A Cournicopia Of Bad Sex Talkers
Until this week, the worst thing anyone had ever said to me during sex was You're better than my brother. Until this week.
On Monday night, I was feeling particularly not feeling. Checked some long neglected (but, apparently, not long enough neglected) dating sites, and saw that I had a bunch of mail filled with a bunch of males.
Forgetting the three that only figuratively blew me off, the first guy I agreed to meet had the same name as me (Safey, for those of you playing with yourselves along at home). I'd always wondered what it would be like to be able to call out your own name in bed, without looking egotistical, so I replied to his e-mail. His picture indicated he was blessed with clear skin. Lots and lots of clear skin. "I hate that picture. I've lost about thirty pounds since then." So I agreed to meet him, not realizing that, while he may have lost thirty pounds since the picture, he had gained all of it back. And those pounds had accumulated friends.
He was pretty adamant about getting fucked, and I was pretty drunk. I rolled my eyes at the fact that he was wearing a jock, bent him over the bed with absolutely no foreplay, strapped on a condom, and went to work.
It was okay. Nothing Earth shattering. Nothing terrible. Until he said "Breed me." And I said, "Huh?"
"Breed me."
Fags can't breed. Even if I hadn't been wearing a condom.
"Oh, yea. Breed me, daddy, breed me."
So, I faked an orgasm, pulled out, threw away the condom, and got dressed. He left. An hour later, he sent me an e-mail, talking about how my come kept oozing out of his ass. Again, I was wearing a condom. Again, I hadn't actually come, even in said condom.
The next night, I needed some balance to the universe.
I answered an e-mail from an absolutely adorable guy who, because I hadn't updated my profile in five years, thought I lived down the street from him. We go over the requisite info: I'm a top, he's a bottom. Both recently tested negative. Neither of us admitting to being crack addicts or serial cat rapists (shut up, it was one time, and that cat was not being clear what it wanted). As per usual, I offered to host. My apartment is nicer than those of the people I tend to meet. He wanted to meet at his place, except his roommate didn't allow him to have friends over that she didn't know. Why alarm bells failed to go off in my head at this point, I can't say.
"So you could come over," he said, "but we would have to fuck in the basement." Okay. "And then you'd have to take a cab home or something." Not okay.
So I told him I wasn't at all interested in going over to his apartment if it meant I was going to have to hide in the basement, and flee in the night like some sort of closet case ass burglar. Finally, he agreed that I could sleep over. "But I don't know about sleeping together. That may be weird." Again, no alarm bells. I was, not drunk this time, but overtired and seeking something to eclipse the memory of Mr. Breed Me Jockwearovich.
So I hopped on the last train to his house. Called him from the end of the street, to let him know I was almost there.
"Are you into anything kinky?" He asked.
"No." I refer to myself as French Vanilla. Sex talk is fine, spankage, light bondage, "Nothing involving a suit or a ball gag." I would later regret making that last statement. "And no bodily fluids except semen and saliva."
"No watersports?"
I sighed. "Not unless you're trying to tell me you've got a pool, a jacuzzi, or a heated lake in your basement, no. I don't want anything coming out of your penis that isn't thick and white."
"What if I just want you to pee in me?"
Now the alarm bells were in full cacophonous mode. Fuck. And it was entirely too late to get a train home.
When he answered the door, I realized, once again, this guy looked nothing like his picture. However, for once, he looked much better than his picture. He was wearing long pajama bottoms and a Good Bush/Bad Bush t-shirt, which concerned me, not because I disagreed with his politics, but because neither of the bushes depicted were the sort of bush I wanted either of us to have.
He got right to the kissing and, while not the best kisser in the world, was not bad, either. It wasn't long before his clothes were off, and he was bending over the basement stairs. I put on a condom, and got to work. His ass was magical in every way. Shaped properly, only slightly fuzzy, and tighter than a Republican wallet at at an NEA fundraiser. His moans were adorable. After about five minutes, he stood up, leaned into me, kissing me, while clenching and unclenching his ass like the gassiest sinner in Church. We adjusted positions pretty regularly for about forty-five minutes, and then he pulled away from me, and let out a series of small farts.
He blushed.
"It's okay." I said. "There's been a lot of in and out going on down there."
"And a lot of beer before that." He smiled.
He then proceeded to suck me off for a few minutes while jerking himself to orgasm. And then I came. And then, "Are you up for more?" He asked.
I'm always up for more.
