Everything But

Everything But (February 22nd, 2014)

Last night I confirmed my twenties were a decade well-spent.

Kicked off the evening at a monthly women’s support group for people with digestive diseases. Was congratulated for my 1-year fake-butt-iversary! I’ve been feeling waaay better recently, physically and psychologically. No more languishing in weakness. Have finally ventured to the gym and feel astoundingly capable. To the point where I’m not longer concerned about informing internet dates about my medical troubles before we meet in person. Could totally take face-to-face rejection. Much of my physical fear has subsided. No longer feel helpless, vulnerable, and ineffectual. Might even be confident enough to pick up a dude in a bar without warming him about my physical fragility. Perhaps I would mention on the way back to my place that nothing goes near my butt. Sensible rule, real rectum or none. Carefully screening men far in advance seems tedious at this point.

My main event of the evening was something organized by elephant dick man, though I attended expecting to meet others—I swear! Stood near hot guy after hot guy, hoping to spark good enough convo. Finally, one named Jarrod seemed to bite. Until his tubby buddy started hitting on me and I thought, ‘Huhh? What is this bait-and-switch?’ Jarrod and I had discussed differential “sexual arrangements” in NYC and his hometown, Louisville. He explained his complicated, yet casual, arrangment: he was sorta dating a friend but they had agreed that it wouldn’t get any more serious than it was. I thought, ‘Whatev—I know all about fucking friendz. That’s, like, tame.’

As the night began winding down, elephant dick approached me and I inquired about his after-hours plans. His reply: “Going back to your place.” I think that’s what you call a sure thing! But I hemmed and hawed: “Hmm, I don’t know about that. How do you feel about other people being involved? I mean, maybe, depending on what happens here.” And he understood my MO plainly: “Oh, you’re working on someone. Let me know when you’re ready to go home.” That’s how I knew I did my twenties right. The first time I hooked up with Allister, I was trying to arrange sex with another man and he was like, “Well, if your plans fall through, my dick is available.” And it has been for the past 9 years! How gracious of him. It’s so easy for guys to get laid if they don’t take things personally. Anyway, Jarrod finally got to the point, demoting himself from prospect to wingman: “Do you like my friend Todd?” My response: “Not as much as I like you.” He admitted, “Aw, I think you’re cute, but I’m ‘with’ my friend. She isn’t here, but I wouldn’t do that to her. She’s my friend.” So that was that. Elephant dick it was.

I’m not sure if we had this critical conversation before I accepted him as my back-up plan or as we were getting ready to head out, but this part is critical. It’s my ‘READ MY LIPS: NO NEW TAXES’ empty campaign promise. These famous last words will go down in history! I asked Clyde, a.k.a. elephant dick, “Wanna come over and play but NOT have sex?” He inquired, “What are we going to do?” Mark my words: “EVERYTHING BUT.” BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

His car was waiting for us right in front of the bar; he owns, not one, but three vehicles. In the city. As he was driving, he jerked off a little. Like, reached into his pants. Jostled his junk around. I put my legs up on his dashboard and he groped me through my winter tights. I had an ‘oh my god, am I a real person?’ moment because it was so irresponsible of me, and the scene was one out of a bad porno, and couldn’t he wait like ten minutes until we got home to pull his junk out? Also, before he got his car I asked if he was good to drive, and he told me he had zero drinks in him. Wowee! Does. Not. Waste. Any. Time. I admire a man who can multi-task.

Here is where I fucked up. As we were groping ourselves/each other, he asked, “Wanna try to have sex?” And I replied, “MMMMHMMM.” My affirmation was unmistakable. But it was so unfair: he fought dirty! Like when I used to approach my mom while she was half asleep to get her to agree to things I knew she would never approve of. Any time a dude I’ve fucked before pulls out his monster cock, I am as good as half asleep. And it isn’t like he asked me explicitly if I would do it; he asked me if I would ‘try.’ There are a lot of things I would try! JUST THE TIP!

