There seems to be a lot of Gen Z chatter about “the ick” as if it’s a new phenomenon. As one of the many Millennial women who lost her virginity to a guy wearing a puka shell necklace, I would just like to say, grow the fuck up. I’ve been getting the ick for twenty years. And had I pulled the plug on every romantic encounter the moment things got a little cringey, I would have missed out on some beautiful relationships with some wonderfully awkward, and surprisingly sexy partners.
Truth be told, I have to keep reminding myself of this fact in my current situation. I’m going through a divorce and headed back “out there” when all I want to do is stay “in here”, with my toddler, my snacks, and my preconceived notions.
I can find a million reasons to not go on a first or second date, let alone end up in someone’s bedroom. But, I’m trying not to get hung up on the…silly things. I won’t tolerate any rude or disrespectful behavior, but if my date shows up for a walk in the park wearing elf-like dress shoes, will I cut him a break? Sure. But when it ultimately doesn’t work out (for more mature, legitimate reasons) will I refer to him in perpetuity as “the Keebler elf guy”? You bet your pointy boots I will.
I had a much higher tolerance for ick back when I briefly dated Dylan. I met him at a bar. Tall, dark hair, kind eyes, corporate job. He wasn’t very funny (and I like funny) but he was very sweet. A few dates in, I found myself perched on the side of his bed for the first time, pretty confident that he wasn’t going to kill me.
I have to stress the fact that I was still fully clothed at this point. He was shirtless, in gray sweatpants. If he had been any more naked the following events would have been entirely unhinged. He kissed me softly and whispered “I wanna share something with you.” Eww why’d he say it like that? He started to back up- a nervous look on his face. I smiled and braced myself. “OK…” And then…he took it out.
So long. So hard. So white.
It was pipe. No, like an actual pipe. A four foot long, “PVC” pipe to be exact. So he WAS going to kill me.
“It’s a didgeridoo!” he said with an unsettling grin.
Now at this point in my life I hadn’t yet been to Australia. I hadn’t even been to an Outback steakhouse. But I was vaguely familiar with the instrument he was referring to. And this was not it.
“I made it!” he boasted. I kept waiting for him to laugh. Or explain. Or tell the hidden camera crew to reveal themselves. But instead, he got weirdly excited. Like a child showing off a scribble drawing. I think this was the only time in my life that I responded to a man with the word “Neat.”
Then I realized what was about to happen and part of me wished he would just kill me instead. Yep. He was gonna play it. A performance just for me! A little DIY cultural appropriation as foreplay. He sat in the chair next to the bed and shoved his face into the mouth of that pipe. He looked so dumb. His eyes closed, his cheeks puffed, and then there was a deep, pulsating sound, which still haunts me to this day. Woooommm. Woooommm.
There were so many layers of ick. My mind toggled between him playing this thing and actually CRAFTING it. Picturing him coming home, changing out of his suit, excitedly rubbing his hands together and sitting down to whittle away! It was mortifying. For him, for me, for the Aboriginal people of Australia. Even the good people of Home Depot.
I was about to make an excuse and get the hell out of there, but mid-performance, something shifted. And I decided I still wanted him. Suddenly my desire began to wash away the ick. I started to appreciate what this truly was- a display of passion and enthusiasm! What I had initially felt as secondhand embarrassment, he felt as joy and delight. And isn’t that what you want in a sexual partner? Someone who’s joyful, delighted, and enthusiastic?
He stopped didgeridoo-ing for a moment and smiled at me. I wanted to say “put down that pipe and get over here ya big lug!” (because when else was I ever going to have the opportunity to say that?) But instead, I just shimmied out of my clothes, and gave him a look that said “come play ME, you fucking weirdo”.
And let me tell you, he was as passionate about my body as he was about that sad pipe. My ability to overcome that awkward moment- to be mature, open-minded and to accept his odd passion as quirky instead of icky- led me to a night I will never forget. It turned out that Dylan was an enthusiastic man with a kind heart, a free spirit, and the biggest penis I’ve ever seen.
Oh yeah. That was the thing that shifted mid-performance. I had seen the outline through his sweatpants. Huge.
Woooommm. Woooommm.