into the gutter, but I think his dad was secretly delighted to see confirmation that number-one son had “pulled a bird.” His mum was really sweet. After feeding me breakfast she gave me a lift home, so we had some time to chat. She told me all about what it was like being a young mother, including very specific information about giving birth and… tearing. If she was trying to warn or scare me, there was no need. Birth control was something I took very seriously. I was living fun and free at 22, but she was married and had her fist child when she was just 19. I now wonder if she envied me a little, or maybe I just want to think she did because I need to remember myself as being that sophisticated. But looking back, I believe she felt somewhat protective of me too.

A few weeks later I was invited to a pig roast at a farm in a neighboring village. I didn’t have my own transportation home so I had planned to stay with a friend, but Paul’s mum offered me their couch. The next day, she went all-out making a proper Sunday roast dinner, complete with Yorkshire pudding, even though we weren’t in Yorkshire. She got up early to go shopping for all the food. The sound of her car out in front of the house is what woke up Paul, who in turn woke me up. I was supposed to spend the night on the couch downstairs. But I had spent it in Paul’s room. Again. Oops.

Now that I’m a mother, I realize just how incredibly cool Paul’s mum was about the whole situation, both times. Especially considering she had two other kids in the house who were much younger and probably pestered her with questions. I have no idea how his parents addressed those incidents to Paul, nor did I give it a thought either time. I mean, Paul was 18 and an adult, right? Who he sleeps with is his business. But his parents might not have seen it that way. They may have given him a serious talking-to or simply pretended that I didn’t spend those nights in his room, thereby avoiding the conversation. Now I can’t help but wonder how I would handle something like that, since it may be something I’ll have to face when my kids get older. While I don’t want to be overbearing or officious, I think it’s important to be a supportive parent and make sure they have their questions answered and are well-equipped to make informed decisions. I also can’t help wondering what the dad’s reaction would have been if eldest son had been a daughter who brought home some random American guy from the pub.

Soon after my 22nd birthday I worked on a stud farm in England. In addition to helping out with the mares and foals, I was the groom for 2 young horses destined for the Doncaster Sales. Ed and a friend of his ventured down from Newcastle the weekend before the Sales because the farm was hosting a big steeplechase. An impressive number of my boss’s friends turned up for the races, and since I lived on-site, that meant many house guests. The whole thing turned into nothing but a weekend-long, drunken shagfest party.

Friday night, after making our obligatory staff appearance at the pre-race social gathering hosted by the farm owners, four of us piled into the cab of my boss’s little Subaru Brat and headed to the pub for a bit more revelry. After a few hours nobody was sober or in any condition to drive, yet we somehow made it back to the bungalow alive despite my boss taking out a few yards of fencing en route. Everybody seemed to magically pair off and vanish, while I got cornered by a lecherous old Welshman whose daughter was riding the next morning. When he asked me for the third time in 5 minutes, “What part of the States are you from?” in a barely coherent slur, I decided it was time to bail and went to bed.

The next day we got all the barn chores done early, despite having to move a clan of fence builders from New Zealand who had camped out in the stables. We headed over to the races and spent the day in the beer tent–er, I mean, watching the horses run and jump. I met other friends from a previous job there, so I hung out with them. I didn’t see Ed until that evening, when my boss and I had finished the afternoon chores and the others were filtering (or staggering, whatever) back to the bungalow from the races. Ed was busy chewing out his friend for wrecking his car when we returned, to no avail as said friend was passed out on the couch in a drunken stupor.

We all hit the pub again for dinner. And more drinking. Somehow I ended up sitting next to Ed. We chatted throughout dinner and up until it was closing time. I remember thinking to myself that he was really hot, especially with his thick Geordie accent. I have a bit of a thing for accents. I had to really pay attention to understand him, and since the pub was noisy we had to sit very close so we could hear each other. He had the sweetest way of looking at me, but I knew he was married and quite a bit older. He kept buying me drinks, and I honestly thought he was just being hospitable. I certainly wasn’t going to start fooling around with a married man.

Last orders were called and we left, piling into a taxi with a few of the guys from New Zealand. When we got back to the farm, there wasn’t a vacant bed in the house, including mine. I opened the door to my room, only to find one of the Kiwis and some girl naked in my bed. I didn’t know what to do, so I went in the kitchen, put the kettle on, and said, “There are strange people shagging in my bed. I’m really tired and have to get up early in the morning to go to Doncaster.”

Ed got up, opened the door to my room, and kicked them out. For which I was really exceedingly grateful, but I still wasn’t going to have sex with him. He was married, after all. With the squatters vacated and tea made, we took our cups into my room because I wasn’t about to risk losing my bed again. We chatted some more and drank our tea. Ed didn’t have a bed to sleep in, so I let him share mine. It was the least I could do since he got my room back for me, right? Besides, he was a married man. I vaguely remember being somewhat surprised when he took off ALL his clothes. I expected him to at least leave his boxers on, but then I thought, maybe Geordies sleep naked. At one point I think I asked him what his expectations were, because I distinctly remember him saying that it was all up to me, but he may have been talking about something else entirely. I wasn’t going to argue, I was tired and ready to go to sleep.

Or so I thought, anyway. Within a few minutes we started fooling around. I kept telling myself the whole time that I wasn’t going to have sex with him. That I couldn’t have sex with him because he was married. But man, was he amazing. My previous partners had all been around the same age as me, but Ed knew more than any other guy I had been with. With his years of experience he developed some serious skills. I was totally getting into it, but I still kept my resolve of not shagging him in the back of my mind. Even when he slid into me, I was still telling myself we were just fooling around, and that I wasn’t going to have sex with him. But then I realized we were already having sex, and by that point I couldn’t stop. It felt too damn good. Until the next morning, that is. We were leaving early, and nobody cared how hungover and sleep-deprived I was. We had to get the horses ready and loaded onto the lorry. I was cranky and next to useless, so Ed helped me. Actually, he did almost all the work. I decided to blame him for my self-induced suffering and was a total bitch to the poor guy. Really, considering he had just treated me to the best sex I had ever experienced, he deserved better.

So, what did I learn from the experience? Nothing at the time. While I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it, I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself. My boss tried teasing me for hooking up with Ed, but I didn’t rise to the bait. At the time I wanted to forget all about it. Yes, the sex was fantastic, but I was a bit spooked about the fact that I had totally lost control and let go like that with someone I had just met. That had never happened to me before. Plus, I was hungover and no longer basking in the afterglow.

Over the years as I’ve reflected back on that weekend, I’ve gained a better understanding of who I was and how I’ve matured. I don’t consider myself in the wrong for sleeping with a married man, especially since, as I learned later, he and his wife were separated at the time. I no longer feel any shame associated with that night of mind-blowing, orgasmic bliss. Ed did me an enormous favor. Thanks to him I raised my standards and expectations of what constitutes good sex. I also realized that my sex drive is not something to be conquered, curbed, or kept in check. Rather, it’s mine to embrace. Oh, and most importantly, I learned what a G-spot orgasm feels like.

Thank you, Ed. I’m sorry I was such a stroppy cow.