Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
Until this week, the worst thing anyone had ever said to me during sex was You're better than my brother. Until this week.
On Monday night, I was feeling particularly not feeling. Checked some long neglected (but, apparently, not long enough neglected) dating sites, and saw that I had a bunch of mail filled with a bunch of males. Forgetting the three that only figuratively blew me off, the first guy I agreed to meet had the same name as me (Safey, for those of you playing with yourselves along at home). I'd always wondered what it would be like to be able to call out your own name in bed, without looking egotistical, so I replied to his e-mail. His picture indicated he was blessed with clear skin. Lots and lots of clear skin. "I hate that picture. I've lost about thirty pounds since then." So I agreed to meet him, not realizing that, while he may have lost thirty pounds since the picture, he had gained all of it back. And those pounds had accumulated friends. He was pretty adamant about getting fucked, and I was pretty drunk. I rolled my eyes at the fact that he was wearing a jock, bent him over the bed with absolutely no foreplay, strapped on a condom, and went to work. It was okay. Nothing Earth shattering. Nothing terrible. Until he said "Breed me." And I said, "Huh?" "Breed me." Fags can't breed. Even if I hadn't been wearing a condom. "Oh, yea. Breed me, daddy, breed me." So, I faked an orgasm, pulled out, threw away the condom, and got dressed. He left. An hour later, he sent me an e-mail, talking about how my come kept oozing out of his ass. Again, I was wearing a condom. Again, I hadn't actually come, even in said condom. The next night, I needed some balance to the universe. I answered an e-mail from an absolutely adorable guy who, because I hadn't updated my profile in five years, thought I lived down the street from him. We go over the requisite info: I'm a top, he's a bottom. Both recently tested negative. Neither of us admitting to being crack addicts or serial cat rapists (shut up, it was one time, and that cat was not being clear what it wanted). As per usual, I offered to host. My apartment is nicer than those of the people I tend to meet. He wanted to meet at his place, except his roommate didn't allow him to have friends over that she didn't know. Why alarm bells failed to go off in my head at this point, I can't say. "So you could come over," he said, "but we would have to fuck in the basement." Okay. "And then you'd have to take a cab home or something." Not okay. So I told him I wasn't at all interested in going over to his apartment if it meant I was going to have to hide in the basement, and flee in the night like some sort of closet case ass burglar. Finally, he agreed that I could sleep over. "But I don't know about sleeping together. That may be weird." Again, no alarm bells. I was, not drunk this time, but overtired and seeking something to eclipse the memory of Mr. Breed Me Jockwearovich. So I hopped on the last train to his house. Called him from the end of the street, to let him know I was almost there. "Are you into anything kinky?" He asked. "No." I refer to myself as French Vanilla. Sex talk is fine, spankage, light bondage, "Nothing involving a suit or a ball gag." I would later regret making that last statement. "And no bodily fluids except semen and saliva." "No watersports?" I sighed. "Not unless you're trying to tell me you've got a pool, a jacuzzi, or a heated lake in your basement, no. I don't want anything coming out of your penis that isn't thick and white." "What if I just want you to pee in me?" Now the alarm bells were in full cacophonous mode. Fuck. And it was entirely too late to get a train home. When he answered the door, I realized, once again, this guy looked nothing like his picture. However, for once, he looked much better than his picture. He was wearing long pajama bottoms and a Good Bush/Bad Bush t-shirt, which concerned me, not because I disagreed with his politics, but because neither of the bushes depicted were the sort of bush I wanted either of us to have. He got right to the kissing and, while not the best kisser in the world, was not bad, either. It wasn't long before his clothes were off, and he was bending over the basement stairs. I put on a condom, and got to work. His ass was magical in every way. Shaped properly, only slightly fuzzy, and tighter than a Republican wallet at at an NEA fundraiser. His moans were adorable. After about five minutes, he stood up, leaned into me, kissing me, while clenching and unclenching his ass like the gassiest sinner in Church. We adjusted positions pretty regularly for about forty-five minutes, and then he pulled away from me, and let out a series of small farts. He blushed. "It's okay." I said. "There's been a lot of in and out going on down there." "And a lot of beer before that." He smiled. He then proceeded to suck me off for a few minutes while jerking himself to orgasm. And then I came. And then, "Are you up for more?" He asked. I'm always up for more. So he laid with his back down on a futon mattress. I folded him a few