So he laid with his back down on a futon mattress. I folded him a few different ways, listening to his amazing whimpers. Then he pulled my head to his, looked me straight in the eyes and said "You've been tested before, right?"
"Of course." I said. And I wasn't lying.
He got this weird look on his face, that I confused for a wince of pain from being fucked for so long. I resumed fucking. He resumed moaning, and then he said "I want your hot, poz, seed in me."
I flinched so hard, my cock popped out of him, and I think I may have sustained mild whiplash.
What is with gay men and their "I want to get barebacked into getting a horrible disease" fetish? I'm not HIV positive (abbrevriated poz, apparently). And, once again, I was wearing a condom. There would be no seed of any kind inside him. Certainly not hot, poz seed.
He leaned in to kiss me. "Come on, baby. I want your hot poz seed inside me. I don't want to know your name, I just want your--"
"STOP TALKING." And I put my hand over his mouth. "Seriously, not sexy."
He shrugged, leaned back, and pulled me back into him. And I fucked, and I fucked, and I tried to erase all memory of hot poz seed, and then I pulled out.
"I want your hot," I stared at him. He stopped. And then he started blowing me. When I was finished coming, he stood up, and it was pretty obvious he wanted to snowball. I did not. So I pushed him away. "So," he smiled, "are you going to pee in me?"
"No."
"Well, will you at least suck me off?"
Of course. But, I suspected, since his cock wasn't at optimum erection, that there may be a pee plot, in effect. "If I sense even a drop of urine, I'm going to rip off your testicles." "Unless you find that sexy."
And I returned to blowing him. And then he wanted me to start fucking him again. At this point, we've been going at it for over two hours. And, apart from his weird bug chasing and water sport sex talk, it had been pretty good. So I fucked him for a while, and then he said "Can I fuck you?"
It had been a long time since I'd let anyone fuck me, but this guy was obviously drunk, had come in the not so distant past, and I was going to double wrap his cock, and, being as how drunk he was, he probably wouldn't notice. He didn't notice. He also never got inside me. Though, after about ten minutes of grinding his cock between my right ass cheek, and the mattress, he let out another little fart and said "I just totally came in you."
I smirked.
"Did you like it?"
"Oh, yea." I said "It was hot."
And he giggled, "Positive?"
And that's when I bit him.
On Monday night, I was feeling particularly not feeling. Checked some long neglected (but, apparently, not long enough neglected) dating sites, and saw that I had a bunch of mail filled with a bunch of males.
Forgetting the three that only figuratively blew me off, the first guy I agreed to meet had the same name as me (Safey, for those of you playing with yourselves along at home). I'd always wondered what it would be like to be able to call out your own name in bed, without looking egotistical, so I replied to his e-mail. His picture indicated he was blessed with clear skin. Lots and lots of clear skin. "I hate that picture. I've lost about thirty pounds since then." So I agreed to meet him, not realizing that, while he may have lost thirty pounds since the picture, he had gained all of it back. And those pounds had accumulated friends.
He was pretty adamant about getting fucked, and I was pretty drunk. I rolled my eyes at the fact that he was wearing a jock, bent him over the bed with absolutely no foreplay, strapped on a condom, and went to work.
It was okay. Nothing Earth shattering. Nothing terrible. Until he said "Breed me." And I said, "Huh?"
"Breed me."
Fags can't breed. Even if I hadn't been wearing a condom.
"Oh, yea. Breed me, daddy, breed me."
So, I faked an orgasm, pulled out, threw away the condom, and got dressed. He left. An hour later, he sent me an e-mail, talking about how my come kept oozing out of his ass. Again, I was wearing a condom. Again, I hadn't actually come, even in said condom.
The next night, I needed some balance to the universe.
I answered an e-mail from an absolutely adorable guy who, because I hadn't updated my profile in five years, thought I lived down the street from him. We go over the requisite info: I'm a top, he's a bottom. Both recently tested negative. Neither of us admitting to being crack addicts or serial cat rapists (shut up, it was one time, and that cat was not being clear what it wanted). As per usual, I offered to host. My apartment is nicer than those of the people I tend to meet. He wanted to meet at his place, except his roommate didn't allow him to have friends over that she didn't know. Why alarm bells failed to go off in my head at this point, I can't say.
"So you could come over," he said, "but we would have to fuck in the basement." Okay. "And then you'd have to take a cab home or something." Not okay.
