After he came, I thought, “Really, that’s it?” Then I thought, “Oh well, now that that’s over.”
It was boring, anyway.
Imagine if it was routine for sex to only last two minutes. I could have accumulated a total of an hour of fucking time this year. Mindblowing. I mean, mindboggling.
He stated matter-of-factly, “Okay, it’s going to be another twenty minutes. Then he rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling and ignoring me. He acted as if we were in a doctor’s office and he planned to transition from staring at his shoes to pulling out a magazine, as a way to carry himself through the extended waiting period. I looked at him quizzically and asked, “Really?” He looked at me like I was dumb and said, “Uh, yeah,” as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. He might as well have exclaimed, “DUH!”
The confusion seemed to lie in what specifically I was referring to as the subject of my disbelief. He figured I was too ignorant to comprehend the mechanics of penises. In reality, I wasn’t expressing surprise at the mechanical implausibility so much as his assumption that my clock was on his time because things revolve around guys sexually. As if I would be ready to go again when he was because life ceases to exist post-penis. Not that it would be outlandish for me to be surprised by his particular penis’ time frame; most guys our age do not have a twenty-minute refractory period, especially ones who come in two minutes. Flat. But what does he know? Apparently, very little.
Once again, I thought I would teach by example. I wasn’t that horny because the situation wasn’t that hot and the sex wasn’t that good, but I thought I might as well start touching myself because we weren’t in a doctor’s office so I didn’t have a magazine stash to occupy my time, nor did I expect to comply with his impending request for a round two. What a throwaway that would be.
Also, I thought of how horny I was all day and thought I might as well finish up before I was too tired. Didn’t want to reach that doomed state of being too tired to get off but too horny to fall asleep. Really, I could have just gone to sleep, though. If I wasn’t such a disaster at sleeping.
I started touching myself and mounted him, and he finally got the point. He asked if he could watch me squirt, and I said, “Sure.” But he turned on the light and focused all his attention on me as if he was inspecting me, and it all became so clinical. Not that I was really turned on before, but this was a huge turn off to the point where continuing would feel like a performance. I turned the light back off and had him get on the floor, so when I straddled him he was not so much watching me as he was integrated into the experience.
I knew the squirt show would have to take place on the floor because I didn’t exactly want to pour buckets of cum onto my friend’s bed, but what I didn’t know is that the rug we would end up on was not so much a rug as it was a mesh, plastic tarp. Imagine weaving together those green strawberry bins, only in many colors. That’s roughly what her floor covering was made of. We might as well have been at somebody’s grandma’s house on a couch coated in plastic. I guessed the puddle would be easy to clean up.
But there was no puddle. I was afraid I couldn’t deliver. I have never been subject to squirting on demand. No one has ever requested it before, although many past parishioners have been prepared hastily. Most are shocked and in awe. There is little forethought that goes into it other than scrambling for towels when I can tell the floodgates are about to open. This is more complicated in other people’s apartments.
At the beginning of the summer, after hooking up with Josh for the second time, I mentioned squirting and he asked a particularly astute question that called for a neatly delineated answer. He wondered if it is a point I get to or the way I do it? In other words, is ability to squirt dependent on the level of arousal or the method of approach?
Although I figured his intent was mostly to satisfy curiosity, and it was a thoughtfully asked question, I accepted it to mean “Can I get you to squirt?” in which case the answer would have been a definitive “Yes.” He seemed coordinated, discerning, and cooperative enough to be trained. I answered that it was the method, which would explain why I hadn’t squirted with him despite far exceeding the necessary threshold of arousal and despite being thoroughly aroused by the prospect of cumming all over him. The other explanation is that I would find it embarrassing to squirt on someone without forewarning him, as there is the WTF factor. That was partially the purpose of my bringing it up post-sex: in order to gauge his reaction in hopes of incorporating it next time.
With Josh, indeed, the method was the deciding factor, as I could unhesitatingly grant him the baseline level of arousal needed for squirting. With Danny, the very sad truth was that reaching the same threshold was not a given, and I had to calculatedly manipulate my body to get to that point. There was also the additional burden of performance anxiety: He requested something that came more than naturally to me, but I’m not used to or equipped to squirt on demand.
It was a combination of being caught off guard—causing me to overthink the situation—and just not being that into it. I got three solid squirts in and felt like I could call it a night.
The thing people don’t realize about squirting is that squirting is unrelated to orgasm. They both feel good and relieving, they are both attainable at high levels of arousal, and occasionally I squirt while I orgasm. But sometimes and can gush buckets without ever orgasming, and often I dry up before I orgasm.
So, despite my three good squirts, I got to the point of diminishing returns and thought, “Shit, I am too drunk. All of this and it might be for naught.” My clit needed to be a little harder, so I asked Danny to go down on me more and the situation was salvageable once he reprepared me for myself. I was even a little turned on by the fact that he was on his knees lapping me, as I wrapped my legs around his head, after his incompetence pre-sex. I pushed him back against the bed and straddled him, our bodies wedged in the corner between the bed and bookshelf. I fucked my hands as I humped his stomach. Desperately squeezed my legs around him as I rubbed my body against his.
Sweaty and effortful, my orgasm finally fell upon me with no more incidence than a sneeze. Not even relief to be realized, as there was little to relieve beyond boredom and expectation. I thought, “Ughhh. I blew my load on this? If only I got off earlier today when I was oh so horny, it would have been soooo good. Fuck orgasm budgeting. Fuckkk. Every day is yet another prospective opportunity for orgasms to be wasted after painstaking, deliberate deferment.” After a minute of silence and slowing breath, Danny asked, “Did you reach your climax?” Ha ha ha, if you could call it that. Ummm, DUH! Didn’t you feel the distinction between my effortful humping and involuntary tensing?
We showered together and I spanked his happy slappy ass tattoo, as per frat boy post-sex showering protocol. Back in bed we smoked another bowl. Overall, it wasn’t a bad experience. He was nice and amicable, and at the end of the night, that’s what counts. In two words, I would describe him as “sweet” but “feeble.” He was in good spirits, just clueless. I could stand to indulge him.
As I leaned over him with my bowl in hand, he started getting hard again, and it was apparent that he was ready for his round two. After some contemplation, I thought, “Eh, if he wants to go again, why not? The first time only took two minutes; the next should take four at most.” Indeed, it did. It’s not like I had anything better to do with the end of my night, anyway.
Done for the night, he proclaimed, “It’s nice to be with a girl who’s in touch with her shit; most girls aren’t.” Aw, that’s kinda sweet, after adjusting for his tainting the sentiment by replacing the word ‘vagina’ with ‘shit.’ Usually I refer to my partners’ body parts in more flattering terms. For example, ‘the smallest penis ever to be seen.’
For good measure, he threw in, “If you want to blog about this, I just ask that you don’t use my real name.”
Whaaa? He wanted me to blog about this?
I assured him that I always change names, except for my own. Instead, I should have assured him that the experience was too mediocre to be blog-worthy. Because, seriously, who blogs about boring, inconsequential, and poorly-orchestrated sex.