Fellatio and Food Stamps on an Empty Stomach

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. 

Last time I checked, dial-up never got me up. I have fallen into a pattern of meeting guys on apps, after perusing photos of great promise. I ended up at their place waiting for it and then it hits you—utter confusion. Not exactly the picture perfect moment I anticipated. They say the camera adds 10 pounds, but what about 10 inches? Was it my fault that he couldn’t measure up and offer the toe-curling experience advertised? 
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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.

Pictures and contacts were exchanged. I dashed down the slushy street, following Siri’s voice to Trey’s apartment. I arrived at a candle-lit room with a setup of a Four Loko,  coconut Ciroc, and some weed on his dresser. I took a seat and made myself a drink while he rolled up the blunt. 
I took another sip and watched the music videos, playing in a loop on the flatscreen. He laid out fresh towels on the bed. 
“You can have a seat,” he said. “I don’t let people get in my bed with their clothes on.”
I plopped my bare ass on the bed and waited. I wasn’t going to make the first move. 
Sex with a stranger was awkward. Bent over and crammed in a tight corner, while your head was rammed against the wall, could knock you unconscious. Being in sync without the chemistry was like being N’Sync in 2013, when they reconnected at the MTV awards, looking sluggish and out of shape.
                                                                                                                                                  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. 
It was over before he started. He could never get his pin-thin, pre-pubescent penis to work. So, I decided to grab my things and leave. I considered him to be the type of guy, who would cum before I completed my cosmopolitan.
“I’m sorry, this never happens to me,” he said. “I don’t know why.”
“It’s okay, but I have to go,” I said.

While seeking sexual gratification through a chemical scintillation, I realized I needed that Ciroc and a scented candle to take me to higher ground.

Walter Reed is a writer, blogger, sexpert, sex columnist and gay dating advice guru. His work has been published in Washington Post, Huffington Post and here at LoveWalter.com Please like, comment and share.

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