A few posts ago, i wrote about a boy I’d had an uuber awkward encounter with, entitled: ‘how to tell you’ve given the wrong guy a blow job’. he read it, we talked about it, and he said he could write his own blog post about our sexy time rendezvous from his point of view. to him, my interpretation of the night/his behavior wasn’t completely accurate or at least not the same as his.
so, in the interest of expanding my point of view and the overall point of view of this website….. i asked him to write a post about our night, from his perspective…
cuz it’s important to know there are always two sides to every story.
this what he wrote:
A SORT OF REBUTTAL
My heart sunk as I looked down to read the text from my best friend dropping “that boy crazy chick really hammered you” on me.
It had been days since our fumbling yet somewhat endearing yet somewhat terribly awkward intimate encounter and i had all but put
aside my inevitable fears of the very this very thing happening. I shook my head and started replaying the evening in question in my
head as I slowly navigated my way, heart thumping, to this post.
We’ve all done it, made a move at the intellectual actress/blogger/socialite with perfect skin and veritable oceans for eyes that you
drown in from even jpegs. A girl that seems impossibly interested in you to the point that every prodding question lends to a feeling
that you may already be conducting an interview for her site. Her almost intimidating confidence coupled with playful sarcasm and
hypnotizing stare instantly brings up my walls… oops well I guess this is first person now. I can handle her constant barrage of
flirtatious digs at my hip attire, living situation, employment, etc… I’m no cretin, and we give it back and forth ongoing throughout the
night… but the sensitive, dare I say self conscious, manchild inside me is making note of the things she notices, even if they are
meant in good humor, she noticed them enough to mention. Already subconsciously getting knocked down a peg or five masculinity
(those pegs being in short supply for me anyway) I compensate by turning off and shutting away my soft gooey center.
Nevertheless, things are progressing swimmingly, it’s exhilarating to feel matched on a cerebral level with a beauitiful girl, and as the
night progresses from nightclub, to afterparty, to her car, to my house, to my room, to my bed –my mind/id/libido/machismo all start
to talk at once. I felt that this could maybe be one of those impulsive/fun/modern sexual encounters that doesn’t emotionally maim
me but leaves both of us feeling like romantic if-not-a-bit-reckless libertines. But it could be a horrible trap, a bait and switch, where I
allow this siren into my holiest of holies only to be exposed as a lesser lover?
“Is this girl is the enemy?”
We are making out.
“She has probably been with far better lovers than me.”
We are removing clothes.
“I mean you don’t get a title like Boy Crazy for nothing right?”
We are making out without clothes.
“But I am a sweet lover, shes lucky to have me.”
We are not wearing clothes, that’s for sure.
“No sex yet though. That’s prudent right? OK but I still want to have fun.”
I present a brief oral report to her nether regions and then we switch and all the fellatio business begins. I’m fully floating, a fantasy has
come to fruition and I just want to focus on catching glimpses of her eyes looking up as this heavenly action is bestowed on my privates.
I feel triumphant, not in a conquering misogynistic way but in a “I have touched myself to her photo before and she likes me” way. I start
to feel like the event is climaxing and I somehow convey this to her, she responds something I don’t understand due to the cock in her
head and moments later the deed is done.
A SCOWL!
A SPIT!
REALLY?
Did I offend her? It was quite a statement just opening ones mouth and allowing all manners of saliva and seminal fluids to come
splattering down on my new sheets… I was instantly at odds with her and myself. No discussion. Being not really that offended
and in a sort of post-cum zombie stupor, legs still in tremor, I step back, and in the same sarcastic playful manner we had been
insulting each other all night, express disdain for her action and make a big show of retrieving a rag and sort of mopping up my mess.
She seemed amused and made mention of her desire to also orgasm, to which I was in favor. I needed to recharge though, especially
after the late night we spent previous this dalliance. Sitting half dazed trying to assemble words for a plan or an action or a.. and then
she hugs me, this is sweet! This is totally a not hurtful encounter, I feel a cold wet strand of hair caress my shoulder, and in the same
aforementioned tone, mention that she may have my seed in her bangs.
I lay down grotesquely, comfortably naked on my bed and start to consider how fucking perfect it will feel to have her body against
mine all night, if she wishes to stay and snuggle. I rise to see her dressing, discussing parking restrictions, searching for a shirt,
looking down at me every few moments with a not entirely discernible look. I suppose if she wishes to leave she must, I should
have said something, anything to her, but my male cum purged visage is allowing her have her way.
A few more sentences are exchanged, I decline to dress and leave my house to walk her to her car, a bit surprised she even asked.
I wasn’t a portrait of chivalry at this point but her blatantly confronting it felt bizarre considering my current fading state. But no matter,
she is entitled to these strong actions, she is a strong woman, and I knew (I didn’t) what I was getting myself into.
She leaves, we speak through text message the next few day things about things unrelated to the tryst.
Heart thumping, navigating to this luridly titled post…
…at least she said my private was big.
By: boycrazy on May 23, 2011
Tags: rebuttal, thoughts and stories
70 Comments »
