Everyone gets desperate sometimes. And who am I to be ashamed. After all, he should be the one to be embarrassed, skipping out on his manly duties. Maybe it is manly to smack a girl with your cock, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t manly to leave.
I call him to arrange a get-together, but express no forgiveness–or, should I say, “willingness.” I get to his place and he asks if I want anything to drink. Yes, PLEASE. His mother is an alcoholic and left a bottle of vodka at his place, but he hates vodka. Perfect! I drink and impressive amount of vodka for a small girl. We chat. How precious. Eventually the subject of hooking up comes up. Shocking. And I pretended to be an uninterested, vodka chugging whore all night. I say, But Ryan, obviously I would never do such a thing again. I remind him of his transgressions and make him feel redundant, as if he has already been replaced. He is a mere trifle to me. Another notch in my belt. So much so that I don’t even remember what he did to me; it was that insignificant. He he, remember when we did such-and-such thing at such-and-such time oh so long ago; oh, us crazy college kids. He sees through my shit: He knows there is one and only one reason why I called, and it is not the free vodka. He reminds me that he is abundantly aware of his debt to me and that is why he is going to make it up to me. I don’t have to do anything to him. It’s all about me. This guy must really want to get fucked. Again. Eventually. This sounds too good to be true, and it is. Unfortunately, I really fucking love cock. Playing with it is half the fun. I inform him of my dilemma and he is the paragon of empathy. I can play with his cock as much as I want, tease him, and I don’t have to get him off. He won’t get himself off. He is completely at my disposal–my sexual plaything for the night. What did I deserve to do this? Oh, yeah. I play coy with him for a little longer, he reassures my reluctance, and I “give in.” Oops!
Clothes come off, he eats me out, fingers me a little, I play with his cock. It is marvelous, of course. All I could have hoped for and more! Guys can’t get me off, so I didn’t expect this, but I can finish myself off in front of guys and I am completely comfortable around him especially after what he did to me, so this is no big deal. I alternate between him and myself and eventually it is time. Except I am too drunk from all of that vodka I insisted on chugging in order to tolerate him and put on the air of being non-chalant and indifferent to the whole proposition of hooking up with him again. I try sooo hard. I am determined. I am too drunk–shit! The thing about getting me off is, I really need something inside me. Fingers are okay, but I want more. I think it is God’s sick joke that girls have fingers that are not long enough, not fat enough, at the wrong angle. Ryan’s fingers are okay, but they are no match for vodka.
So I do what any self-respecting girl would do: I ask, “Is there anything fuckable in your apartment?” Seriously, I am determined not to have sex with him. I am resolute, not stupid–I told you. I deserve this orgasm more than he does. He furrows his brow, looks bewildered for a second, and says, “I don’t think so.” I explain that I can’t get off without something inside me, I need something inside me, I need to get off!!! Finally he offers, “I hate to say this, but you could use my penis.” Once again, he is the paragon of empathy. I almost like him. I press the issue at hand, “Are you sure there is nothing fuckable in your apartment? I just need something inside me.” I might have even listed things that are potentially fuckable–well, things that are veritably fuckable and potentially in his apartment. A hairbrush, a candlestick. The list goes on. He owns no such things. Even his closeted homo roomate owns no such things. Unbe-fucking-lievable!
I concede; I take his penis. As a consolation prize and nothing else. I knew this would happen. I really fucking want his cock. I am a sexual pragmatist and who would I be to deprive myself of his cock in the service of spiting him? I would be a fool. It would be like cutting off my nose to spite my face.
I fuck the shit out of him. Once again, it was all I could have hoped for and more! I alternated between my hands and his cock. I used his body like my personal plaything. He came. I didn’t. Still determined, I keep going at myself, but now I am lacking anything fuckable, I am still drunk, and, even worse, since his penis was been withdrawn, I feel suddenly empty and need more. I keep at it, keep at it, and it is apparent that it is never going to happen. I’ve exhausted all immediate possibilities–my hand, his hand, his mouth, his penis, our hands in combination–and this obviates my next course of action.
