The Rise and Fall of Hipster Dave, Part Two

We got naked together at my place, and the part I most vividly remember is how precummy his cock was: His boxers were slicked to it and it begged to be unpeeled from constraint. Normally I don’t suck strangers’ cocks without protection, but his was like a trophy and I was oh so turned on. My enthusiasm overcame me. I didn’t mean to continue until completion; I meant to prepare him for sex. But too late. Saline solutiony semen seeped into my mouth, and I pulled him out immediately. I was disgusted. There was no warning. Normally I don’t require verbal warning because I can tell when it is going to happen. But with him there was no indication. Orgasm wasn’t qualitatively different from the stages before it. I was annoyed that he didn’t warn me, annoyed that he let himself cum without asking whether I wanted to have sex (which was quite obviously my game plan). I don’t collect hipsters to blow them, as fun as the blowjob was until the unexpected cum part. Seldom am I surprised by semen. He got hard again almost immediately, redeeming himself. He had an attractive and high-functioning penis.

His penis, however, was the only impressive thing about him. I fucked him and it was good, so good that he came again, which left me at his disposal. Hipster Dave seemed to think that the sex was over; I indicated otherwise by touching myself. He got the point. But when I asked him to help me out, I was accosted by his uncut nails. Hipster Dave seemed to think that since he plays the guitar it is acceptable for him not to cut his nails. Well let me tell you something, Hipster Dave: I have dated many a guy who plays the guitar and they cut their nails on one hand, so I don’t buy your fucking excuse. Get a fucking nail clipper and nail file, if you don’t want to be a useless hipster, or go home and enjoy the smooth palm of your supple hand.

Because Hipster Dave’s hands had rendered themselves unfit for my vagina (unfit for society, I mean, Jesus, he might as well wipe his ass with leaves), I resigned and asked him to use his mouth. He indicated agreement but didn’t follow through. I tried once more with his hand, and I yelped! He apologized. I told him to use his mouth. He kissed my body, inching closer and closer to my vagina, but never got quite there. Oh no, never have I ever confused my stomach or my inner thigh for my vagina. Even after getting off a stupid amount of times and drinking too much, I can always tell my vagina from any other body part. It’s this neat talent I have.

I pushed his head between my legs. I don’t mean to sound rapey about it, but if your hands are useless by your own fault your own fault and nothing but your fault, you are kind of obligated to lick my vagina. And besides, I sucked your dick. If you weren’t going to reciprocate, you shouldn’t have let me. You are at my apartment in my flowery bed and you will lick my vagina whether you like it or not. It’s like the “you break it, you buy it” rule, only “you stick it, you lick it.” He could have left if he thought I was being too rapey, and I was just holding his head down, not his body. I made it seem all romantical, pretending to play with is hair. A few gropes of encouragements. Firm grips. Your pick! Hipster Dave, I like you so much I will pet you like a pet and maybe even reward you with a treat if you are a good boy. Attaboy, Dave!

But he was so fucking useless because ultimately if you don’t want to do something sexually you are going to suck at it and only do it for a second then pretend like you forgot what you were doing in the first place.

I gave up. The most annoying thing about the situation being that I didn’t even really need to get off because I had gotten off so many fucking times that morning. Or not so many times, but twice in a row in such a way that I didn’t know if I would be good for another one.

Hipster Dave was a useless, useless hipster, but he was cooperative about watching me fuck my dildos, so I found him to be generally agreeable. Just kidding; I didn’t. I felt very antagonistic toward him. I blamed him for the fact that he had gotten me aroused and insisted upon being useless and I didn’t even need the sex in the first place because I was already done for the day and I only agreed to wrap him up in tissue paper and carry him home in my purse under the tacit assumption that he would do more than lie there and get his dick sucked.

I decided to degrade Dave as much as possible because what could be more insulting than letting a girl suck and fuck you knowing that you are going to give nothing in return Not that the sex wasn’t fun for me, but still. I got an impulse that I have never gotten before: the impulse to call him the wrong name on purpose. Dan was my name of choice. Pick your poison.

If you purposely pretend that you are going to lick my vagina, indicating false agreement with my request, and get closer and closer gradually, while doing everything you can to avoid following through, you are no longer a person and you become interchangeable with all other non-people, namely those named ‘Dan.’ That only applies if your name is Dave. If you are a non-person named ‘Brian,’ for example, perhaps the other non-people with whom you become most appropriately interchangeable are those named ‘Ryan.’ I refrained from going out of my way to call him by the wrong name, but nonetheless arranged him as I pleased and got off in front of him as if he weren’t even there except as a visual tool. At the last minute, I needed his general attention/responsiveness services, and I incorporated him, saying his real name. Emphatically. I never say people’s names during sex, nevertheless during dildofucking. Not a natural impulse. Nor is the one to intentionally mislabel people.

When I was done, I pet Dave and told him he was a pretty, pretty hipster. All demeaning-like. Delish. I told him I couldn’t believe he was from Iowa, I mean Idaho, because he has the perfect hipster body (seriously, I said this). As if he were born to be a deadbeat in Brooklyn with a body like that (I did not say this).

Hipster Dave got up to leave and realized he forgot his keys. This could be the beginning of a Jack-and-Jill-style nursery rhyme. To review: Hipster Dave had long nails, would not use his mouth, and could not remember to leave home with his keys. Well, great; even more useless than I initially thought: a fuck toy that needs to be taken care of. If you are going to go to a strange girl’s expensive apartment (on what you consider to be the Upper East Side) to get blown for free, you should really consider remembering your keys so when she inevitably gets annoyed and starts to feel a tad bit antagonistic, you can leave. But I told him it was no big deal and he could sleep in my flowery bed in my expensive apartment in Midtown East. Because I am a nice girl, really I am, sexual angst aside.

Maybe I would have felt differently about the situation had I not fucked dildos to orgasm number three of the day.

My overall assessment of the situation:

A) Hipster Dave was a lazy, lazy hipster. Unsurprising considering he didn’t have a real job. You ain’t no longer in Iowa, kid. People here snort cocaine and lick vagina.

B) As indexed by the highly reliable Likert scale I developed in order to rate sexual experiences in terms of their value as compared to that of masturbation, the experience was easily “better than masturbation,” making it worthwhile. Hey, I got standards. Hipster Dave was a pretty, pretty hipster and made for good masturbatory material despite his uselessness as a sexual agent. If only I hadn’t gotten off irresponsibly that morning. Even so, I was way more turned on than I would have been alone. When it’s all said and done (I mean, few words were said), I’d rather have masturbatory company than masturbate alone.

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