“There is a direct correlation between your energy and your neighbor’s ride”
– SoulCycle –
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and tell myself “Wow, I’m so grateful that I’m a guy” for one important reason: being naturally born with the options of penetrating a hole or being penetrated is awesome. I mean, sure, women get to experience penetrating someone wearing a strap-on dildo but I don’t think the experience is going to be the same using a real penis. But being a male homo sapien, you get to experience the best of both worlds, because why else would the Man (or Woman, according to Ariana Grande) above randomly put a G-spot deep down a man’s arse? More importantly, and this is no shade to all women out there, but I can’t imagine having to deal with blood coming out of my penis once a month; it seems like a hassle. And don’t even get me started on the entire process of giving birth. Seriously, I can’t even handle passing an extremely hard stool after a chili-centric dinner sometimes, let alone a fucking baby.
With that being said, there’s one thing that I envy about female anatomy: the ability to have multiple orgasms. I guess it’s only fair for women to be able to climax multiple times in one setting since it’s a lot harder for them to get there (P.S. to all my straight male readers, Y’all really need to step up your dick game). I don’t know about you, but I can’t really ejaculate more than three times in one hour. I mean, I had tried pleasuring myself five times in one day and I almost passed out. Why was I jerking off five times in a day, you might ask? I’m sure most guys at some points in their lives are curious to know their stamina limit while silently praying to the God of Sex that the limit does not exist.
When I saw this guy’s profile on one of the dating apps I used, I wasn’t super enticed by the idea of inviting him over so he could get me walking side to side. He was a Caucasian guy in his early 30’s around my height with a semi-bald haircut. Objectively speaking, he’s not the best-looking guy out there, but he’s not ugly. He might be hot in Ohio or Wyoming, but according to LA standard, he’s average at best. I mean, I’m not gonna put myself on a pedestal here as I obviously wasn’t the best-looking man in Los Angeles, but hey, let’s just say that I had slept with better-looking guys before.
However, I was pretty impressed when he said he’s willing to drive all the way from Pasadena to West LA to see me. But here’s the thing: I hate people who text using one-liners and abbreviated words (example: “hi”, “sup?”, “good, u?”). Ok, maybe you’re texting me with only one hand as you’re using your other hand to masturbate to my pictures, which, I guess, is a bit flattering in a weird way, but you make yourself sound like a seven-year-old who has never used a smartphone. I mean, if you are barely willing to spend the extra effort to spell out a word, I don’t think you are worth my time since you most likely won’t spend much effort on my booty. Ain’t nobody got time for that, honey.
Fast forward to one hour after we’re done with the typical Grindr Q&A session, he notified me of his arrival at my apartment lobby. To those of you fortunate souls who have not wasted your precious time on dating apps like Grindr, the typical questions that might arise look like the following:
- “so what are u into?”
- “face pic?”
- “top or bottom?”
And who says romance is dead?
Once he got into my apartment, we both knew exactly what we signed up for and didn’t waste any time being the polite citizens of the world. This guy is obviously no Antoni Porowski; he’s not the type of guy who I would get on my knees for at the speed of light to sacrifice the well-being of my throat. With that being said, he compensated his lack of attractiveness with his superior ability to pleasure my entire body. And this guy clearly knew how to use his tongue damn well. I mean… his passionate yet dominant approach in studying my erogenous zones was something that could inspire one gay to write a Troye Sivan-esque song. I was in a state of euphoria. Needless to say, we ended our first round with my bed sheet drenched in a pool of sweat.
When he got out of my tiny-sized mattress to clean up, I thought he’s definitely getting ready to leave because I had been to enough hookups to figure out how this was gonna turn out: you come, you undress, you penetrate, you come, and you leave. Apparently, I was wrong. Instead of being completely appalled by the sight of an Asian twink soaked in an assortment of bodily fluids (ok, I wasn’t *that* gross), he returned to my mattress to spoon me in hopes of forking me later. We didn’t say much other than talking about our lunch plan as we enjoyed each other’s body warmth and attempted to get our heart rate down.
Soon enough, I noticed that his area down there was getting thick and so was mine. Although our bodies were completely fatigued, our ding dong tralala seemed to have a mind of their own. Just like Super Saiyans, they were fully charged and ready to go.
To my surprise, our second round was a much more enjoyable experience compared to our first one. I guess it’s a combination of my more relaxed rectal muscles and his prior knowledge of my bedroom likings that gave our second round an edge. But the biggest surprise to me was how we both erupted much more. I mean, who knew that our testicles could produce that much liquid in less than one hour? Nice job, balls!
Eventually, he left my apartment after our second session and I had never seen him again after our 1 PM sexual marathon. What’s the moral of the story here, you might ask? Never judge a book by its cover (I know, it sounds very cliché). I wasn’t expecting to have a good time with this guy, but there I was, laying on my pool of sweat feeling exhausted yet satisfied. I really should consider including sex in my cardio workout regimen.
P.S. I ran into him again on one of the dating apps I used six years as we both happened to be across the world and he remembered me. I guess it’s satisfying that I’m slightly memorable to him compared to the plethora of twinks he had banged.