(Excerpted from God is a Woman: Dating Disasters. All rights reserved by Ian Coburn and Firefly Glow Publishing. Print version. Click here for more stories from the book on www.godisawoman.net.)

Excerpted from “Rubber Band, Please” Chapter

While their customer service was great, the hair-restoring products the Asian girl’s office sold sucked. I found a new place, where I found myself attracted to an African-American. She, too, was attracted to me and we flirted constantly. I had no idea why these women at the hair clinics liked me. It probably had nothing to do with me and more to do with the fact that I had by far more hair than anyone else they saw all day. To them, I was Bon Jovi.

Her name was Aretha. She was average-figured with Bounty Breasts and a pronounced butt. She had a strong sarcasm and feistiness to her that I liked. We went out on a date to dinner and then to an elegant pool hall. We had planned to play pool for a few hours, but instead only played one game before hurrying back to her studio apartment. We sat on her sofa, me trying to figure out my move. She didn’t want to wait. She lay on her back and pulled up her sweater; there was no bra underneath. Her big breasts had nice, big nipples.

“Do you like my breasts? Are they firm?”

“Yeah, they’re beautiful.”

“You can’t tell by just looking.”

She grabbed my hand and placed it on her breast. It was quite mushy. She stood up and led me over to the bed, which was against a large, front window that nearly spanned the entire wall.

“You just want to fuck me.”

She took off her clothes and I followed suit. She opened an end table drawer by the bed. She took out a box of magnum condoms, and handed them to me. “Here.”

I took one condom out. Now, I don’t know if the stereotype is true or not, but the thing was huge. I barely started to unroll it when it just fell open on its own, it was so big. I bent down to my pants and started to pull out my own condoms.

“Uh-ah. We use mine or nothing happens. I don’t trust anyone else’s condoms.”

Reasonable. Given my own similar attitude, I couldn’t quibble with that. I put the condom on. I should have slid into a Christmas stocking, it would have been smaller.

“Jesus . . . do you have a rubber band?”

She looked at me with disappointment. Now, I am by no means small. Women either complain that I am too big, or beam declaring that I am just right. A lot of them whine about sore jaws when blowing me and some can’t manage to give me head at all, as their mouths are too small. But I was no match for the monster that belonged in this rubber. I lay on the bed and she rode me. The damn condom was so baggy I could barely feel anything. The incident was very unsettling and I came in less than a minute. Stupidly, I thought if I didn’t feel anything, maybe she couldn’t either. I kept letting her ride.

“Are you done?”

I nodded, embarrassed.

“Then what the hell are you doing?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know. I thought maybe you wouldn’t notice.”

She frowned at me. We paused for a few minutes, then I was ready to go again. I put on another garbage bag and we got back to it, this time with me on top. It lasted a little longer, but not much.

“This is crazy,” I said as I got up and grabbed my own condom.

I still had an erection and put it on. Ah, a good fit; this was more like it. I got on top of her, ready to finally give her a thrill, when a huge shadow appeared outside the closed curtains of the front window. A fist pounded on the same window, followed by a voice that boomed, “Aretha! Aretha, I know you’re in there! You better answer this door, girl!”

Aretha freaked out. She jumped up and turned off the lights, “Oh my God, hide! Hide!”

“What? What’s going on?”

“Aretha, I saw that light go off!”

“If he finds you here, he’ll kill you.”

She had to be kidding, right? She got back onto the bed and pulled me under the covers with her. We lay there for several minutes while Paul Bunyan continued to yell, “Where are you, girl? I saw you turn those lights off!”

He pounded on the window some more. Then it got quiet. Then the doorbell rang twenty times. This went on—him pounding on the window for a minute, then incessantly ringing her doorbell for a minute—for a good fifteen minutes. Aretha and I whispered under the covers.

“Who is it?”

“He’s my ex-boyfriend. His wife is out of town this weekend and he wanted to get together.”

“His wife? You dated a married guy?”

“You haven’t dated a married woman?”

“Am I on the Lifetime Network? No, I haven’t dated a married woman. Why would I?”

“Aretha, you better open this goddamn door, girl!”

“He’s huge; if he finds you here, he’ll kill you. He gets pissed when I go out with other guys.”

Well, that made sense. Can’t blame a married man for being pissed when his mistress was unfaithful.

“Did he fit into your condoms?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Yeah, I don’t want to meet him.”

Based on the condoms, his penis was roughly the size of one of my thighs. I did not want to meet the man who fit into those condoms. We lay quietly until we heard his truck start and screech away. Aretha pulled the covers off us, “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

I was shaking like a leaf. Try as I might, I had no chance of getting it up again. Aretha was not happy.

“You know, this is sad.”

“Thanks, Aretha, that helps a lot.”

I got dressed and left. Aretha and I tried to date, but she was too hung up on me being white. She tried to turn that around on me.

“You’d never bring your chocolate girlfriend home to meet your mom. I’d just always be your thing on the side.”

Huh. She complained about being a thing on the side, yet she was perfectly comfortable dating a married guy, which would make her . . . yeah, a thing on the side. Hello?!