different ways, listening to his amazing whimpers. Then he pulled my head to his, looked me straight in the eyes and said "You've been tested before, right?" "Of course." I said. And I wasn't lying. He got this weird look on his face, that I confused for a wince of pain from being fucked for so long. I resumed fucking. He resumed moaning, and then he said "I want your hot, poz, seed in me." I flinched so hard, my cock popped out of him, and I think I may have sustained mild whiplash. What is with gay men and their "I want to get barebacked into getting a horrible disease" fetish? I'm not HIV positive (abbrevriated poz, apparently). And, once again, I was wearing a condom. There would be no seed of any kind inside him. Certainly not hot, poz seed. He leaned in to kiss me. "Come on, baby. I want your hot poz seed inside me. I don't want to know your name, I just want your--" "STOP TALKING." And I put my hand over his mouth. "Seriously, not sexy." He shrugged, leaned back, and pulled me back into him. And I fucked, and I fucked, and I tried to erase all memory of hot poz seed, and then I pulled out. "I want your hot," I stared at him. He stopped. And then he started blowing me. When I was finished coming, he stood up, and it was pretty obvious he wanted to snowball. I did not. So I pushed him away. "So," he smiled, "are you going to pee in me?" "No." "Well, will you at least suck me off?" Of course. But, I suspected, since his cock wasn't at optimum erection, that there may be a pee plot, in effect. "If I sense even a drop of urine, I'm going to rip off your testicles." "Unless you find that sexy." And I returned to blowing him. And then he wanted me to start fucking him again. At this point, we've been going at it for over two hours. And, apart from his weird bug chasing and water sport sex talk, it had been pretty good. So I fucked him for a while, and then he said "Can I fuck you?" It had been a long time since I'd let anyone fuck me, but this guy was obviously drunk, had come in the not so distant past, and I was going to double wrap his cock, and, being as how drunk he was, he probably wouldn't notice. He didn't notice. He also never got inside me. Though, after about ten minutes of grinding his cock between my right ass cheek, and the mattress, he let out another little fart and said "I just totally came in you." I smirked. "Did you like it?" "Oh, yea." I said "It was hot." And he giggled, "Positive?" And that's when I bit him.
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My penis is made of razorblades.
I know this because now three people in as many years have complained that the outside of their ass burns when I fuck them. Granted, none of the people I've been in actual relationships with have ever had this complaint. And three people in three years is not a huge percentage for me, but it's enough to give me pause. Do I have paws? No. Retractable adamantium claws? Nope. Freddy Kreuger or Edward Scissorhands gloves? Under the bed in the box marked FOR EMERGENCY. My first thought was, maybe there's something burnilicious about the lube I use, but I just recently switched from KY to Astroglide. I asked the guy if he was allergic to latex, he said no. Things had been going fairly smoothly. Super closeted, but in such a way that he was actually straightish, not a big mo who was pretending to be straight. Big black dude with an appropriately puffy ass. He had a good sense of rhythm (And I don't mean "Black people can dance!", I mean when I pushed forward, he pushed back at just the right rate and angle.) So when he said "Ow. That...that hurts. Sorry, man. I can't do this any more tonight." I was appropriately despondent. "Mind staying bent over and letting me come on your back?" "No. I play safe." The lights were out in my room, so he couldn't see my facial expression. Also, he was facing the wrong way. "Do you have some sort of deep wound on your back that I can't see, or do you think semen absorbs into skin?" "I play safe." Sigh. "You probably don't blow either." "Nope." I knew he wasn't bullshitting, he was just a straight guy who liked to get fucked. I have no problem with this. "Sorry. I won't ask you to get me off, either. I know it's not fair." Wow, our sex failed, and yet he wasn't some sort of psycho or pussy, he was actually a considerate guy. "Is it safe to go outside?" Which, I assume, meant that he was worried that one or another of my roommates might be up and see him. But my roommates were all well asleep, or, at least, in their rooms. So we shook hands (straight guys don't kiss dudes, and I didn't want to kiss him anyway), and he said he'd call me next time he was horny. And maybe he was bullshitting then, I don't know. It doesn't really matter to me. Mainly because a more sexually secure, and hotter guy who I actually know from the real world e-mailed me while we were fucking. But has anyone else had the "It burns the outside of my ass when you fuck me" problem before? Or am I just helmet special? Last week, I slept with three men with dog names: Duke, Rusty, and Spike. This is not bullshit, or creative liberties. Three men. Three names I associate with dogs.
