My first collegiate Thirsty Thursday had me mid vertigo-inducing stupor when she whispered those magic words: “Let’s go to your place.” This was the first of unending Thursday night sequels, the initial debut of my laughably fake New Hampshire license somehow getting me past the doorman, and into a coed.
While I was extremely excited to become another guy she’d lie to her boyfriend about, my inexperience with alcohol had me in a state nearly necessitating hospitalization. We got back to my place and quickly got to the pleasantries, exchanging drunkenly mangled sex acts until she asked me to grab a rubber.
In the bathroom finagling the latex ridden torture device out of the packaging, I realized my conundrum: I can’t feel a fucking thing. In hindsight, it’s actually depressing to realize my 18-year-old self, before the four years of incessant binge drinking and reprehensible indulgence of assorted substances and vaginas, could fend off noodle inducing whiskey dick at this stage of inebriation. Oh, to be young again.
Anyway, I get back out there with the clear tube sock choking my penis and get to it the best, and only, way I know how: straight missionary. I’m pounding away with not so much as a tingle as her moans further convince me she’s a drama major. After what seemed like hours, but was probably a minute or so, she asks me to bend her over, which, honestly, I had absolutely no idea how to do.
I’m just sort of standing there numb as her hand has to literally guide me towards what I momentarily thought had to have been her asshole (remember those days?) as I experienced the wonder of faceless, ass smacking sex. After a couple minutes, I’m nearing a personal record of duration as the jackhammering starts to morph my happy drunkenness to spin inducing misery.
I’m pulling out all the stops to finish, asking her to talk dirty, spanking, pounding away like I was tenderizing the world’s toughest meat. Anything.
But I can’t.
I keep going and going as the sweat pours down my brow, dripping on her ass and back as I mentally beg my now waning erection to return. The sound of our sweat covered bodies smacking together filled the air like a snare drum as my first college bar pull descended towards TFM nightmare column status.
Finally, it hit me: Wait, I’m awful at sex and she claims to have “cum hard twice.” They ALWAYS say that, though I know I’d win the lottery before actually giving them one, let alone two. Why can’t I?
I sped up momentarily, paused, did my best porn style grunt, a momentary epileptic convulsion, and “ahh babe that was amazing.” I scampered to the bathroom, flushed the rubber, and returned to bed for my overdue whiskey coma, assuring her it was “unbelievably good.”
This was the first time I, a straight male, faked an orgasm. But it would not be the last. How many times have you been in the same situation, racing a ticking clock to finish before your stomach and or head explodes? Your increasing sobriety drops the “8 at least” from the bar to her rightful 4? You don’t have a condom and realize sticking your dick in random crazy, even pulling out, is a bet not worth taking? Fake it.
Because you can’t not finish openly without a disaster. Trust me. You’ll either scar her bottom dwelling sense of self to an extent she ends up a stripper named Monday, she’ll tell people you’re gay, or you’ll get some sort of insecurity based rumor asserting your sexual ineptitude to her entire house. Things can turn to shit faster than Benghazi.
While you will very rarely need/want to do this, if you ever plan on calling her again, a ten-minute orgasm-less pummeling can sink your chances of a sequel faster than the Entourage movie’s opening weekend.
Plus, why is it okay for only them to do it? Equality, right?.