You get a text on Monday morning from a girl you left at your house. The text is inventorying the contents of your jack drawer. Notably there is an artificial vagina in it made by filling a plastic cup with water and flour paste, pushing a hole into it, and covering it with a condom. You microwaved this creation while on cocaine and affixed it to your vibrating rubber duck and ergonomic airline neck pillow and it was the ne plus ultra of artificial vaginas; so far above and beyond the not inconsiderable amount of previous prototypes. This is the one that flew. It is has now taken on opportunistic airborne yeast and sat in the sun and become a perfectly formed uncooked dinner roll with a warped cast of your half-stiff cocaine penis in the center. She’s amused.
She had written you a letter. Like out of Bukowski’s WOMEN. Dear so and so, I’ve read your blog and your OKC profile and blah blah blah. We should have sex. Well, yes. Yes we should.
Still. Shouldn’t have sent her that second text this morning. But no. No. Don’t overgame. She’s a very straightforward person. The larger issue is, making decisions about whether you want to hang out with a girl when you’ve been fucking her at night, receiving her unparalleled blowjobs, but not cumming. Not cumming because she told you very matter of factly that your small penis could not get her off. Also because you were fucking her and it got hot, she got into some position that was going to make you pop instantly; you stopped, and she said you should have gone ahead and cum anyway because your dick is too small to get her off. You can’t tell if it’s because of this or just getting past that rubicon; sometimes you’re either going to cum prematurely or not at all. Then you sleep with her all night naked and just keep making out with her in the morning; her little body… and you should have beat off in the shower, but you didn’t, so all day in the office your nuts feel like some swollen half-fermented fruit hanging overripe from the tree ready to fall off. You can feel your heart beat in your nut sac, painfully. So you desperately want to see this person again but it’s just because you’re horny like an animal at your desk and you just keep seeing that ass, that ass, that ass, the way holocaust survivors must see the mule carts stacked with bodies flashing in their mind’s eye over and over again.