We entered my apartment, my cat greeted him with her obligatory hiss, and I informed him, “I’ll be with you in a minute. I just need to give my cat her midnight snack.” As I scooped food in the kitchen, he yelled to me, “Taking my clothes off!” Then I went to the bathroom to poop in preparation, and I dropped buttcream in my toilet because I was wastered! Upon retrieving the buttcream (don’t worry, no poop on it), I had this existential crisis where I was like, ‘Erm, I mean, it’s supposed to go on my butt anyway, so does it matter if it has more butt on it?’ But I threw it in a corner of my bathroom under a pile of cleanish clothes, until I was sober enough to make a sound decision or had the opportunity to consult a real adult. By the time I got into my bedroom (it only takes me 30 seconds to poop), he was lying there ready for me. Too bad I don’t have one of those rotating circle beds with a thousand shaggy pillows and he doesn’t have a hairy chest. Would have really set the scene. I had forgotten about his ‘clothes coming off in piles’ bit. The thing is, I like a little romance: unzipped zippers. It wasn’t even like ‘I’m gonna rip your clothes off in a feasting frenzy! No time for silverware!’ It was more like ‘I’m lazy and have 500 other places to be tonight. Let’s get right to business. We both know why we’re here, anyway.’ Ugh, but look, he fluffed himself for me and was extra super ready-to-go. Sooo thoughtful in light of my recent experiences—or let’s call them “experiences-to-be.” I’m a sucker for a good, ol’ fashioned hard penis.

It wasn’t like he didn’t foreplay. Things were just sooo rushed. Was hard to relax. I already have a problem with impatience when people are eating me out. Thankfully, he was very good with his mouth. I hadn’t remembered that. Guess it wasn’t part of the draw and definitely not what made a lasting impression! I reached for a condom and hesitated, “Shit, do you have giant-sized condoms?” I knew I had magnums someplace in my bathroom—probs under my sink—but didn’t want to fish for them, turning my bathroom upside down, tainted buttcream and all. He assured, “No, it’s okay.” And it was. You know those demonstrations they give in high school and college sex ed where someone pulls a condom over his/her entire forearm to prove that guys who claim condoms don’t fit are full of shit? Well, I guess those demos are for realz, though magnums are comfier for a guy in the 6 1/2+ range. The fucking commenced and Clyde kept checking in with me. I told you he’s a good guy. Legit doesn’t want to hurt me even if I”ll take it. Every time he asked, “Too much?” I encouraged, “No, that feels awesome!” Or “Keep fucking me.” Or even “Fuck me harder.” Whoopsy daisy?

Paul, if you are reading this, I hate to admit this: YOU ARE BRILL! So true that I have more room inside me now that I have fewer organs. It felt spacious and luxurious like a loft apartment. Kidding. I mostly thought, ‘I am going to regret this tomorrow and 2.5 days later, as I DEEPLY REGRETTED (pun intended) each and every other time.’ Internal assault is an elusive and insidious consensual crime. Here is where it gets fucked up. Sit yourself down, mom. Did I mention your hair looks fantastic today!? After all I’ve been through medically, I should probably be terrified of life. Specifically, anything that could result in future physical torture or disfigurement. I get that sexual disease is, like, a thing. Let’s call it social disease for funsies. The thing is, I’ve been so fucking careful my whole life and what has it gotten me? The feeling of social superiority? Ethical purity? Self-respect? Physical torture has prevailed nonetheless because genetics and environment and whatever. I was in a very dark place where I was scared that I was never going to be able to experience physical pleasure again—even assuming partners weren’t grossed out by my sick, sad body that was literally attacking itself. Now I want ALL THE PLEASURE! Because, guys, I could die or be permanently disabled. I could be hit by a car and bleed internally—to death! And I wouldn’t have gotten fucked without protection for five years! Five fucking years of not having real sex. Five years of isolation without my body touching another person’s directly. So I thought, fuck it, I’ve been overly cautious; I’ve EARNED this. Fortunately, at this point unsafe sex isn’t as irresponsible as it would have been years ago when everybody was unsafer. I’m being risky among almost-adults. Not that Clyde is the paragon of virtue or a typical almost-adult. I just wanted to be fucked raw. Plus, let’s face it: I was on cancer drugs. Everything is relative. Clyde’s cock : cancer drugs :: marijuana : methamphetamine. Most of the time unprotected sex isn’t worth it because the sex isn’t that good. Sometimes I’m like, I bet I could orgasm if only we got rid of the plastic. This was one of those times.

Getting close, I threw him on his back, straddled his midsection, and asked if I could cum all over him. He instructed me, “Cum all over my dick.” Hot but didn’t quite get me there. Told him to fuck me more. For whatever reason, I got the impulse, “Without a condom?” He exclaimed, “I DON’T CARE!” So he slipped it back in and fucked my brains out and I think I orgasmed but I’m not really sure. Then he proclaimed, “I’m not going to come inside you,” and he pulled out and came all over me. Hot, of course, even though I was so done and there wasn’t even enough time for me to visually compile what was happening. In the past, it took him forever to orgasm; it was somewhat laborious. Problem solved. I was tickled that he was responsible enough to pull out. I hadn’t even asked him to. And I’m on birth control, which he prob noticed as it is wedged in the cup on my bathroom sink. We are for-real adults, though—yess!!! No babies for us. Only loads of cum and exhaustion. Ooooh, and lube.