Duke was hot. As in feverish. I was waiting for the T (the Boston subway) on my way home from work when he started talking to me. He recognized me from a show I did, and started telling me how hilarious I was. And the way to a man's penis is through his ego. And since he lived near me, we ended up going back to my house, watching Arrested Development, and heading back to my room. Duke sweat. And all I could think of was how dogs don't sweat, and how much hotter Duke would be if he just salivated and panted instead. This led to much giggling, which I refused to explain to him. Of course, we did it doggystyle. And it was average. Rusty was a college student. When I was doing the online whore thing a couple of years ago (nothing to rival Whore Month...it was one or two guys a month), we'd contacted each other, but never met. Basically, he never wanted to meet up until really late at night, and I didn't live near enough for him. Well, now I live down the street (moved here about two months ago). So I e-mailed him, and at 3 o'clock, he called to make sure my roommates were asleep before he came in. Fucken closet cases. In fact, one of my roommates was awake, so he pussied out and went home. Then called at 5 to see if they were still up. Roommate A was now asleep, but Roommate B was awake. So, I headed over to his place. His place. His place was freaky. He lives in a building near a bunch of colleges in Boston. He lives in the basement of his building. There's a washer, a dryer, a furnace room, a supply closet, and an apartment. To get there, you have to be buzzed into the building, and then you get in a serial killer elevator. A brass contraption with doors you have to hand open. The doors seal with magnets, and I think there may be some Sudanese children who hand crank the thing up and down. Freaky. His room was filled with candles, and other things that suggest he has a romantic soul, and no one to fuck. He was only wearing his blue and red striped briefs when he answered his door. He called me Sir. Sir. While those who know me, may infer that he was way younger than me, he wasn't. I'm thirty. He was, at the youngest, twenty-five. He kept asking me ridiculous questions about where I was from, and asking me if I knew Tom from Cape Cod. Because, you know, there's only one Tom on Cape Cod. "The gay one." He said. I know four gay Toms from Cape Cod. "The one who killed himself." I know four gay Toms that killed themselves from Cape...wait, no, I don't know any Toms that killed themselves. "Ummm...Do you want to fuck? Or did you invite me over to see if we knew anyone in common, cuzzzzzzz, I've got to go to work soon." I am ashamed to say that not-very-attractive, socially awkward, kind of annoying Rusty was A Fantastic Lay. Loose enough that just a tiny bit of fingering was required before entry, but not so loose that I accidentally got my knee stuck in his ass during foreplay. And loud. I'm pretty sure people passing by the tiny window to his basement apartment stopped and said "I don't know who's doing the fucking in there, but they must be amazing." I overflowed the condom. I overflowed the condom. And he said "Oh my God, I've never seen so much come before. Anyway, I was supposed to see my sister like an hour ago. You should probably leave. Call me tomorrow?" I didn't call him the next day. But I haven't ruled him out for the future. I have ruled out Spike. Spike has an ass like a pancake, but flatter, and less defined. Also, too much maple syrup, if you know what I mean. Once his clothes were off, he bent over on my bed, and I said "Uhhhh. Yea, this isn't going to work." He looked over his shoulder at me. "Huh?" "You need to take a shower. And perhaps consider buying a different brand of toilet paper." "Oh, sorry, man." He said. "We ran out in my apartment." Dude. While editing an entry for bad_sex, I was waiting for a guy. I can't say not just any guy for he was just any guy. We'd e-mailed back and forth a bit. A 32 year old guy, fairly tall, black hair, practiced gay bottomer just wanted to come over and get fucked all night long. Sweet, right?
Apparently, where he's from, night is roughly four and half minutes long. Maybe it's my fault, I transposed the first two numbers of my address, so he wandered around lost for a bit (luckily there is no house with the transposed numbers, and he was at least smart enough to realize that I don't live at a Dunkin' Donuts). When he finally found the house, he knocked. I answered the door. And a not quite so tall, not as dark haired as in the picture he sent, not as young as in the picture he sent, guy was there. At least forty. And under careful scrutiny after he left the house, it can be determined that he didn't send a really old picture of himself, he sent a picture of someone who marginally looked like him. It's a very small picture. Maybe 75x75 pixels. I should have known. He'd also included a picture of his ass, probably figuring that no one would be able to tell the differences between asses based on a 75x75 pixel picture, as long as the skin tone was accurate and the shape roughly the same. Well, he didn't know he was meeting an ass connoisseur. When cops have Closed Circuit footage of drive by moonings, they call me in and have me investigate the subjects (and, if they're guilty, I get to investigate more liberally). The pic was not his ass. I still stuck my dick in it. Condomed, naturally. And after a lubing. After a couple of minutes in the dog position, he said "Ow. Could you. Slow down?" Of course I did. "Still. Maybe. Maybe another position. It's very hot in here." Sure. Position change. Position change. Position change. "I need a break." It's been a little over four minutes. "I just. I wanted all night, but. I've only been doing this for a couple of weeks. And I think I like it but. Can I use your shower?" "Uh. Sure." "I'll need a towel." Yes, you will. So, I reach for the closet doorknob. Of course, my hand is covered in lube, so I can't open my closet door to get the towel, nor can I towel off my hand to open the doorknob because the towel is on the wrong side of the door. When I finally manage to get the door opened, I pass him the towel, and he starts to walk naked out of my room. "You should probably put the towel on." I say. "I have roommates." "Are they home?" I don't know. "Possibly. Better to be safe than to freak out my roommates, though." He shrugs, throws the towel over his shoulder and he and his not as well shaped as it was in the pic ass mosey on into the bathroom. While he showers, I put on my clothes, and wash my hands in the kitchen. He comes into the room dressed as well. "Do you want to jerk off?" he asks. Not with you, you lying fucken weirdo. "No thanks." "I live right down the street." He says. "We could do this. A lot." Yea, I really look forward to having a guy come over, let me fuck him for four and a half minutes and then have him use my shower. That's hella sexy. Hold me back. "I'm very discrete." He says, in the gayest voice ever. Gayest. Carson Kressley thinks this guy's voice is annoyingly shrill. And out the door he walks. He won't be coming back. It all started when I wrote "God save me from teenage boys with womens' names." on the back of one of my poems, and passed it to my friend. I was not referring to my boyfriend[?], though it applies to him, but to the cute kid in the audience of one of my shows who'd tried to chat me up. I'm thirty. One teenager is four too many.
