M. Froggypants left his cell phone in my room. It had fallen between my bed and the wall, and thus, I didn't even know I had it until about a half hour after he left. And, even then, I only knew I had it because it started to ring, I shit you not, La Marsellaise (the French national anthem). It was M. I- Must-Be-Gooeeeng-Now-Or-I-Weeeel-Meees-My-Trayeen checking to see where his phone was.
After our brief conversation, he hoofed it back to my place, and knocked on the door. He smiled when I answered, as though I should be glad to see him. "Waaayer eees my cellephoan?"
"Sorry. It's in my room. I didn't realize you'd be here this quick."
"Ees no problem, I weel go een and get it?" And so we walked into my room. His phone was on my bed, right on the spot he'd ejaculated on (though I'd wiped it up as soon as he was done). Also on my bed was Darth Vader, the bottle of lube I've been using. "Thees eees such a strayange-" and he dropped Darth, who must have had a bit of lube on it, to the floor, spilling a bit, but not too much. "Sorreee. Aneewayez, I shood bee goeeng." And he picked up his phone with his now slippery hand, and it, of course, fell to the floor as well. This happened twice more as he tried to pick his cell phone up off the floor with his lubey hand. Eventually, he managed to get the phone into his pocket, making a few lubey spots on the outside of his khaki pockets. "I weeel see you laytare." Which he wouldn't. No, when I keeeel heeeem, it will be from a distance, with a sniper rifle.
And as he turned to leave the room, his shoe skidded briefly in the floor lube. He quickly regained his balance, flashed a smile in my direction, and said "That was cloase." And then he took two more steps forward, and slipped halfway out of my room, falling on his overly sensitive ass. "Ow." He said. "Weel you help meee up?"
My turn to smile. "No. I don't want to get any lube on my hand, it's nearly impossible to get off. Don't worry though, it'll dry up in ten minutes or so." And I laughed quietly watching him try to get up, watching him carefully navigate out of my house, and watching him wiping his shoes on the concrete steps outside my house.
I'm not saying the no one in this city knows how to fuck properly, I'm saying that people who don't know how to fuck properly tend to move to this city. Some are Chinese, some are French, an overwhelming amount seem to be from Pittsburgh, and a metric ton of these untalented fuckers hail from Milwaukee. There must be something about people from cities with funny names. I'm looking at you Poughkeepsie.
It's been three months since I've seen any of my exes, so I've been dangling my carrot in front of every horse-brained whore this side of the Charles River. I've met four French men, a half-dozen or so men of Asian descent, and an adorable Latino guy who got really bummed out when I told him I needed to see his driver's license. Yea, I like younger guys. No, I do not have sex with anyone who still has a curfew, and gets really excited about Hannah Montana.
The first French man chatted me up in a bar, and told me he thought I was hot (which meant he had been drinking profusely even before I arrived), and wanted to take me back to his place. When I told him my place was closer, he let me know we had to go back to his place because his hot brother was home, and he couldn't have sex unless one of his brothers was in the same building.
I paid my check and went back to my house. Without him.
Froggy #2 came a courting from The Internet. His pictures were so fabulous, I knew they had to be fake. And while there is a strong possibility that the chiseled features and gorgeous smile were, once upon a time, grafted on to his face. He has obviously spent the decade or so since those pictures were taken working in a coal mine filled with radioactive waste, and no hazmat suit. Well, maybe the suit, but definitely not he visor. He was denied entrance to my domicile.
The third surrender monkey cruised me on the T. This happens frequently (cruising in general, not necessarily cruising me), and since we got off at the same spot, he started talking to me. Small talking in a hot accent. And I might have been enticed to give him my e-mail address or my phone number, if he hadn't smelled like he'd been rolling in a pile of perpetually frightened skunks for the last week and a half.
Last night was célibataire number four (or quatorze, if you're Bono). We'd been talking online for a couple of weeks. His picture was not flattering, but he looked like the sort of person who's moderately attractive, but not photogenic. I gave him my cell number and my address, and waited to see what was going to go wrong.
He missed his bus, or there was no bus at the scheduled time. It's Boston, and the shitsucking general manager of our public transportation spends his day in his office canceling buses, and jerking off to the collective aggravation of the city when none of the trains or busses arrive on time. It was totally not this French guy's fault. So he walked a mile or two to my house. And when he showed up he smelled understandably musty, but not terrible. He looked better than his photo.
"May I take a shower?" He asked.
I gave him a towel, and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. He stripped in my room, and walked naked to the bathroom, and proceeded to shower for about five minutes.
When he came out his alarming cock was already engorged with blood (which is way better than being covered in blood). "This weel be my fairst teyum with an Amereecan." His accent seemed deliberately thicker, like a casual German playing a Nazi on the History Channel.
He pulled off his towel and laid face up on my bed. I took off my clothes, and leaned in to start sucking/fingering him.
"Weee shood talk abowt consentyill theengs wee mite want to beee doeeng."
So we did. We agreed we were open to anything that didn't involve piss, shit, or his family. And then he rolled over, and said, "My ass ees yores, due what you want to eet." Which shortly became "Reem me."
Now, as I knew he'd just come from my shower, I was willing to throw my tongue down Crackpipe Alley. But I'm no Gene Simmons (or, for that matter, Freddy Kreuger in Freddy's Revenge), and when he started moaning "Deeeperr", I was forced to tell him that was as deep as I could go with that particular organ.
I was ready to move on to the fucking he'd said he so desperately needed when he started talking to me about the last guy he had sex with, who, apparently was French and horrible (pronounced whoreeblay). I don't want to talk about bad sex when I'm trying to have good sex. And I don't want you to tell me that you love the way my cock feels inside you when my cock is not only not inside you but not touching you in any way.
"I want you to put all yore wayit on mee, and push een as deep as you cen, rite aaaaayway."
So I did. Even though it wasn't really my thing. "You are such a mannn."
Yes, I am.
And I began to slowly move back and forth, and "Ohhhhhh. I theenk I just kayim on yore bed."
And, he had.
"Do you haff papir towells?"
I did, and pulled my condomed cock out of him, reached over to the papir towells, handed him some, and waited for him to clear up. Then I turned him over, prepared to do things my way.
"What are you doeeng? I am feenished."
"I'm not. I've barely started."
"I do not meen to bee selfeesh, but once I am dun, I am dun. And I do not want to mees my train home."
"Seriously?" I mean, seriously? "You said you wanted me to fuck you for hours, that your ass was mine, and as soon as I get my dick in you, you come, and say you have to go home?"
"Okay, I weel let you try some more? But, please, make it quicklee." And he bent over. and in went my cock, and then out shot my cock as he released a long, noisy, lubricant wet fart. And another. And another. And another.
I handed him more papir towells.
He toweled off his ass, looked at his watch and said "I am sorree, but I do not want to mees my train. Maybee I stop by to-morroh?"
"No. Just go."
And he went. I texted one of my perpetually indecisive Chinese American exes (there are three, and between the three of them, they've made two decisions in their entire lives, all three of them were removed by C-section, as they couldn't decide when was a good time to get out of the womb). As expected, he thought he might want to possibly come over maybe, but in the end he was kind of tired, and it was late, and he thought his horoscope might have said there was possibly something unusual in the air, so he didn't come. Which meant I didn't come. Which means my testicles are now the size of a scale model representation of hoop earrings, as worn by a trashy woman with a face the size of the sun.
And it doesn't look like I'm getting any today, either.