Author’s Foreword:
This post was originally meant for thecopysmiter.com, as it’s rather a journal entry (i.e. meandering and pointless). See, I had thought that this was a tale of sexual triumph. And it is. But you’ll discover that my sexual triumph is defined by sexual failure. Thus, it is here, among the sordid tales of fwasted dot com.
I have a story to tell you. It’s about sex. It’s about me. Finally, it’s about hitting bottom.
I was feeling good. This girl was by far the best pull I had ever managed to get. We’re talking take Pop’s Beamer out for a spin. Sleek design, great handling, and all the squeals and noises sound like music to your ears. I am going to say this is the fifth time I would fuck her. I keep track of things like that in a notebook. You know, in case it doesn’t happen again. Like it hasn’t. In two months.
See? I’m smart.
This girl was younger than me by far. Well, hmm, fresh out of high school to my 25. She studied really hard in school, because she was obviously into film and tragedy. That is, she spoke like a porn star and seemed to be affected by my acute manhood. She likes tragedies. I’m glad to oblige. Call me a humanist.
She was over and we were drinking. The girl had a fake ID and she got in everywhere while I stood quiet and she introduced me to Miami. I got sick of this so I decided to keep the drinking at my house where I was much cooler because I had possessions and non-plastic cookware.
She would say things like “Fuck me harder, Faelan.” I would do these things and she would say, “I’m not going to break.” I thought girls broke. That’s why I try and nurture them with my penis. She touched and rubbed herself aggressively while we would go at it. I was pretty sure if she kept doing that my penis would become superfluous. She told me what to do a lot and I tried to obey, but mostly I just lost my concentration and fell out of her. My Tragedy wasn’t long enough I suppose.
Each occasion of our coupling found me slipping further away from whatever bullshit image of myself I had constructed in her head so she’d have sex with me. The tinsel is still on the tree, but you realize it’s fucking March and you should really get rid of the damned thing already.
I get tired pretty quickly. I smoke and I’m violently allergic to the word ‘cardiovascular.’ I once winded myself breathing. I didn’t even know that could happen. But if you’re like me and you want to try, take a deep breath and exhale slowly a few times. Your heart rate’ll go up.
Promise.
If we divide the total of sexual anticipation by the number of times we had had sex, and figure (likely) that each time some of that excitement ebbed away; by this time, I was down to, at best, 20% sexual arousal. That is, I’m saying, she wanted to fuck like 20%, and it happened because a) we were there and b) she probably didn’t have to be home yet.
I led her upstairs.
She had gone from feisty firebrand to running on not so much steam. I hate using trains or steam power as metaphors so we’ll just move on. She was just lying there, letting me do my thing, and I was drunk and panting. Instead of bowing out gracefully on a darkened stage, I had decided to leave the lights on in the room. I reckon I looked something like and angry mole trying to burrow into concrete. I was more or less using her body to rest my own, so I doubt she was touching herself this time.
I got really tired and was fat-breathing a little bit. I really wanted to come. Something told me this might be the last chance for a while.
I huffed out a frustrated pant and stopped, resting on her very nice breasts.
“Fuck,” I said. “I hate condoms.”
I looked at her and was about to start back up when she said, “You’re not wearing one.”
I waited a short time and groaned defeatedly: “Shit.”
I rolled off of her. Somewhere a steam whistle blew and she wiped the dust off and punched her timecard.
We never had sex again.
My notebook is filled with such glories.
The moral of this story is don’t drink Scotch and then bang 18 year olds. It rarely works in your favor; though it is legal. Bonus.