So I told him I wasn't at all interested in going over to his apartment if it meant I was going to have to hide in the basement, and flee in the night like some sort of closet case ass burglar. Finally, he agreed that I could sleep over. "But I don't know about sleeping together. That may be weird." Again, no alarm bells. I was, not drunk this time, but overtired and seeking something to eclipse the memory of Mr. Breed Me Jockwearovich.
So I hopped on the last train to his house. Called him from the end of the street, to let him know I was almost there.
"Are you into anything kinky?" He asked.
"No." I refer to myself as French Vanilla. Sex talk is fine, spankage, light bondage, "Nothing involving a suit or a ball gag." I would later regret making that last statement. "And no bodily fluids except semen and saliva."
"No watersports?"
I sighed. "Not unless you're trying to tell me you've got a pool, a jacuzzi, or a heated lake in your basement, no. I don't want anything coming out of your penis that isn't thick and white."
"What if I just want you to pee in me?"
Now the alarm bells were in full cacophonous mode. Fuck. And it was entirely too late to get a train home.
When he answered the door, I realized, once again, this guy looked nothing like his picture. However, for once, he looked much better than his picture. He was wearing long pajama bottoms and a Good Bush/Bad Bush t-shirt, which concerned me, not because I disagreed with his politics, but because neither of the bushes depicted were the sort of bush I wanted either of us to have.
He got right to the kissing and, while not the best kisser in the world, was not bad, either. It wasn't long before his clothes were off, and he was bending over the basement stairs. I put on a condom, and got to work. His ass was magical in every way. Shaped properly, only slightly fuzzy, and tighter than a Republican wallet at at an NEA fundraiser. His moans were adorable. After about five minutes, he stood up, leaned into me, kissing me, while clenching and unclenching his ass like the gassiest sinner in Church. We adjusted positions pretty regularly for about forty-five minutes, and then he pulled away from me, and let out a series of small farts.
He blushed.
"It's okay." I said. "There's been a lot of in and out going on down there."
"And a lot of beer before that." He smiled.
He then proceeded to suck me off for a few minutes while jerking himself to orgasm. And then I came. And then, "Are you up for more?" He asked.
I'm always up for more.
So he laid with his back down on a futon mattress. I folded him a few different ways, listening to his amazing whimpers. Then he pulled my head to his, looked me straight in the eyes and said "You've been tested before, right?"
"Of course." I said. And I wasn't lying.
He got this weird look on his face, that I confused for a wince of pain from being fucked for so long. I resumed fucking. He resumed moaning, and then he said "I want your hot, poz, seed in me."
I flinched so hard, my cock popped out of him, and I think I may have sustained mild whiplash.
What is with gay men and their "I want to get barebacked into getting a horrible disease" fetish? I'm not HIV positive (abbrevriated poz, apparently). And, once again, I was wearing a condom. There would be no seed of any kind inside him. Certainly not hot, poz seed.
He leaned in to kiss me. "Come on, baby. I want your hot poz seed inside me. I don't want to know your name, I just want your--"
"STOP TALKING." And I put my hand over his mouth. "Seriously, not sexy."
He shrugged, leaned back, and pulled me back into him. And I fucked, and I fucked, and I tried to erase all memory of hot poz seed, and then I pulled out.
"I want your hot," I stared at him. He stopped. And then he started blowing me. When I was finished coming, he stood up, and it was pretty obvious he wanted to snowball. I did not. So I pushed him away. "So," he smiled, "are you going to pee in me?"
"No."
"Well, will you at least suck me off?"
Of course. But, I suspected, since his cock wasn't at optimum erection, that there may be a pee plot, in effect. "If I sense even a drop of urine, I'm going to rip off your testicles." "Unless you find that sexy."
And I returned to blowing him. And then he wanted me to start fucking him again. At this point, we've been going at it for over two hours. And, apart from his weird bug chasing and water sport sex talk, it had been pretty good. So I fucked him for a while, and then he said "Can I fuck you?"
It had been a long time since I'd let anyone fuck me, but this guy was obviously drunk, had come in the not so distant past, and I was going to double wrap his cock, and, being as how drunk he was, he probably wouldn't notice. He didn't notice. He also never got inside me. Though, after about ten minutes of grinding his cock between my right ass cheek, and the mattress, he let out another little fart and said "I just totally came in you."
I smirked.
"Did you like it?"
"Oh, yea." I said "It was hot."
And he giggled, "Positive?"
And that's when I bit him.