Meanwhile, During A Blowjob

“There’s no way I'm getting fully hard. It’s too cold in here. Why the fuck did I leave the fan on? I should’ve kept my socks on at least. That’d be weird, though. Not really for him, but for me. A body clothed in only socks looks incomplete. I think straight guys like that look on girls, right? A chick wearing nothing but knee-high socks? I bet straight guys are all over that shit. Okay, push the image of sockwhore out of my head. No room for that at the moment. Focus on getting hard, Ryan.

I have to, right? I can’t just not get hard. This guy has the courage to put his mouth on my junk, the least I can do is meat him halfway. Meat him halfway. I should write that down before I forget. I’ll use that in a blog entry about this. But maybe it’s not courage that allows him to imbibe m’dong. What does, then? Want drives anyone to folate? I know why I do it: straight-up gratification. Sucking dick is intimate – more intimate than sex can be. You could face a wall or a TV during sex, but you can’t really look at anything beyond stubble with a mouthful of ding-a-ling. Giving head is like kissing; it can be clumsy and sloppy, but it happens on your face. Not down there. A level of personal investment is required. McBougie made fun of me when I explained my stance on the intimacy of smoking poll. Fuck him, though, right? He’s not getting head from a 20-year-old, closeted, dairy department manag—FUCK, TEETH! C’MON, GUY!

Was he just gnawing on it?! So far, he doesn’t seem to know his way around a wiener. But at least I’m hard - well, not super hard - it’s slightly bigger - nothing embarrassing. Oh God, he’s looking right in my eyes. Smile? No, close my eyes and roll my head back. I won’t moan, though. I don’t want to inflate his ego.

Why am I feeling so much pressure to react? Maybe because I’d want the same from him. Although my brand of 'semi-engaged, aloof sex partner' is making him try harder, I should throw him a bone every now and then so that he doesn’t feel like a failure. Throw him a bone. I really should be writing this down. I’m on a roll today.

Eventually, I’m going to have to cum. This could go on for hours. I wish he’d use his hand more, but I don’t think we’re at a place in our relationship where I can art direct his blowjobs. I mean, we’ve been texting for a few days now and I haven’t even saved his number. He seems like a nice guy, but nice is the bare minimum of what a guy should be. Calling a guy 'nice' is the same as calling a sandwich 'edible.' He’s in school, right? For computer animation, or health information systems, or something. I’m sure I’ll see him around. I won’t make this weird. I’m hungry. I want a sandwich.

Okay. Focus, Ryan. Eye on the prize. Let’s make this happen. Zac Efron. Mike from the wrestling team. Chris Hemsworth with short hair. Channing Tatum dancing. Brodie. Prince Harry. Brodie again. Reed from Facebook. Brady Jensen. Evan Peters. Derek Miller. The music of Phantogram. Matt Damon’s thighs in Invictuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuus."

Thanks guys. You did it again.

The Ex In Xmas

Dear MB,

As you may or may not have noticed, we only had sex one time in 2012. And that is a Christmas Fucking Miracle (CFM).

Bruh. We almost went an entire calendar year without doing it. Fucking A, right?! If you think I’m patronizing you, I’m not. I just never thought this would happen. I legitimately believed we were doomed to a perpetual cycle of hating and screwing one another until we died mid-fornication at the hands of a scorned boyfriend who one of us was cheating on. It was not the life I wanted, but it was the life I was prepared for. Now look at us! We haven’t seen each other’s ding-a-lings since February. I might even call my mama and tell her the good news.

Given our – let’s save some adjectives and just say rocky – relationship, I can’t believe we still live in the same city, let alone treat each other with conviviality when we bump into one another somewhere humiliating like Mel’s Diner or the tire department at Walmart. Maybe we’re growing up, and maybe we’re at a point where we can laugh about our shared past. Go on, laugh with me, bitchtits.