There is this magical thing called lube. Let me introduce it to you. It’s something I’m virtually unaware of because generally I have an over wetness problem. I mean, gift. Though I knew it wouldn’t magically expand my pelvic/abdominal cavity or move my organs out of the way, I figured decreasing the friction might be beneficial. Mostly I am satisfied with my anatomy. Except I’ve always had this one, pesky problem. I feel like my hole is too small and I always end up sore right around the entryway. Certain materials make it worse; condom drag definitely doesn’t help. I totally sympathize with female porn stars for not wanting to use protection. There is nothing pleasant about having latex repeatedly rub over sensitive skin. When I reached under my bed, Clyde immediately inquired, “lube?” Of course, it was hard for me to locate a bottle; sex things end up tucked in every nook and cranny of my apartment. Think of me as a squirrel hoarding food for a long winter. Crusty underwear in my couch, lube in my shower. Found one of those sample packets of silicone lube (that should never, ever be used with silicone dildos because like dissolves like!) and squeezed it all over us. Happy Christmas! Days later, my bedroom is probably still slicked in it. If it weren’t for my rug, I’d be afraid of recreating one of those cartoony, slip ‘n slide, banana peel scenes. As a wise woman once told me, “Spit dries; lube is forever!”

After he finished, Clyde flopped over on his back like a helpless turtle and announced, “I’M DEAD! I need water.”

Clyde: It wasn’t half bad was it?

Me: No, it was quite good.

Clyde: See, you can handle it.

Me: I can.

Clyde: Well, you should call me more often.

Our pillow talk was about porn, specifically making it. He told me about his brief career as a porn star, how fun it was to get paid for sex, and that he “always had a big dick.” I shared that I had recently recorded myself masturbating, and he said it was fine as long as I never showed my face. Agreed. Of course watching someone’s orgasm face is the hottest part. He asked me about my scars and medical problems. I told him I was terrified that I was never gonna get fucked again; I might be too gross and broken. He exclaimed, “NEVER GONNA GET FUCKED AGAIN?” as if I were being ridiculous because I’m obviously ridiculously hot. I clarified that I legit felt and looked like shit when I was going through chemo and on steroids. Like, I knew people could have gotten over the bag if it were a permanent thing, but it was hard to conceive that one day I’d be a regular, functional, spirited person again. To demonstrate how sex would have been if I had a permanent ileostomy, I took out a tube top that I used to wear around my midsection to cover the bag. Think fanny pack meets Spanx. He shrugged. Yeah, so I guess a hot girl who shits out of her abdomen can still get fucked. Heartwarming,

Clyde decided to grab noms with his friend whose birthday it was and assessed, “I need to wash my semen off me.” You mean my bodily fluids? If only there were a succinct and distinct term for girl cum. From my bathroom he yelled, “Can I use these towels?” Assuming he planned to give himself a spongebath with my handtowels, I agreed.

Clyde (exiting my bathroom): I like that there’s just a giant dildo in here.

Me: Oh, yeah. That’s my husband: Tom.

Clyde: Does he make an appearance in your video?

Me: Which one?

He emerged dripping in water and complained that my towels were for tinies like me. Huh, I didn’t realize you were showering! You could have asked for an adult-sized towel! I offered to blow dry him, but he put his clothes over his soaking body, claiming his t-shirt would absorb the moisture. It is like 20 degrees outside! Who are you? Apparently an upstanding citizen who takes care not to bathe fine dining establishments in bodily fluids!

Clyde: I’m gone through mid-March.

Me: Oh, well, it’s almost March. I’ll tell you how I feel 2.5 days from now.

At 1:15 am he was off… 2 hours later he checked in at Wo Hop on Foursquare. The whole evening was so efficient. Good thing he jerked off a little on the way to my place! He is a man about town with places to be.

2.5 days later I was hole sore, but no internal injuries! Hooray for lube! I was the kinda sore I could have gotten myself or could have gotten from fucking a human-sized cock. Here is the best part: I was so SATISFIED. As in, I didn’t need to get off for a few days. Even though I could have after responsibly waiting one day for the soreness to subside. There was an immediacy to our encounter: though I wouldn’t get off to it, in the moment I was enraptured. Sure I like masturbatory material, but I’ll take instant gratification! After a string of laughably incompetent encounters, HE GOT THE JOB DONE! I was fucked out.

This entry was posted in everything but (february 2014) and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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