I was more than just a trifle embarrassed to realize that, for a good ten minutes of my show, that note was easily readable to everyone in the audience, including the teenager with the female name, sitting in the very front row. The possibility of him being illiterate or oblivious is the only thing that kept me from banging my head against the dashboard the entire way home. I know he was neither illiterate or oblivious, because he IMed me as soon as I got home in order to a) flirt with me; and b) call me out on my note. In order to distract myself, I started clicking on Craigslist ads. Not the sleazy hookup ads that I used to read, but apartment ads. And, ok, they were boring. And I had, like, a week to look for a new apartment, so why not check out those sleazy CL hookup ads. Why not place one? 30YO STD free, moderately hairy, masculine top seeks slightly but only slightly younger or same aged to relieve boredom on a Friday night. Fatties ok, femmes tolerable, but no teenage boys with womens' names, or seventy year old men looking to cuddle with young Asians. I didn't expect the deluge of responses nor the desire to respond to them. I certainly didn't expect to leave my friend's apartment at 11:00 to go meet some stranger in a park I'd never been to before. Those nights are way behind me, right? If only. After spending twenty minutes walking around the park looking for the appropriate entrance, I found it. The sign was covered with dirt. This wasn't just a sign with the name of the entrance, this was a sign of things to come. Or come in, as the case may be. The guy introduced himself as Junior, despite being a few years my senior. His picture must have been taken during the days when Soul Asylum ruled the charts. This did not bode well. Despite his never having done "anything like this before", he knew precisely where we wouldn't get caught, but would be comfortable. I really hadn't done anything like this before. Sex with some stranger I've only just begun talking to over the internet, sure. Outside? In public? No. I considered it research for my memoirs. As soon as we were behind some bushes, the clothes came off. It was dark. This was both lucky and dooming. He bent over immediately. "Do you rim?" Have I before? Yes. With a stranger? No. Was I about to? "No." "Ok. Just fuck me then." So I pulled out my condom, and began "You don't need that." He said. "I'm clean." Clean turns out to be a subjective term. Still, I put on my condom. This was both lucky, and dooming. Before squeezing my cock in, I did some spit-lube fingering. Usually, I carry real lube, but when I was in Austin a few weeks ago, I put my lube in one of my extra shoes. A pair of shoes I ended up letting a friend borrow, not thinking to remove the lube first. Neither my friend, nor I, have brought up his extra special shoe bonus. As a general rule, I spit on a finger, finger, then spit on another finger and use that. I mean, doody comes out that hole, I don't want to lick something that's just been inside it. This rule turned out to be both lucky, and dooming. Our sex lasted longer than it should, because I realized that my boyfriend[?] has spoiled me by being not only attractive and good in bed (or, I suppose, bushes), but also being someone I care about. Junior was not any of those three things. And I couldn't stop thinking about that. Eventually, though, I came. "Can I fuck you?" He asked. "No." I said, while jerking him to, oh yea, finish. "That's cool." That was the last thing he said. He got in his car and drove off. I began walking home. About ten minutes into my walk, my nose itched. I scratched it and...and that's when I noticed my hands had gotten dirty. No biggy. I'd had to lean in the dirt a few times and *sniff*...eww. Eww. My hands, while dirty, were not dirty with dirt. They were, in fact, covered in a thin layer of human fecal matter. I began feverishly spitting on my hands, pulling leaves off of trees and trying to scour them off. This did not work. Shit. Literally. Shit. Had this Junior not heard of toilet paper? Does he not know the proper about to get fucked etiquette? Either finger yourself clean in the shower, or take a cleansing dump beforehand. This will minimize the shit to the surface area of the other person's skin ratio. I'd guess the last time Junior wiped his ass was when he had that picture taken at the Blind Melon concert. I had at least an hour walk ahead of me, and I was shit handed. I couldn't even stop in a gas station and ask for keys to the bathroom because they'd have had to put the key to such a room in my crap covered hands. So, for the duration of my walk of shame I put my hands in my pockets, knowing I'd now have to do a load of laundry as soon as I got home. After the shower, that was. The few people I ran into on the streets between the park and the house, didn't make eye contact with me for very long. It was though they could sense my shame, or else smell my hands, I thought. Turns out, it was neither of those things. As soon as I got home, I ran into the bathroom, took off my clothes and turned on the shower. Then, I took the smallest bar of soap and scrubbed my hands until that soap sliver was but a memory. And that's when I looked in the mirror and saw why no one would make eye contact with me. My nose was brown. I hate my roommate. Owes money. Stinks up the house. Steals my porn. Won't leave.
