Enormous cock, box of rocks

January 18, 2008 at 3:30 am 2 comments

There was a boy I dated briefly in the summer of 2007. He had a very nice body: tall, high cheekbones, washboard stomach, enormous cock. He also either had Aspbergers or was just your garden variety asshole. Whatever the reason, he had the emotional vocabulary of a box of rocks. Excerpts from my journal:

I fall in love with him in the lazy afterglow of lovemaking, after I’ve cried out and clenched and shuddered more than once, after he’s bellowed and fallen against me. Our bodies curl around each other and we fall in and out of sleep. I feel my heart unfurling like a fiddlehead. I know it’s not really love, it’s just that trick my body plays on me after orgasm. I can never tell him how I feel.

It’s not important that I do. To love is my sole purpose in this life. To cut the channels of love, to navigate the currents of love, to set the boundaries of love. All the different kinds of love there are:

The love of letting another driver in to traffic
The love of sending a postcard to a friend
The love of sucking a man’s cock and doing it well
The love of showing up to a meeting on time
The love of expressing displeasure at unacceptable behavior
The love of calling my friends regularly
The love of feeding people

The next time I saw him was the beginning of the end. I made the mistake of doing something other than having him over for dinner and sex.

We actually went on something like a real date. We saw Paprika at the Kendall–this bizarre anime about a technological breakdown that blurs the line between dreams and reality. Japanese attitudes toward female sexuality are always somewhat disturbing to me, but one scene in particular made me cringe: a man plunges his hand inside Paprika, this sort of spritely dream-visting character, the alter ego of a very buttoned-down scientist. His hand sinks into her at crotch level, then pulls his hand upward, splitting her in two to reveal the real-world scientist, but naked. My date watched it all with an impassive face.

When we got back to my place, we were both wiped–me from a busy day of social engagements, him from his retail job. We sat on the couch, his head cradled against my chest, and it was nice, very nice. Eventually off to bed in a very unromantic, unpassionate way. I stopped to take my medicine, take my contact lenses out, brush my teeth.

“I was beginning to think you forgot you had a boy in your bed,” he said when I finally came to bed, straddling him in his white undershirt, white briefs.

“Not just any boy,” I replied. “My favorite boy.”

He’ll be losing his Most Favored Nation status pretty soon, though. Yes, he has one of the longest, thickest cocks I’ve ever had the pleasure to take into my mouth and other orifices. But his lack of enthusiasm for cunnilingus is beginning to show.

Sigh. What a sad state of affairs that I can’t find a man who is both well hung and skilled and enthusiastic with the munching of the kitty. I know they exist — I dated one in college.

Poor me.

The coitus last night was surprisingly brief. This is a pattern I’m recognizing. First, the sex is enthusiastic, creative, varied, prolonged. Then, eventually, habituation sets in. One or the other of us gets tired, makes other things the priority. The sex becomes perfunctory, a chore. God, sex with Kristen felt like mowing the lawn by the end of things.

The morning’s performance left little room for complaint, though. I think that I will always love the groan he makes when he comes, a bearlike sounds deep in his throat. And the look on his face–his eyes open wide–the drowsing that follows, the falling asleep in each other’s arms.

His heart will remain ever closed to me, though. I know I will never really know who he is–never really know him, no matter how many times our bodies collide and clench and pleasure each other.

Even as my heart does its inevitable uncurling in the aftermath of orgasm. Silly, illogical, lovable heart. I will take you, heart, to a well with water in it. Don’t confuse pleasure, orgasm, bare skin on bare skin, with love, with intimacy. He has no love to give.

I was right. Things ended abruptly about a week later.

Entry filed under: being a bad bisexual, love, memoir, sluts have more fun. Tags: , , , , .

On race and sex and skin types I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 1 of 2)

2 Comments Add your own

  • […] He gave me a lovely spanking as well. I’m glad that he responds to feedback and direction. Not all of my lovers have had the emotional security to do so. […]

  • 2. Shy « Omnivore’s Dilemma  |  May 28, 2008 at 1:13 pm

    […] searching for the keywords “enormous cocks,” and “femdom whore.” Given that my opinion of men with enormous cocks as a class is pretty low, and that I’m adamantly NOT a prodom (apologies to my sisters who make a living at that […]

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