“Did you cum?” he asked as he rolled off of me, damp from sweat and feverish from his obviously stellar orgasm.
“No,” I replied coldly, never taking my eyes off of the vomit-beige painted ceiling in my friend’s living room.
Hearing this news, he made a few odd movements, like one of those “WTF?” reaction gifs on Tumblr.
“Really?” he asked, confused.
As I pulled myself up from the bottom half of a short-lived missionary position, his cum started to cascade down my belly. Normally, that would leave me feeling like a sexy, cum-covered slut. In this case, the sticky drips of semen slowly making their way toward my crotch felt more like a burden.
We now sat side by side on my friend’s grey leather couch, staring straight ahead. We bathed in the silence and bright white CFL light pouring from the bulbs in the rapidly rotating ceiling fan.
I turned my head toward him. He turned his toward me.
“You know I didn’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have to ask,” I said, looking him in the eye.
“You seemed like you were having fun,” he said.
I smiled one of those, “Oh, you poor boy, I am going to eat you alive and shit you out before my morning coffee” smiles.
“The fluorescent beige on these walls is more exciting than the sex we just had,” I told him without breaking eye contact.
“Are you sure you—”
My eyes rolled so loudly they caused him to stop talking mid-sentence.
“What?” he asked.
“I didn’t cum. I didn’t have fun.”
He stared at me blankly.
“How many people have you hooked up with? Is this how all of them go?” I asked, turning my eyes toward the excitement of the paint above me.
“I mean, a few.”
“Do all of them end up floundering? You leave all of your dates this unsatisfied,” I asked and stated simultaneously.
“No,” he said, shifting in his seat with obvious discomfort. The creaking of the couch punctuated the awkwardness of the moment.
“No? How many two or three-night stands have you had? How many people have invited you back for an encore?”
“How about you try to give me your best estimate of hook-ups and return visits in the last year?” I said.
He motioned, like he was going to speak but stopped.
“Don’t worry, I’ll wait. Take your time,” I said.
His face started to make some really intense expressions. His eyebrows twisted and his eyes darted around the room — never at me — searching the room for the answer to my question.
We sat there in silence and simmering sexual disappointment for nearly a full minute.
“Did I break you?” I asked.
“No, it’s just that no one has asked me to come back.”
“No one? Out of how many?”
“Since January, maybe 20 … or so.”
“So, out of 20 sex partners, none of them have asked to have sex with you again? Doesn’t that seem odd to you? Even when I have mediocre sex, I will usually send a booty text at some point in the future.”
“I … never thought about it,” he said. “After we cum, I usually just, like, peace out or whatever.”
“After ‘we’ cum? So, you know for certain you’re serving up orgasms to everyone you’re having sex with?”
“They say they came.”
“But they don’t ask you back?”
“Have you tried hooking up with these people again? What happens?” I asked.
“Nothing. I try but they usually don’t reply.”
“Uh huh,” I said knowingly.
“Before you came, we were in this room for maybe 10 minutes. I sucked you off and played with your ass to get you hard. Then you just sort of shoved your cock in me. I like that quick fuck-and-go, like many other sluts, but damn.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“What I wanted was to have fun.”
“If I had fun, I’d be asleep and you’d be laying here touching on my booty. If I had fun, we would not be having this conversation. From the sounds of it, though, you’ve never had any conversation about pleasure with anyone. Has anyone ever said you were bad in bed?”
“No … but that’s ’cause I’m good.”
“No, that’s because we don’t want to hurt your feelings. Admitting that the sex was bad is way harder than saying, ‘Hey, that was not exactly to my liking. How about we try again but this way.’ Sure, you may be good to someone, but are you good for me? No.”
“Oh,” he said. His shoulders slumped. “Should I go?”
“Do you want to be good for me? Do you want to actually make me cum?” I asked.
He perked up.
“Yeah, I don’t want you thinking I’m some lame fuck,” he said.
“Then I guess we have something to talk about,” I said.
“Plus, I like the way you’re talking to me right now.”
I perked up, too.
“It’s making me really want to please you, for some reason. Like it’s a challenge.”
I reached my hand over and patted his head.
“Good boy,” I whispered.
“I am definitely going to eat this boy whole,” I thought.
Have you ever had a similar situation? How'd you handle it?
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