Sex Fail: The 45 Minute BJ
When the Frat Boy I had my eye on invited me over under the guise of “hanging out,” eating pizza, and watching a scary movie, I arrived with hairy legs to ensure my pants stayed on.
Within minutes, the lights dimmed, the movie started, and so did the shoulder massage, which quickly evolved into neck nibbling and kissing. Admittedly, he was a fantastic kisser, with soft lips that tasted like cherries (literally – I later checked his medicine cabinet and found a tube of Cherry Chapstick).
Inspired by what he could do with his tongue, I briefly contemplated excusing myself to shave my legs with the disposable razor I was confident I could find in the communal bathroom shared by dirty college boys. I decided against shaving and instead chose to show him how great I was with my mouth.
We stumbled into the bedroom, my top and bra strewn on the floor. Frat Boy reached for my pants. Self-conscious about my legs even when they’re not insulated with two weeks’ worth of growth, I pushed his hands away and dramatically dropped to my knees. I unbuttoned his pants, and pulled them to the ground, running my hands up his thighs. It was then that I discovered that Frat Boy had the body of a Greek God with a penis the size of the tube of Cherry Chapstick I found in his bathroom.
Hairy legs aside, I was not having sex with someone whose penis didn’t clear the top of my hand (although I did wonder if sex with a Chapstick d**k would even count). On the bright side of things, I could most certainly “deep throat” his penis, as I was sure wouldn’t reach past my molars.
This should be quick, I thought.
I began. And kept going. And going. And going. While staring up at him, my eyes occasionally darted over to the clock, baffled as to why he wasn’t “finishing.”
I was great with my mouth! Mind-blowing, even! Wasn’t I?
Ten minutes passed. My performance was still enthusiastic. Then 15. Twenty. It was then that I began to engage in what could only be described as the Karma Sutra of blow jobs, experimenting with every mouth position and technique imaginable. I used my breasts. I’m nothing if not determined. I tried switching up my hand position, using one hand, no hands, both hands, but it was like a harrowing attempt to rescue an earthworm.
Losing confidence in my BJ abilities, I switched back to the ol’ standby, one hand, my mouth.
Thirty minutes later, he smirked down at me, “You must be getting pretty tired.”
I could have replied as my mouth was clearly not full, but I batted my eyes up at him, willing him to finish.
After a total of 45 minutes on my knees, back, ass, stomach, side, and head, the marathon finally came to an end.
We both collapsed on his futon and he rolled over to reach into my panties. I pushed his hand away again.
“I’m okay,” I rasped, almost too tired to speak.
“Wait, you don’t want me to…?” He tilted his head.
“No,” I said.
He sighed, not protesting.
“That was great. Next time I’ll be sure not to jack off before you come over.”
“What did you just say?” I asked, snapping awake.
“Before you got here. I figured we’d watch a movie, have pizza, give each other massages, and maybe make out. So I handled business ahead of time.”
“Right. How thoughtful of you,” I said, getting dressed and making a swift exit.
The next day at work, I was unable to move my head. My neck was so stiff I cried out in pain. My jaw locked as I tried to answered the phone. I had a shooting pain in my left shoulder, a bruise on my shin.
“What’s the matter with you?” my boss asked.
“Rough night,” I replied. “I could really use a massage.”
I knew who I wouldn’t be getting one from. Ever again.