My boyfriend[?], Sora, hates his roommate as well. I'm not sure as to why. But last year I lived with him for four months, and I suspect that the person responsible for their antagonistic relationship is him. But I love him, so I don't tell him this. One of his major problems is that his roommate has been letting one of her friends crash on their couch since the day they moved in, nearly a month ago. This guy doesn't pay rent, or any bills. Aside from that, I know very little about him. Late one night a few weeks ago, Sora calls me to say "Ewww. So, you know how I told you my roomtwat's friend has been crashing on our couch?" I reply in the affirmative. "Well, an hour ago, for the third time, I walked in while he was jerking off." "Have you told him that you have a bathroom with a lock on the door?" He laughs, and continues with his bitching. A week later, I decide to come visit his apartment. As soon as we get in the door, the couchjerker flits his eyes at us, lowers his head and says hey. He's adorable. If I had this guy on my couch, I would ORDER him to jerk off whenever I came home. Sora feels differently, he grumbles in the couchjerker's direction, and pulls me into his bedroom. After watching a couple of hours of Drawn Together, we get down to the busy busy. There's some head involved, some ass slappage, some anal, and a little more head for good measure. We aren't as loud as usual, but we weren't completely silent. After toweling off, I open the door and walk to the bathroom to pee. As soon as I enter the living room, couchjerker shoots me this horrified look, prompting me to put on my serious face, and my fuck you voice and say "What are you looking at? You don't pay rent here. You don't get to look at me like that. If we're too loud for you, fuck you, find your own apartment." Then I walk into the kitchen, burst out laughing, pop my head back into the living room and say "I'm just kidding." He does not laugh back. The next morning, the three of us are all in the living room. Sora is playing Kingdom Hearts (I know, I know), I'm alternating between massaging his back and checking my e-mail, and couchjerker is sitting on the couch, continuing to look traumatized. He looks as though he is constantly watching someone rape his favorite kitten. It's almost cute, but not quite. At around noon, Sora realizes, holy shit, it's almost noon, and he has to leave for work at 12:30. So he gets up, goes to his room, and closes the door behind him. I follow. And, as I'm wont to do, I stand behind him, wrap my arms around his chest and kiss him, giving rise to both his spirits and his cock. I grab on to it, and start slowly pulling it up,. "I've got to leave for work in fifteen minutes." He says. "We don't have time to....ohhhhhhh. I mean..." I know what he means. Usually, if we're finished in less than an hour, one or both of us has fallen asleep. Fifteen minutes for both of us? I'm determined to make this work. Off come his pants, off come my pants. I press my cock between his prodigious buttocks cheeks while I jerk him off. Then I kneel down, turn him around so we're facing each other, and put some serious smack to his ass while I blow him. He explodes rather quickly. I lean back on his bed and stare at my cock. "Do we have time?" He asks. Of course we do. "But, I'm terrible at giving head." He says. This is not true. I'm not a big fan of getting head. I don't mind it. It beats listening to Slipknot while monkeys throw pudding at you, but I much prefer anal. But Sora is...well, I love him, so his tongue gets bonus points. He doesn't use much tongue. He is mostly lips, moving so fast, I swear he's gonna get whiplash. And within a minute I watch a web of come blossom between his lips. I didn't even know I was....and then I feel the wave. And then another, and another and a...wow. We towel off, and Sora gets dressed for work. I grab my backpack, and get ready to head home. We stop in the kitchen to grab a couple of sodas. Couchjerker is in there, looking...well, yea, traumatized as usual. In an effort to make him uncomfortable, without being mean (mostly because I find it funny), I start small talking with him. At this point, the roommate (who I hadn't met yet) comes out of her room, wearing her work clothes, and starts loudly bitching about being late for work, and how she hates this and that and yadda and yin and yang and whatever. I roll my eyes, and turn back toward couchjerker. I squeeze his arm as I say "It was nice to meet you." He barks like a dog who's had his tail stepped on, causing Sora to laugh. A swooping laugh that turns into a cough. A cough that launches web of come out of his mouth and on to the left breast of his roommate's waitress uniform. Unable to resist, I say "Damn. That's the first time my come has been on a woman's tits since the early nineties." Sora continues to choke laughter. Couchjerker continues to look traumatized. The roommate just shoots me a disgusted look, and walks back into her room. I really must visit Sora more often. I hate Divine. Forgetting the $1200 she owes me, the smell of the wretched food she cooks at three in the morning, and the way she blasts 'NSync and the Backstreet Boys when she thinks I'm not home (seriously, what year is this? 1998?), the real reason I don't like her is because...I don't like her. Not the way she looks, not the way she smells, not the way she acts, not the way she laughs, nothing.
