I should have known this was coming the moment the DJ started spinning Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance.” What a night!

I’ve not blogged about sex on this site because: 1) I grew up the daughter of a minister, and have always been a bit shy dishing about this topic; and 2) I believe sex is so intimate that it shouldn’t be shared online with a hundred or so anonymous readers. In addition, when I’ve had sex – good sex, particularly – I’ve not wanted to blog about it because talking about it would – for me – ruin the magic of it all. But this sex was too bad not to blog about.

I was out in San Jose on Saturday night, “on the hunt” with my friends for cute East Asian guys to dance with. We headed out to Santana Row, only to find that we had hit the jackpot: There were Asian guys everywhere! My friend Janet found an IT manager, but I was dancing alone until an Indian guy (dot, not feather) approached and began to dance with me.

He had a bright smile, danced well, and was wearing a shirt with sequins on them. Yes, sequins. That should have been clue #1. The second clue? He sang, badly, along with the songs. Clue #3? He started kissing me. And this was before he even said a word to me. I demurely turned my cheek on his badly-played advances.

I brushed him off a few minutes later and danced with my friends. But when we bumped into each other again the crowd, he offered to buy me a drink. I shrugged. Why not? Turned out he had a car too, so I thought I’d get him to give us a ride back to the hotel. He agreed.

We headed back to the hotel in his Mercedes (him: “I had a BMW but I knew I needed something more luxury”), dropped off my friends and he started to flirt up a storm with me. I wasn’t drunk at this point. I wasn’t tired, either, though, and my sense of curiosity got the better of me (I’ve never been with a South Asian guy, and he was a good dancer …), so I took him up on his offer to visit a nearby hotel. The hotel, as it turns out, was a chic little place that would have gotten a five-star Yelp review. But I digress.

Let’s get down to the sex, shall we? It was bad. Not just bad. EPICLY bad. About half-way through, I realized what I had gotten myself into and started to think about how I’d write about it in my blog.

1. No foreplay. None.
2. He was flaccid. Yes.
3. When he finally did get his act together, it lasted 30 seconds. No, really.
4. He apologized profusely, as he should have.
5. He began comparing me to other girls he dated: “Asian and Latina girls would have come by now [you mean, in those 30 seconds? Doubt it.]” I called him out on this.
6. This one is the ultimate WTF: He washed out his condom. And reused it.
7. After a half hour of this nonsense, he asked “Can we go now?” I gladly said yes.
8. As he dropped me off at the hotel, he gave me some silly nonsense about Indian philosophy that “If you’re meant to be together, we’ll see each other again.” Which was basically his excuse for not exchanging contact information, as if I wanted it anyway. I hope Fate is not on our side.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, my friend Janet was basically being told – by her cute Taiwanese catch – that she was the most amazing girl that ever lived. He was this close to telling her he loved her. He brought up marriage and plans to see each other again. So, between Janet and I, we experienced the two extremes of bad pick-ups.

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