The very next day I got nailed with a nasty sinus infection. I cannot recall the last time I've felt this bad or been in this much physical pain. Being the tough guy (dumbass) that I am, I waited a week before going to the doctor and getting some much needed meds. Here's me after 9 days of being REALLY sick.
Do I look more like I'm in pain or mad? Frankly I'm feeling both. If this is karma for shaving the beard, I'm sorry! See, it's back! It doesn't take long! Sheesh.
I was 21 and had had my heart shattered by a singer/actress recently so I did what any self-respecting male pseudo-rockstar does to get over such shatterings: get laid often by multiple people to convince myself and all within earshot that I was not alone, if only to recertify to myself I was, in fact, the most alone person on the planet.
This lifestyle, while looking great on a notched bedpost, had caused its fair share of headaches. There was Abby. I met her at work. She was the customer. I was the handsome, rejected, jilted lover. And I was a musician! Poor Abby never had a chance. After two nights of so-so sex, I was happy to never see her again. And I never did though her mother found my number and called me at eleven one night to say Abby had run away to “live with some musician” that understood her better. Abby never showed up but her mom kept calling for a few weeks.
Then there was the time I slept with my coworker’s sister. To date, I remember neither of their names but the next morning was my first “walk of shame.” My head splitting from PBR’s and Amaretto sours, wondering what Work would say if they knew I’d slept with such an unattractive person. A few weeks later the owner, after hearing jokes and rumors, came to me and asked if it was true. I admitted it. He said he didn’t care. Just wanted to make sure I didn’t go down her (I did). He said it would’ve been nasty (it was).
Which takes us to (arguably) the weirdest encounter of those dark days. Sheila was the friend of my band mate’s girlfriend. Through talking with my band mate and his girlfriend, I came to discover that Sheila can’t. Can’t come, that is. They tell me she’s tried everything; sex with men, sex with women, vibrators, etc. “No worries,” I exclaim! “I’ll make her come!” I’d yet to bed a woman that I couldn’t bring to climax. So it was with zero trepidation or anxiety that I appeared at her parent-less abode a week later with a big bag of assorted liquor products. We swapped a guitar and a bottle back and forth. One of us playing/singing about an ex while the other accompanied on the bottle. After an hour of singing/boozing, we retired to the bedroom for some post-singing/boozing frolicking.
And. I. Couldn’t. Make. Her. Come. I tried every trick I knew. Fingers? Fugetaboudit! Oral? Only in your dreams! Undeterred, we switched to sex. Thirty minutes in and there were no orgasms to be had anywhere. We tried all manner of positions. Missionary? Mission unaccomplished. Doggy style? That dog didn’t hunt. Reverse cowgirl? Apparently even cowgirls get the blues. After a few feeble attempts at other positions, we started what wound up being the final position of the night; plain ole’ cowgirl.
The paradigm shift was cataclysmic. She started moaning and going faster and faster. After a few minutes I found myself clamping onto her hips to keep her from flying off. Her moans, sexy and womanly, changed to growls. The growls changed to snarls. She was baring her teeth like an animal and had a predatory glare in her eyes. She was obviously, although oddly, enjoying herself and although I badly wanted to give her her first orgasm, I found myself struggling to stay erect. The straw-breaking moment, or erection-ending if you prefer, came when she raked her fingernails down my chest and roared. Now don’t get me wrong. I like a little pain. I’m down with fingernails and biting and what not. But this was a nails-dug-in gashing that went from neck to navel. Followed by roar that would make a lion’s nuts shrivel and ascend back into his body. It sounded like one of those dog-things from Ghostbusters. Before I could protest, she did it again. Another disemboweling chest-rake and another erection-busting roar later and I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped her and stammered through some excuse about the timing not being right filled with a dash of not being over my ex and topped with a dollop of just wanting to be friends. I pulled on my clothes and got out of there like my pants were on fire and my ass was catching. A few months later, she left for school and I haven’t seen her since. I do hope she’s since cashed in her “O” card. An orgasm is a wonderful thing to give and receive and no one should be without regular ones. I hope she’s having hers and I hope her lover is wearing a bullet-proof vest.
(all names changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike)