Before I realized how much I despised her, we were talking about roommate boundaries. Not just the usual "don't eat my food" crap, or the "kindly don't wipe your gargantuan behind on my nice clean towels" plea, but the discussion of physical boundaries. Specifically, the door between our rooms. It's a French door. I don't mean it surrenders every time someone knocks on it, that it forces its tongue down your throat when you kiss, or that it creaks with an accent egu, I mean it's one of those doors that slides into the wall, instead of folding open and closed on hinges. It covers nearly the entire wall between my bedroom and hers. And while it closes enough to keep someone from accidentally getting a look into the other person's room, it does fuck all for preventing noise pollution. But, apart from the occasional pop music violation, it's usually not a problem. Usually. A couple of months ago, I came back from visiting my racist grandmother at about two-thirty in the morning. I was exhaustired. I'd mowed her lawn, replaced he mailbox, walked her evil evil dog, and then gotten home just in time to miss the last T (the Boston subway) home, which meant I'd had to walk a couple of miles. When I got home, all I wanted to do was drop into a coma. So I took off my clothes, flopped on my bed, and...and I noticed the music in the background. The faint warbling of Carrie Underwood. I wondered why Jesus was at the wheel at this time of night. Then I heard a weird hiccuping of air. Imagine an asthmatic frog trying to run a marathon, and you have some idea of this fantastically odd sound coming from underneath the French Pocket door. Of course, I had to investigate. I threw on my bathrobe and crept toward the door. Carrie Underwood gave way to Whitney Houston. I peered through the crack between the doors, and saw my roommate shoving a gigantic dildo up her ass while jerking off to a porn DVD. MY PORN DVD. Oh, Whitney, while you are certainly correct in you're assertion that "It's not right", I beg to differ with you about your next contention. It's not okay. I walked back over to my bed, turned my radio on (sadly, it was not playing anything that fit the situation), and called my boyfriend, loudly discussing my visit to racist grandma, and how distressed I was that my favorite porn DVD was missing. As soon as the radio clicked on, she let out a rather large hiccup, muted both the TV and her computer (from which the evil music was coming), and stopped producing any sound at all. Now, at the time, Sora and I were doing the are we or aren't we dating, and even if we aren't how do we feel about fucking every now and then two step. We talked a lot on the phone, but rarely saw each other. This made me horny and irritable. Since my roommate owed me money, and had taken to hiding from me whenever I was home, she became the target of much of my rage. Still, if the bitch hadn't snuck into my room and stolen one of my porn DVDs (which, honestly, wasn't really my favorite), things might have gone differently. A week after the night of hiccuping doom, I heard her talking on her cell phone. She told whoever was on the other end of the line how tired she'd been lately. How she had worked nine straight days (this was not true, she'd spent the entire previous day cowering in her room), and was really excited to have the next day off. "I'm totally sleeping in until four in the afternoon." She said. The hell she was. I grabbed my cell phone, walked outside, and called up Sora. "What are you doing tomorrow morning?" I asked. "I dunno." He replied. "What are you doing tomorrow morning?" "You." He called me at five the next morning to let me know that he was just getting off the highway. I removed the lube and condoms from my desk. When he arrived, we spent about ten minutes loudly discussing our relationship, and how we could improve it. "I wish you'd spank me more." He said. I wasn't sure if he was serious, or trying to shock my roommate, who'd been making annoyed rustling sounds in her room since our discussion began. I decided to err on the side of optimism, and yank him over my lap. There was a loud thwap. This was followed by a "Oh, yeeeeeeeeah." I giggled. Then I smacked his ass again. Then things got noisy. Smacks, sighs, grunts, the squishy squishy of lubricated skin in skin. She turned her iTunes on. We got louder. She turned her computer volume to full blast. We got louder. At some point, the utter ridiculous level of our passion went from funny to really hot. No matter how loud her precious Justin Timberlake proclaimed that he was bringing sexy back, we brought it back louder and harder. While I did register the slamming of her door, I didn't let it pause the best sex my Sora and I had had since...well, ever. I don't know how long she was gone, or what she did while she was away. I just know that we were still going at it when I heard the front door slam shut, and a muffled "Are you fucken kidding me?" came from the hallway. Then the door shut again. A few hours later, when we were both mostly spent, and watching Shin Chan episodes on his computer, Sora went into the kitchen to get something to drink. When he came back in, he was wearing his evil grin that I find incredibly sexy. "Your roommate is in the kitchen." He whispered. "She doesn't look too happy." "Why are we whispering?" I asked. "Because I heard her say she was really looking forward to hanging out with whoever was on the other line of her phone, but she had to shower first." I was puzzled. "So...why does that mean we have to whisper?" "I figured now might be a good time for the two of us to take a long, hot, loud shower together." Have I mentioned how much I love him? So we were in the shower, finding interesting uses for the loofah, when I noticed her angrily shouting. I presumed it was into her call phone. "I know I told you I'd be there in an hour or so, but MY ASSHOLE FUCKEN ROOMMATE has been hogging the shower." I laughed. Sora laughed too, and began licking his way down my stomach. I had an idea where he was headed. I giggled to myself about how I'd turned headed into a sort of pun. Sora wrapped his lips around my extremely happy and diligent cock. I let out a loud moan. Somewhere in the middle of my ear, I registered a sound. I couldn't place it, but I knew it carried a sort of foreboding. It was the sound of distant water running. My body tensed as the water in the shower blasted from hot to cold. This was then followed by another unpleasant sensation: teeth. In the last place a guy wants to feel teeth. I got louder. And from the kitchen I heard my roommate getting the last laugh. I used to give my roommates, Celeste and Sir Trick, who were a couple, a hard time because every week or so I'd need to take a piss while they were busy fucking in the shower. When my boyfriend, Sora, moved in, I had to decide whether to take the high road, and not seek vengeance by long shower-fuck sessions, or take the low road, and see if we could make more noise.