I get this inkling that I know what I need, that thing that helps out when all else fails, that gets you going when the going gets tough, that puts you over the hump when you are so close to the finish line and fall short. And it is perfect, because he has already perused my porn collection in its entirety. No reservations necessary.
I ask him, “Do you have any porn on your computer.” He says yes. Great, so this guy doesn’t have “anything fuckable” in his apartment, but he has porn on his computer. That’s a first step. I ask, “Can I watch it?” And he obliges.
This guy has a smaller porn collection than I do in terms of number of videos and that isn’t even accounting for length of videos. There are maybe twenty thirty-seconds clips. Perhaps one two-minute video. To save you from the math, that is about twelve minutes total of wanking time. I am a girl so it could very well take me twelve minutes to get off, and I don’t like most of the clips, nor do I like the inconvenience of needing to shuffle around or replay videos after a mere thirty seconds of hands-on time. I need both hands to masturbate. Oh, the inhumanity! I make Ryan be my tech guy. I tell him when to click the play button and he does, so there is no break in my action. After all, it is hard to operate a computer with cummy hands. I make guys feel useful, what can I say?
After a while, it is clear that this isn’t working either. It’s not me; it’s just that with all these thirty-second clips I can’t assemble a proper “sesh.” I watch the same thirty-second clip–the only one I like–over and over again. Maybe if this was the last thirty seconds of my “sesh” I could have gotten off already, but this one good clip comprises all twenty minutes of my sesh and it isn’t getting any better.
The deets of the rest of the evening are unimportant. I take a few five-minute breaks thinking I just need to recoup and regroup–when I come back I’ll be invigorated. I think I am way past my prime in orgasming time. I should have made this decision like half an hour ago. Still determined but drawn, I tell Ryan that maybe he ought to go to sleep. He has work tomorrow. I tell him not to worry about me, that I will keep attempting to get off as he attempts to be prepared for office life at 9am. I hope my getting off, or lack thereof, won’t disturb his slumber. He appears nonplussed, but it is getting on 3am and he’s put his time in. He retires for the evening. Eventually I get off. I considered waking him to impart the news, as if an orgasm like that deserves recognition. Hard-fought, no doubt. But was it worth it? Obviously not. Except, I DESERVED THAT ORGASM. Let it be known. Hear ye, hear ye.
In the morning, there was acknowledgment. And exhaustion. And hustling to make it to work on time.
The best line of the night, and I quote: “I love eating you out, because you don’t play dead.”
Yes! And how could I play dead–he is sooo good!
Except over the next month or so he turned into an asshole, even a bigger asshole. He gave me specific times at which he would call, and failed to call, and made up all these excuses about how I was going back to school the next semester and he was scared to lose me. The worst of it was when he told me, “You really know how to make a guy feel like a penis attached to a set of legs.” Well, he really knows how to make a girl feel like a girl without a vagina. He walks out on me and he expects me to make him feel special? Come on. He also told me that he could never really please me, because I am so desensitized from porn and all my equipment that I don’t even need men. Nice excuse for not calling me, d bag. He is doing me a favor, for sure–giving me more time to sit around by myself and fuck my equipment and cuddle with my kitty. Awesome.
Let is be noted that there is a huge inconsistency between telling me that he loves eating me out because I don’t play dead and telling me that I am so desensitized from porn and toys that I couldn’t possibly enjoy being with a man. Obviously he is full of shit and just trying to hurt me. He said the “you don’t play dead” line directly succeeding our encounter, and he said the other line months later after he had been really flakey about calling me and needed to make up excuses to try to cover his ass. In probably my best line to him, I asked if it was customary for him to fuck over chicks who are hotter than he is. My reaction to this situation was absolute outrage and indignation, not because I think I am too good to be fucked over, but because I think I am too good to be fucked over by an ugly guy. I was doing him a favor. Who does he think he is? He should be grateful like as expressed in that line from 30 Rock: “You know, I thought you made love like and ugly girl. So present, so grateful.” There is nothing more insulting than being fucked over by an ugly, 5’5” guy, who is shaped like a square. I mean, what does that say about me?
I have included some of our conversations in “anything fuckable, part three” to illuminate what a douche bag he is.