Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
Jordan was twenty-three, sunburnt, and had the sort of hairstyle that can only come from sitting on the top deck of a boat on a very windy day, which made sense, he'd just taken a ferry over a small island not too far from where I lived. He was a writer. I was to discover, later, that he was a very awful writer, but I was twenty-one year old wannabe writer with an erection, a drawer full of condoms, and a refrigerator full of beer, and he was an attractive...writer.
Jordan's sunburn was a Speedo sunburn. Only his cock and his crack were left unlobstered. This, he said, was the reason he had to take a few Vicodin before we fucked. It's also the reason we had to stop at CVS and buy him some Solarcain on the way back to my apartment. "Oh, yea." He said, as I sprayed the Solarcain on his back. "This feels awesome." If he was this easy to please, I had the feeling we were going to be in for a night full of -- "Ow. Ow. My back is...ow...careful." or not. After three beers, and two shots of Tequila (plus three Vicodin for him), I decided to make my move. "Easy." He said. "I still kinda...oh yea." I, gently, very gently, put my hand on his face and begin kissing him. His lips were cracked. It wasn't too noticeable when I closed my eyes and kissed him, but when he started kissing down my body, I got a sensation I imagined not dissimilar to having my stomach licked by a cat. While his tongue seemed pretty adept at giving head, his lips caused the little man in charge of my brain synapses to push the button marked "Chafing! Chafing! Avert blowjob!" I pulled out of his mouth, and pulled him up on the bed, where I began to--"Do you want to 69?" He asked. "Uhhhh...ok." I had a plan. I would let him think I was into 69ing for about five seconds, and then I would knead and/or spank his burnt ass. Surely, this would cause him to..."Oh, yea!" He yelled after the first spank. "This feels awesome." What kind of writer says this feels awesome to every physical sensation they feel. Oh, right. One who's been popping Vicodin all day. My spanking was not going to produce the intended result. "Have you ever...fucked a guy?" He asked. "No." I said. Which would have been true had he asked "Have you ever...fucked a guy...today?" I was taking artistic license. "Want to?" I smiled the way I imagined virgins smiled. "Yea." "Awesome." And he laid his head down on the pillow and stuck his ass in the air. A position, I've since learned, isn't exceptionally comfortable even when you're not 90% sunburnt. I strapped on a condom, and "Ow. Ow. Yes. Ow. Yea. Ow. Awesome. Yea. Ow." His little ow symphony started to grate on me. "Ow. Yea. This feels. Ow. Awesome. Ow." So I started pulling his lower body toward mine, like I was giving his inner thighs The Heimlich. "Ow. Yes. Ow. Ow. STOP!" I stopped. "Ow. Ow. Ahhhhhhhhh. Thanks." The hell? I'd stopped, thinking he was in pain from the way I was gripping his thighs. He rolled over, revealing several unmistakably sticky spots on the blue sheets. "That felt awesome. I'm gonna, like, pass out, though. Those Vics...yea, I'm tired. You can keep fucking me until you're done or whatever, but I'm..yea, don't worry about it. It feels awesome." While I admired his desire to make sure I got to come, I was a little leery of fucking someone I know regarded as a comatose drug addict, even though I, clearly, had his consent. "How about until I wait until you wake up." "Yea." He said. "Whatever." I pulled a sheet over him, propped a fan in his general direction, and went downstairs to get another drink. He was still out cold when I was ready to fall asleep. I debated whether or not to crawl into bed with him. On the one hand, he was cute. On the other, he was liable to say "Ow. Awesome. Ow." every time I touched him. On a mythical third hand, I didn't know him very well, and didn't want to discover that he was kleptomaniacal drug addict after he left my house. So I climbed into the spare bed. "Mmmmmm." he said. If this was followed by an awesome, I was going to punch him very hard in the middle of his peeling back. "Change your mind?" "Huh?" "You gonna fuck the Sleeping Beauty?" Eww, dude. "Only after he wakes up." "I'm awayyyy...ow!" He said, rolling over to face me. "Do you know where I left my Vicodin?" On the nightstand to his left. "No." "Oh, then maybe, we'd better wait. I feel kinda..." He was getting pukeface. Code red! Code red! "Where's your bathroom?" I pointed. Then decided to take action, and have him lean on me, as I half-dragged him into the "Bluhoooooruk." bathroom. He didn't make it to the toilet. Close, though. While I toweled up the puke, Comatose No Longer Beauty went back to the spare bedroom, popped a few pills, and put on his clothes. "I'm gonna....yea, I'm sorry about the puke, but...I think I'd better go. I don't want to miss the last ferry. I've gotta...you know...work tomorrow and stuff." "No problem." I said. He ambled over and leaned in to kiss -- "Dude, you just threw up on my floor." "Right. Sorry." "I'll e-mail you tomorrow when I get out of work. Tonight was...awesome...until the whole puking thing. Again, sorry." "No problem." "Talk at you tomorrow then?" "Sure." I said. "That would be...awesome."