For once in my life, I took the high road. Apart from a couple of noise battles (when you try to prove how much better your sex is by increasing the volume of moans, shouts, and smack noises), we tended to let our sex remain private. One afternoon, Sora and I were in the kitchen arguing over something stupid, and we heard the roommates getting it on. We ignored it. And after a half hour or so, Celeste came into the kitchen, with a huge glob of come on the front of her shirt. Sora and I contained most of our laughter, and didn't even say anything when she said "Oh my god, dude!", turned around, and ran into her room to change her shirt. Later that night, after drinking enough Coronas to be declared official citizens of Mexico, Sora and I stumbled into our room for some loud, sloppy, lights out, almost sex. Because Sora had a nasty habit of falling directly asleep after orgasm, we had a standing/sitting/laying down agreement that I always got to come first. So I did. Once devoid of sperm, I knelt down to reciprocate, and Sora promptly rammed his cock into my nose. After the requisite name calling (I chose douchenozzle for this particular occasion) and ass smackage, I forged ahead with the fellatio. Once he'd come, we made out for a bit, and then Sora decided to take a shower before he fell asleep. He threw a towel around his waist, and walked down the hallway to the bathroom. He was too tired to hear the water running, so when he opened the door, the apartment was filled with all three of my roommates screaming. Sora screamed because he'd walked in on Celeste and Trick's shower sex, and Celeste and Sir Trick screamed because Sora's face and belly were covered in blood. Apparently, he'd rammed my nose harder than either of us had realized. The next day we put memo boards up on our bedroom doors, and the bathroom with "Occupied" and "Vacant" signs. Sometimes, no matter how badly you want to fuck a guy, you really have to pee first. It's important in these situations that you put your bladder's interests before your testicles, even if it means an extra minute and a half of not yet fucking. I know this, but I am drunk, and Eric looks so cute in his boxer briefs. Surely I can wait a few minutes an hour or two.
This is the first guy in months I've been close to doing anything with. I haven't seen My Future Fry Cook in ages, I don't feel like meeting new people, and I feel like MAMIP is on another planet, even when we're sitting next to each other at the bar. So how can I waste precious naked time peeing? "I'm sooooo hot." He says. He's not being arrogant or narcissistic. Yes, he is good looking, but I'm fairly sure he means, it's eighty fucken degrees. I turn on the air conditioner. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh." I slide next to him on the bed. This is no small feat. My bed is the size of a pencil case. Eric and I are Sharpies. If we end up fucking, there's going to have to be floor involved. I hate this house. I hate Landlord. I hate that my room is the size of a Pistachio shell. I hate that my room smells like smoke. I hate this place so much that, in the six months I've lived here, only Celeste, Goth Girl, and Dmitri have ever seen the inside of it. Until tonight, the closest I've come to having sex is hearing my cute straight roommate moaning a little too loudly in the other room. But tonight I say fuck this house, and fuck Eric, too, but for entirely different reasons. I liked Eric immediately when we met. I don't remember where that was, or why I liked him, but when I found his phone number on a post-it note in my drawer of doom I immediately thought "Oh cool, it's my friend Eric, the poet, I should call him." Only, when Eric picked up the phone I realized Eric wasn't my friend Eric at all but an entirely different Eric. "Hey, Safey. I didn't think you were going to call me again. How are you?" "Well, I, uh, lost your number for a while. Sorry." I now like Eric because he doesn't small talk, he doesn't care that I have no idea who he is, and he's lying almost naked on my bed. Right. Stop the extemporaneous narration, nearly naked guy next to me on bed. I am not nearly naked, and that needs to be fixed. The problem is, I am a freeballer, so there's no nearly naked me unless I add boxers after I subtract pants. I should go downstairs, pee, change into my boxers and come back upstairs. "I'm thirsty." Eric says. I go downstairs to get juice, change into my boxers, and pee. Unfortunately, someone is in the shower when I get downstairs. I get the juice, drop trou in the kitchen, pick up different trou in the kitchen, and run back upstairs, leaving my jeans in the laundry room. We each down some juice, and start making out. I've never understood the term making out. What is out, and what exactly are the ingredients that go into making it? Sure, saliva, tongues, lips, but those are the ingredients in kissing too. When does kissing become making out? I think the shower stops, I should really go downstairs and pee, but my dick takes it upon itself to pop pout of my boxers and say hello to our new friend, Eric. Eric politely kisses him hello, and I am reminded of a great haiku by Joel Derfner: Remember when I said I disliked oral sex? I meant just with you. Eric is pretty good with his tongue. No Tommy, but adequate. I'm starting to really get into his rhythm when he stops, looks up at me and laughs. His laugh. Imagine a pig gets his hoof caught in a ceiling