The Gymnast and I met right around my twentieth birthday. I had been checking him out subtly at work, and when later approached, invited him to come party with me for my birthday. When he accepted my request I was very excited, he was incredibly hot and I figured he'd be a decent lay regardless of how vile his personality may be.
As we met at the club the next night and greeted hello, I was already weaving an intricate web to get him in my bed. It didn't turn out to be too difficult. As we walked in the club, he started to sway his tight gymnast ass to the bass coming from above. "Ah," I sighed, "it's going to be a good night." He turned around and as our eyes met, something sparked. And the games had begun.
The night went well, nothing too extraordinary happened. We danced, smoked, talked about sex and fetishes, sexual positions, etc. etc. The norm when two vicious socialites meet. Afterward we made out a bit, then I had to leave to drive a cock-blocking friend home.
The next night we met up again at my birthday hotel room. (No, it was not at the Holiday Inn this year. We upgraded to the Crown). As we partied and socialized with the people in the room, our eyes met and had that silent conversation. You know how it goes, the unspoken conversation that signals both parties that it is time to go and leave the area for some adult time.
So we go back to his place, I'm already wasted. And we settle into his room after some chit chat. I lie on the bed, and give my best come hither pose-it totally works. So he comes over, we start making out. Finally I get his clothes off and I realize he's not hard. My twenty minute make outs have gotten even gay men hard, so how is this even possible? So I jerk him with my hand, blow him with my mouth, and nothing.
Zip. Zilch. Zero.
What. The. Fuck?
At this point I'm frustrated and sensing my aggravation, the Gymnast then decides to eat me out. In at least fifty different positions. Lying down, Sitting Up, From Behind, etc. etc.
Now, before I critique his oral skills, I feel it is pertinent to mention that it took me two years to leave my ex [The Post Master] because he was an adept vaginal connoisseur. He could not only get it up, but keep it up while pleasuring me orally for hours on end. It was ridiculously good and did the trick every time. Truthfully his oral skills were what kept up together for so long. And my phobias have only been proven true since we have separated. No one, and I repeat no one has proven to be as competent as the Post Master in that specific area of foreplay.
The Gymnast didn't set any records. I laid there in various positions for hours upon hours. I moaned, I grunted, I prayed it would all be over. Finally he worked himself up and ended within maybe ten seconds. At that point, I was so glad it was over. My vagina was numb from all the stimulation and I couldn't even feel him inside of me. It was like someone had poured a bottle of Anabesol in my vagina. Terrible.
When it was over, he got all awkward about it and promised me the best sex of my life. I ignored him and went through my mental catalog of who I could call to scratch my itch. He continued his "Oh I suck" rant, which in turn ruined the good mood I had developed, a product of relief it wasall over. By the luck of Cosmos though,he ended his self-debilitating rant and ended up proving himself. His pity-party ended and he started to speak. Somewhat intellectually. We talked about our theories of life and death, politics, the world as we knew it, and all other sorts of philosophical crap. I loved it.
In fact, he impressed me so much with his intelligence and hard body, if not his sex drive, that I ended up spending the entire weekend with him. Just avoiding anything sexual for the next week.