Yeah, we slipped. But Jesus Jet Skiing Christ, it was one time – the same number of times Amber D'Alessio made out with a hot dog! And if I’m being completely honest, I’m not 100 percent certain we even had sex-sex. I was blackout shattered. I vaguely remember shouting at you when you tried to introduce a cock ring into the mix, but I don’t remember explicit D in A. And if that’s true, then we definitely deserve a trophy or at least a gift card to Subway.

I’m proud of us, regardless. And like the enamel on my teeth, the pressure to practice self-control around you is gone. We don’t have to get into any “language of letting go” hoopla, but let’s instead just celebrate this little victory. Let’s drink to restraint, and progress, and maturity. We’re doing okay, kiddo, and although we still have couple weeks left in 2012, I think it's safe to label this The Year Of Barely Any Penetration.

And if I don’t see you again in 2013, I guess I’ll see you in hell.

Merry Christmas,
RR

A Surplus Of Cobalt Sweaters

I suffer from buyer's remorse.

I'll pull the cobalt Banana Republic sweater out of its bag, spread it across my bed, take a step back, and press my fingers against my lips. "It's too small. I need to try it on," I say to myself. So I slip it over my head and spin to face the mirror. "Fuck! It actually looks okay. Especially if I roll my shoulders back and look really bored. Arch one eyebrow and scowl. Right there." I'm almost at peace with my decision until the next thought trickles down my skull like a cracked egg: "You just paid $75 dollars for this." That's when I start to panic. "You don't have $75, remember? You still owe Joey for October utilities and Rhett's parking ticket you promised to pay because you made him park at a meter on Frenchman Street on a Saturday. Do you have any idea what you could have bought yourself with $75? Plus, it's not even that cute. You have too much blue in your closet and it will never get cold enough in South Louisiana to wear this. See if there's some daily app you can use to work on your self control. WHY ARE YOU STILL WEARING IT?! TAKE IT OFF!"

It's like this with everything. From groceries to gas, I reevaluate my decision until I'm convinced I made the wrong one. And it's all because I habitually act on impulse. I impulse buy, I impulse eat, and I impulse fuck. It's that last one that gets me into the most trouble. Mostly because there's no return policy for the people you sleep with. Instead, I'll look at my own list and take inventory of the cobalt sweaters that should've been overlooked when I was browsing:

The guy from my high school wrestling team.

Two of the three Ryans.

The Australian.

The guy on the Zuiderdam. Not the dancer. The one who worked in customer service.

The LSU theatre major.

The waiter at that hibachi place.
The Brit.
The guy who I didn't know had aspergers, but when I met him in person I realized that he did have aspergers, but I still did it anyway.

The guy who was released from prison (Not jail. Prison.) the day before it happened.

The guy with the lip ring who I met at the Rabbit Hole.
The hairdresser from Baton Rouge.

The guy from Michigan who was wearing sweatpants in June.

The white rapper.
Ron. Not Ronnie.

The guy who has Hollister bags stapled to the walls of his bedroom. 

Vinny from Italy.
The strip club bouncer who worked at Barely Legal somewhere in North Louisiana.

The guy who slept with his pants on and keys in his pocket.

The guy who brought me home to meet his parents in New Roads.

My friend's ex-fiance.

The ballet dancer.
The guy who I used to work with at that Italian restaurant.

The guy whose parents were Christian Fundamentalists.
The guy with the insulin pump in his stomach.

One of my best friends.
The guy who stopped by on his way home from Austin City Limits.
Andrew. Not Andy.
The guy that I met at my Festival International After Party when I was on house arrest.
Every guy from Lake Charles. All of them. Without exception.

The first time I felt buyer's remorse after having sex with someone was the first time I realized I can't exchange every bad decision I make. And since I'm stuck with them, I'll label them as "takesies backsies" and hide them in a bag on the top shelf of my closet. And every now and then, I'll look inside and laugh my ass off, and cringe, and punch myself in the dick.

Because let's be honest. This is all my wiener's fault anyway.