on demand, part two

I would say he threw me down into the bed, but it was more like we fell into the bed together, made out klutzily, and generally fumbled around with one another. I’ve really gone out of my way to avoid drunken fucks all year, and now I remember why.


After five-to-ten minutes of our fumbley make out sesh, he grinned at me wide-toothed, got up unassumingly to fumble for a condom (um, I have one that I could slickly pull out of my purse because I’m a slut), and inquired, “Ready to fuck?” In intent and effect, more of an announcement than a question. Which puzzled me, because he had managed to take my pants off without really touching me. And when I asked for him to touch me, he didn’t seem to get that I wanted him to do it, didn’t know what to do, or thought he could get away with not doing it. It seemed like obvious enough protocol to me, part of the sexual routine, but I guess he gets girls to fuck him anyway. I mean, I guess if I couldn’t get him to touch me, I would still have sex with him; it would be boring otherwise.


Ill prepared for sex, I thought I would model good behavior by sucking his dick. It was not spectacular. Nothing about him was. His body was generally a disappointment. He wasn’t definitively fat in a way that you would categorize him as a fat person, but he could have stood to lose the pounds he had packed on since his collegiate glory days. Let’s refer to him as “corn-fed.” He was past his prime, which is how frat fucks generally go. I suddenly wished he were my friend’s younger brother, which would explain his upcoming sexual ineptitude.




I sucked his dick for a few minutes, until he started to get softer. A sexual opportunist, my solution was to straddle his face. If all else failed, at least I could force the idea that I wanted to be touched and simultaneously distract from his temporary sexual incapacity. As I waved my vagina over his face and gripped his upside-down half-staff, he requested, “Keep my shit hard.” What romantical instructions. Oh baby, how I want to make soft, sweet love to thee.




I deemed myself “ready to fuck” because it didn’t seem like it was going to get much better than that, and it didn’t. I mounted him and was unable to get our bodies to move together. I mean, they did move together; that was the problem. We flip-flopped back and forth in the same direction, so we were both expending energy but our body parts never moved relative to one another’s. I tried to step it up half a notch in the interest of achieving the in-and-out motion, but he sped up with me, synchronizing our movements once again. Okay, so we could be in a dance troupe together, but we could not fuck. I thought, maybe if only one of us moved, we could achieve the friction integral to normal sex where people manage to get their bodies to alternate directions. I felt like I was at a fifth grade dance where a guy kept bumping into me, stepping on my shoes.


I hate being stationary during sex, because the humping motion is half of it, getting your vagina to collapse automatically, but I gave up and let him climb on top of me. I felt a little more while only he was moving, but then it was over just as quickly as it began. Like, finished. Done. In two minutes flat. I could not attribute the slight increase in sensation to newfound coordination so much as the fact that he was ready to come. He should have announced, “ready to come” to complement “ready to fuck.”


But, instead, he called it after the shot: “You made me leak, you freak.” No, seriously; that’s what he said. I wondered: Is this a pop culture catch phrase that I’m not hip to? A lyric from a gangsta rap song? The sexual equivalent of “You’ve been punked”?



 Days later, I searched for an answer to life’s burning question on the interweb. After perusing Urban Dictionary to no avail, I figured I had to search a website that is more culturally inclusive. The closest match I could find on google was Pablo Petey’s “Freak-a-leak.” Repulsive and nonsensical, but no dice. That settles it: Danny is a poet. I am in utter disbelief that this catchy phrase isn’t already in heavy rotation all over this great nation of ours. It is a cute way to say, “Oops, I came too soon,” while deflecting the responsibility onto the girl.


Danny coined a righteous and pragmatic phrase. It is up to you, readers, to popularize it. If nothing else, it will puzzle girls to the point of their being compelled to google your dialect, exotifying you. Imagine speaking in such absurd terms that girls investigate your unintentional ingenuities for origin and attribution. I wonder if this was an impromptu invention for him or whether it is a premeditated stock admission he saves for romantical moments. Everyone should pre-compose rap-like poetry for potential sexual mishaps.




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