The Beige Bra Incident

After Clara, the desert arrived.

I entered a dry spell that lasted almost one year. For a guy who had spent his early twenties hunting, this was an eternity. I buried myself in work, moving to a new job at a telecommunications company.

It wasn't until mid-2001 that I found water in the desert. I was working on the helpdesk, which gave me access to the entire building, including the call center—a goldmine of female colleagues.

That’s where I met Inês.

Inês wasn't a bombshell. She was twenty-five, short, and carried a few extra kilos that didn't go to the "fun" places. But she had a beautiful face and massive, expressive brown eyes. She dressed conservatively, like a librarian who didn't want to be noticed.

I played the "Nice Guy" card. I listened to her complain about her ex-boyfriend, I brought her coffee, I waited. It worked. One spring afternoon, sitting by the river, the friendship turned into a kiss. She became my girlfriend.

The first weekend she slept over, my anticipation was sky-high. One year of waiting was about to pay off. We started making out in the living room. I was hungry, my hands roaming over her curves. We moved to the bedroom, and I began to undress her.

That’s when the balloon popped.

In my mind, "lingerie" meant lace, silk, maybe a flash of red or black. Inês was wearing what I can only describe as "grandmother chic." A beige, structural bra and giant cotton panties. It wasn't just unsexy; it was anti-erotic. It looked like medical equipment.

I tried to ignore it. Focus on the body, I told myself. But the body was confusing. Her extra weight was soft, but her breasts were surprisingly small. I tried to work my magic—licking her nipples, teasing her with my teeth.

Nothing. No hardening, no gasp, no arching of the back. It was like licking an elbow.

"Do you want to go down on me?" I asked, hopeful. "I don't really like that," she said politely. Strike two.

I climbed on top of her, missionary style. I entered her, hoping the friction would wake her up. She lay there. Totally still.

It was The Starfish.

She stared at the ceiling, letting out a polite moan every thirty seconds to let me know she was still awake. I tried changing angles, I tried dirty talk, I tried everything in my arsenal. I couldn't make her cum. For the first time in my life, I failed to give a girl an orgasm.

We finished, and the silence was heavy.

A few days later, we tried again at her place. Same beige underwear. Same silence. Same starfish. I realized that two years of celibacy were better than a lifetime of bad sex.

I broke up with her the next week. She accepted it with the same passivity she showed in bed. We stayed friends, acting as if the beige bra incident had never happened.