Let me get this straight: I'm writing this because I had to walk away from a first date with a handsome, romantic, intelligent, funny, wonderful man (he serenaded me for years) that I was hot as hell for, in my T-shirt and pants (no underwear, purse, and um, dude, where's my bike?) because of a problem I've been having with not just this man, but seemingly every other man I've dated lately. That is, I can't deal with the contemporary mode of single sex, that is, no-condom serial oral sex.

OK, you can stop laughing now.

No, it's not because I'm prudish. I don't mind fellatio, unless it takes too long (I knew a fellow once who loved it for hours all the while moaning "Just five minutes more, I'm just about to..."Stayed with him for three years, complaining all the way.). All things being equal, I'd like cunnilingus, as well, in its proper place -- body issues don't confront me on this, I think. Sixty-nine is tough: there's too much going on at once to really concentrate. I love sex. I just find my main fulfillment with another person in fucking and being fucked, and find oral sex to be at best, one of the many pleasant preludes to the main event.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, I understand: somewhere on the way from the "Lie on your back and think of England." days and now, there was this curious idea that women should get sexual pleasure as well. The problem seems to be that men, trying to cut a shortcut through the underbrush of intimacy to reach the pinnacle of ejaculation, have decided that the easiest way to do this is to simulate the homosexual practise of serial fellatio. He 'does' me, the way one 'does' dishes or windows, I 'do' him, we put our clothes back on, and call it a day, if not even. The only concession to gender made (even to the problems of differing anatomy, since most of these fellows consider direct clitoral stimulation -- the most difficult, and potentially the most painful form of oral stimulation -- the ONLY permissible option) is to insist that the woman have, not just one, but several orgasms, as defined by 70's porn -- moaning rhythmically, blushing, screaming -- on pain of everything from hurt feelings to the threat of having him continue until you do. That's not sex, it's a transaction. I hate to break all your hearts, fellows, but I'm not a fantasy, a whore, or a badly-paid coked-up Hollywood hanger-on with a film crew. I sometimes don't come at all, very rarely come more than once in an hour or so, and, if truth be known, don't think that that's bad or that you're necessarily bad for not having the Magic Tongue that makes it otherwise. You might even count yourself lucky -- if I were to have, as you seem to wish, such a transcendantly intense series of climaxes as you crave, how eager do you think I would be to do the same for you while rendered unconscious? And, no matter how exquisite you claim sucking on my button is for you, it's not the same for me -- I like cocks, I like fellatio, I can (even) enjoy the taste of semen, on occasion, but no matter how in love with you I am, I'm going to want to get laid by you. (Besides, since you should use a condom for even oral sex, and even a dental dam, why not go all the way?)

I love the feel of a cock inside me, being able to clench and hold it, as if with a hand, pleasuring it the way it does me, the way the head rubs against the little treasure inside the fringy purse, kissing my smallest and most intimate mouth against your tiny lips, whilst our eyes and more public mouths do above. I love to ride, follow, duel, and push back, and with my nipple in someone's mouth, I can get a climax up that can rock both of our sox off. When you come I love to see the look on your face and messily snog you while the last few drops come shuddering, shivering, out.

I wish I could get this across to him.

And I'd like my purse and bike back, please. And while you're at it, my underwear.