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During Whore Month, I averaged about 1.33 random hookups a day. Most of the time, I couldn't even be bothered to learn a person's name. Really, who wants to risk the codependent personal attachment implied in calling the person you're fucking by name?
One name I remember vividly is Ryan Duda. I hadn't planned on learning it, but it was written very neatly on his mailbox. From the moment I read it, I couldn't get "Camptown Races" our of my head. I rang the doorbell, and was relieved to discover he wasn't one of those weird assholes who sends out fake pics. He was just as nerdy hot as I'd hoped. Blond, alfafed hair, glasses, and Milk and Cheese t-shirt. I wanted to take him right there on the doorstep. Instead, we headed up to his apartment and smoked apple flavored tobacco out of his gigantic Shiva shaped hookah. After about a half hour of smoking and John Madden football, our clothes were off, and I was admiring his shaved seven inch cock. We were in the midst of one of the better kisses I've been involved in when Who's got a Shiva shaped bong? Duda, Duda. Who's got a seven inch schlong? Duda, Duda, Suddenly I was in The Giggle Loop. He probably grew up having people make fun of his name, I didn't want to be the umpteen millionth guy who thought he was cute by making a Duda joke. Laughing at his name while we kissed would be extremely inappropriate. *snork* "What?" he asked. I knew if I spoke, I was going to start giggling. So I returned to kissing him. Soon he was licking his way down my stomach, and Who's as long as he is thick? Duda. Duda. Who's about to suck my dick? Duda. Duda. *giggle* He looked up at me quizzically. "What?" "Nothing, I'm *giggle* ticklish." "Ok." I couldn't concentrate. Not that one has to concentrate in order to get a blowjob. Still, it's nice to be able to enjoy the sensation of hot nerd tongue without having to think Who's got plaid sheets on his bed? Duda. Duda. Who's real good at giving head? Duda. Duda. *snicker* *snicker* "Wow." he said. "You must be really ticklish." "Well, that is a uhhh sensitive area." He smiled at me. "I didn't know you were so" lewd smirk "sensitive." Neither did I. Another fifteen minutes passed. Smirking, giggling, and moaning flip flopped as often as sexual positions until I couldn't take it anymore. "Who smokes apple flavored hash? Duda. Duda. Who's wearing a come mustache? Oh, Duda's gay. original posts: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/778973.html http://community.livejournal.com/metaquotes/1700626.html I know how sand is formed. It is the rubbing of bodies against rock. The incoming waves are only there to clean your skin cells away. You may not want to touch the shiny part of sand. It could be a potential ancestor who got recreationed out of procreation.
I drove myself out of my mind and on to the road. I was still fairly new to the whole hook-up thing. The days of me saying "Sure, let's fuck" weren't far off, but there was just enough hill on my horizon that I couldn't make them out yet. I was still believing that I was looking for love. That somehow this stranger would be the answer to my every agnostic prayer. I drove by him twice. It was two AM. It was dark outside. He was wearing a black hoodie. I was about to turn around and go home when I saw his hand wave. He kissed me when he got in the car, as though we were lovers who hadn't seen each other in a few days. "Where's your car?" I asked, because I am the king of social grace. "I didn't want to risk my Aunt hearing me pull out, so I biked here." "You live with your Aunt?" "No. I'm just here on vacation for a couple weeks. A little downtime between exams and summer work." "Oh, where are you from?" Where he was from was such an important detail that I stored it next to his name. I must have blocked the synapse necessary for its retrieval with something slightly more important to me, like what I had for breakfast on my fifth birthday: Pancakes. We talked for hours. All I remember is that we spent a great deal of time talking about The Black Cauldron, and how Disney never gave it its due. We talked about everything but what we were there to do. Eventually, I couldn't help but kiss him. I straddled his body because the sand was making my ass itch. He kissed like a closeted college student who met up with another closeted college student over The Internet. No one would make a romance movie about our lovemaking. The tide didn't come in over our bodies. The breeze didn't blow either of our hair in a sultry manner. I sucked his cock because it seemed like the right thing to do. I swallowed because I hadn't yet. He'd been eating a lot of fruit. His lips were chapped. I was almost there when the sound of someone approaching approached. He looked up startled. I hit him on the chin. This startled him more. No one was approaching except daylight. I gave him my number. He said he'd call me the next day. Of course, I never heard from him again. As I pulled away from the beach, my headlights caught his back as he leaned over into the sea to wash his face. I'd like to think my sperm grew into jellyfish. |
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