(Mature content advisory. NSFW)
Ya did it BAP, you dirty devil. It’s the end of a bar night, and you’re sitting here tipsy with Ms. Crush. There’s finally a connection in the spark of a well timed set of circumstances. You finish your drinks a little too quickly. You walk up to your flat where you hang out on the couch. She’s a flirt, you love it, encourage it, and you whisper something that causes her to cross the line into straight dirty talk. Hell yeah – go on BAP.
That was the high point right there. Things for her went from enthusiastic expressions, to gratuitous, to “I’m clearly imitating a porn star now,” which outside of a porn, is the saddest sex I could imagine having. I mean, I realize she was doing her best at what she figured I wanted, but it was killing the sexual chemistry.
It was nice feeling desirable-ish, but well, how do I explain it. Imagine you’re a musician who loves live sets. You practice a lot, every day, tirelessly until your hand is sore (yes, you’re a one handed musician). Now you’re on stage, and you’re rockin it. At least you think you’re rockin it. But then the fans just start cheering like you just finished a song before the curtains open and sort of randomly and continually as the show progresses. All the pieces for a good time were there, just a failure to connect.
It also bugs me to have all the porny exaggerated moaning because it’s like an early vote of no-confidence. I mean, we just started… I’ll get you to where you sound like you are… You know, just give me a minute, alright? You’re going to run out of vocal range if you start there.
Plus I can’t tell what is actually making her feel good without some concentration. It’s like the boy who cried “wolf.” Only here, it’s the woman who cried orgasm – only at the end of this story she probably won’t get eaten.