Post by Someguy on May 22, 2008 18:53:26 GMT
Enjoy, and evaluate.
Thoughts of a Burnt-out Stud
My name is none of your damn business and what I do for a living is so dull I’ll spare you the details.
Who is she? Just some generic girl I found in the bars. A rave bar, I think. We talked, parted, met again, danced, talked, danced, kissed, and were now at her place making wild, passionate love.
Yeah, right.
It had played out in a way I had long grown familiar with. Question of coffee, lingering look, making of coffee, not drinking the coffee, settee kiss, kicking over the coffee, carrying into the bedroom (my back was killing me by the time I found it) and then a brief period of foreplay leading into our old friend the Missionary.
God, I’m bored. And according to my practised ear, she’s thinking the exact same thing.
You see I learned early on that few men, my average self included, could properly and wholly satisfy a woman. Not just off the bat, that is. To my not-so-limited experience, one-night stands tended to be performed in drunken confusion, with little of the ceremony or build-up of a proper, full-blown relationship (of which, dear reader, experience was limited). You got more tries at it too, in a relationship. You got time to…learn each other, you could say. Develop together. One-offs like this were like trying to wing a concerto; and the sheet music was different every time.
There’s a brief, shrill squeal from under me. I wince because it’s fake and bad on the ear. As you can see (and hear), she’s a hyperactive faker. I’d landed honest girls before though, back when I was younger. Couldn’t spot ‘em back then you see. Such girls would make no effort to fake an orgasm; instead they’d just lie back with a strained look as a drunken man panted in their ear. The lukewarm reviews afterward were bad on the confidence, especially the first couple of times, but after years of this fake-assed crap I’d welcome it now. It’d break up the tedium, at least.
I wince again because she’s just went completely overboard and bitten my damn neck and left a damned red mark there, the kind randy schoolboys want so’s they can brag and show them off. It brings tears to my eyes but I smile anyway and keep going. My attention drifts again. When did this whole business become flat and stale, I wonder? When I hit my mid-twenties? Thirties? I still remember the time when I first started to strike out, every touch and sensuous look used to make me tingle all over…
“Oh, Alan!” (Who?) “Don’t…stop!”
…but now I just feel sweaty, tired, and hollow (case of mistaken identity notwithstanding). I want it to end but I think this girl knows friends of mine so I will myself to keep stiff and at the very least cross the line. It’s funny, how things turn out.
I eventually do finish the job (seven minutes), and when the act is done I roll off of her and begin extracting the soiled condom from my now wilting manhood. These things used to terrify me, but now they’re just all part of the routine. I toss it carelessly into a corner of the room and rest back, willing her to say her piece so that I can get some sleep. I could care less that she’s lying.
“That was wonderful,” she gasps unconvincingly. I only glance at her sidelong but I still pick up on the traces of disappointment playing in her eyes so I sigh and roll over, closing my own eyes in the hope of getting that sleep I want. Mercifully, she seems to get the hint and does likewise so we end the night with our backs to each other and the discomfort of an uneven, tousled bed to sleep in. I pick up a stray, lifeless pillow from the floor of my side and tuck it under my head. Cooling sweat is pressed against my skin by the prickly cotton. I close my eyes and, pretty soon, I begin to snore.
I wake up early, and feel drained from the lack of sleep. She’s still lying next to me but I can tell from her breathing that she is awake. She is probably waiting for me to leave. I oblige and play out my part in disappearing as quickly and as silently as possible. We’d had our fill and now it was time to part ways. Just part ways like nothing had ever happened. It was just sex, after all. It wasn’t as if love had ever been part of the equation. It was all just a bit of fun.
I pull on the last of my clothes, reign in a sigh, and leave the room. I’d had my fill of ‘fun’.
Thoughts of a Burnt-out Stud
My name is none of your damn business and what I do for a living is so dull I’ll spare you the details.
Who is she? Just some generic girl I found in the bars. A rave bar, I think. We talked, parted, met again, danced, talked, danced, kissed, and were now at her place making wild, passionate love.
Yeah, right.
It had played out in a way I had long grown familiar with. Question of coffee, lingering look, making of coffee, not drinking the coffee, settee kiss, kicking over the coffee, carrying into the bedroom (my back was killing me by the time I found it) and then a brief period of foreplay leading into our old friend the Missionary.
God, I’m bored. And according to my practised ear, she’s thinking the exact same thing.
You see I learned early on that few men, my average self included, could properly and wholly satisfy a woman. Not just off the bat, that is. To my not-so-limited experience, one-night stands tended to be performed in drunken confusion, with little of the ceremony or build-up of a proper, full-blown relationship (of which, dear reader, experience was limited). You got more tries at it too, in a relationship. You got time to…learn each other, you could say. Develop together. One-offs like this were like trying to wing a concerto; and the sheet music was different every time.
There’s a brief, shrill squeal from under me. I wince because it’s fake and bad on the ear. As you can see (and hear), she’s a hyperactive faker. I’d landed honest girls before though, back when I was younger. Couldn’t spot ‘em back then you see. Such girls would make no effort to fake an orgasm; instead they’d just lie back with a strained look as a drunken man panted in their ear. The lukewarm reviews afterward were bad on the confidence, especially the first couple of times, but after years of this fake-assed crap I’d welcome it now. It’d break up the tedium, at least.
I wince again because she’s just went completely overboard and bitten my damn neck and left a damned red mark there, the kind randy schoolboys want so’s they can brag and show them off. It brings tears to my eyes but I smile anyway and keep going. My attention drifts again. When did this whole business become flat and stale, I wonder? When I hit my mid-twenties? Thirties? I still remember the time when I first started to strike out, every touch and sensuous look used to make me tingle all over…
“Oh, Alan!” (Who?) “Don’t…stop!”
…but now I just feel sweaty, tired, and hollow (case of mistaken identity notwithstanding). I want it to end but I think this girl knows friends of mine so I will myself to keep stiff and at the very least cross the line. It’s funny, how things turn out.
I eventually do finish the job (seven minutes), and when the act is done I roll off of her and begin extracting the soiled condom from my now wilting manhood. These things used to terrify me, but now they’re just all part of the routine. I toss it carelessly into a corner of the room and rest back, willing her to say her piece so that I can get some sleep. I could care less that she’s lying.
“That was wonderful,” she gasps unconvincingly. I only glance at her sidelong but I still pick up on the traces of disappointment playing in her eyes so I sigh and roll over, closing my own eyes in the hope of getting that sleep I want. Mercifully, she seems to get the hint and does likewise so we end the night with our backs to each other and the discomfort of an uneven, tousled bed to sleep in. I pick up a stray, lifeless pillow from the floor of my side and tuck it under my head. Cooling sweat is pressed against my skin by the prickly cotton. I close my eyes and, pretty soon, I begin to snore.
I wake up early, and feel drained from the lack of sleep. She’s still lying next to me but I can tell from her breathing that she is awake. She is probably waiting for me to leave. I oblige and play out my part in disappearing as quickly and as silently as possible. We’d had our fill and now it was time to part ways. Just part ways like nothing had ever happened. It was just sex, after all. It wasn’t as if love had ever been part of the equation. It was all just a bit of fun.
I pull on the last of my clothes, reign in a sigh, and leave the room. I’d had my fill of ‘fun’.