fan and spraining its (do pigs have ankles?) ankle. You put a cast on it, but whenever it steps on that ankle it makes that little squealing pig noise. This is Eric's laugh. I want to ask him what's so funny, but I start laughing at his laughing, and he leans up to kiss me, and somehow the condom is on my dick and so is Eric's ass, and I no longer care what was so funny. I can only think "Yes" "Wow" "Dear Lord" and "I swear I've never met this guy before in my life, how did his phone number get into my drawer of doom? God I really have to clean that drawer out soon. I'm moving out in two weeks and I should really get a move on and, hey aren't I having sex right now? Yes, right there." Andrew, I mean Eric, Whatever His Name Is is bouncing on me like I'm a Spider Man Hop Ball, and the pressure on my balls as he bounces is almost perfectly balanced with the pressure on my kidneys from the liter and a half of Cherry Coke I drank earlier combined with the juice we chugged pre-fuck. I envision my ejaculation blasting him across the room, followed immediately by a tidal wave of urine filling my Barbie Dream House sized room. This is the unsexiest thought ever, and while I hate to waste a condom "I'll be right back, I really have to pee." Ha, Moment. I have not only killed you, I've chopped you into tiny pieces, and now I am on my way downstairs to piss on your grave. When I get back upstairs Eric is asleep. For a few years, I've been the maintainer of a Livejournal Community called Bad_Sex. For part of that time, I diligently read every entry until I couldn't imagine why people had any sex at all. The following was borne of a week long editing of that community. No, it didn't really happen:
Bad sex is your first time. I was in middle school and decided I really didn't want to be a virgin anymore. I had this really good friend, let's call her Chanukah (name withheld to protect the guilty LOL). Hannuka was kind of fat (I hope she doesn't read this), but I'm on the heavy side, too, so I can't really talk. Anyway, one weekend my parents and social workers were out of town, and Chanuka and I decided to pop our cherries. The thing about Hannukah is that she's kind of crazy, but I figured it was a chance to get laid. And you know how guys are always thinking with their little head. LOL. So Chanukkah and I were in my bedroom, and she started taking her clothes off, and she had the hariest bush. I took off my clothes, pulled my machete off my wall and hacked my way through her pubic jungle. Oh my goD, the smell. She was like totally tuna down there. Before I could protest, she grabbed my head and started pushing my chin into her cavernous twat. This girl was loose. I could have fit my whole head in there. "I want you to polish my pearl." she said. All I could think was how much easier this would be if I had a scuba mask and a snorkel. Just as I was about to get my lick on, I noticed a piece of string sort of hanging out of her left labial fold. "Whoops!" she said, flushed red, "I must have forgotten to take out my tampon." I leaned back as she dug around with her huge fingers and pulled it out. Just as it came out, she let out this huge queef, and then a wave of blood came at me like that scene in The Shining. I was majorly grossed out, and told her I was not going to be going down on her. She was like, "whatever fuck me then." Well first I put the condom on the wrong way. Then, once I got it on right, I started really going at her doggy style when the bed broke, and my parents, a police officer and The Pope came home. Boy was that embarrassing. My parents grounded me for like three days, and I wasn't allowed to hang out with Chanucka or any other girls for a month. Not one to be easily deterred, I snuck out that night and went over to my friend Jae's house. Jae and I had been friends since I was five, but we'd never had any feelings for each other. We were watching Police Academy 7, and downing a bottle of Goldschlager when we started making out. He was a terrible kisser. I should have known he was going to be terrible in the sack, but what can you do, I was horny. So we started taking off each others' clothes, and I noticed that Jae had a dick the size of my pinky, and the circumference of a pencil. I stifled a giggle. I hadn't planned on going down on him, but he was so small, that I couldn't give him an effective handjob. I was three licks into fellatio when he was like "I'm gonna..." and then he farted. I started to laugh when he spurted come right in my eye. He apologized for it, but I was like wtf. It looked like I had pinkeye. Once I'd washed my eye out, he asked if he could go down on me. I was like, "yea, you at least owe me a blowjob" and he was all like ok. I guess he'd never sucked a dick before, because he kept grazing me with his teeth. I told him to stop before he started taking off skin. He said he still felt really bad about the whole come in the eye thing, so he asked if I would like to fuck him. I really wanted to get off but when he bent over I could see that he hadn't wiped in like forever. I was about to start putting my clothes back on when Hannika came in without knocking. I guess she had let Jae borrow her biology book, and she needed it back. She started yelling at me and at Jae but I was like so past caring that I just walked by her and went back home. I didn't even get to come. That was the worst sex evar. |
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