Sex was on the menu for a romance intolerant New Yorker, navigating awkward mating rituals on an empty stomach. There was more to life than two legs, flailing in the air, waiting for him to finally connect like he’s logging on AOL circa 1995.
It all started out as an innocent December night, where a nightmare weeks before Christmas, sent me to the North Pole and back. The first fallen snow had me running late with no money or food stamps until next week. I clicked on Jack’d to engage in a mild male flirtation.
He kissed my neck as I continued watching TV. After realizing that his kisses were only keeping him company, he pulled it out. To be frank his dick couldn’t fill the condom. It was like sucking on a zip-locked bag. If only I brought some ABC condoms, since dick hasn’t graduated adolescence. He was nervous. It was like jamming an air-bag in a key hole.
While seeking sexual gratification through a chemical scintillation, I realized I needed that Ciroc and a scented candle to take me to higher ground.