October 17, 2011
This month for the Insomnia Club we’re changing things up a little. Instead of choosing a theme that we all write a piece on, we’re writing a story/post inspired by the image pictured here: chosen by that crazy kid Helene from Man Shopping in Paris D.C. The post below is my take on the that image, but be sure to check out the Insomnia Club’s twitter stream to catch up on what the other team members came up with.
Happy Reading all!
Okay. I have to confess it. I’m a teetotaler. What’s more despite all the clichés about only children being spoiled and selfish, I’m also prone to sharing. So, writing a post based on the image above proved to be a bit challenging for me until I read the line “Um no. You need to get your own box, ass” for what must have been the zillionth time and I suddenly remembered George…
Many moons ago I used to work at a health club, where there were a bevy of hot, temptin’ and oh so masculine personal trainers. One of the finest specimens from the pack (at least IMHO) was this Greek dude named George, who’s body was so well sculpted it would put Zeus to shame. Lucky for me, George and I often worked the same shift, and we spent a fair bit of time shootin’ the shit and over time we got to be pretty close. He would tell me stories about his conquests and vice versa. We here homies, buddies, pals if you will.
Eventually, I left the gym to pursue other opportunities, and due to a combination of the passage of time and less contact, George and I fell out of touch. That is, until late one summer’s night, I came across his profile as I perused the talent of Plenty of Fish (if you have forgotten how much I love POF click here, here, here and here).
George kinda looks like this, minus the thunderbolts, loin cloth and clouds...of course.
Now, I’ll admit that I did take note of the fact that his sexy quotient had not diminished (even one little bit) in the almost five years since I’d last seen him. But as I fired off a quick hello to him, the only thing on my mind was giving a shout out to a former coworker. However, in the space of about three rounds of back and forth-ing over POF messenger, George dropped a bomb on me…
“How come you and I never hooked up?”
What?!?!?! How the fuck did I miss that one of the hottest dudes in the gym was into me way back when? Still reeling from the shock, I responded with a very lame, “You’re joking, right?”
To which he replied, “No, seriously. I could never get a read on you, so I never said anything. You game for connecting now?”
As I’ve never been one to turn down a fine man who comes a calling. “Yep. What did you have in mind?”
On the night we reconnected George took charge. As soon as he got me alone, he was all over me, his fingers moving fast as he undressed me. Once he’d gotten me out of my clothes he got busy shucking his and what he revealed when he did was even more beautiful than I’d imagined it would be – right down to his lovely jewels. But I barely had time to take him in, as he was on me again.
Now, people. Can I tell you how good George was at ‘warming me up’ for the proceedings? The man took his time, working me up into such a frenzy that I was damn near ready to explode. I wanted the man so, so bad, until he started to assume ‘the position’ and said,
“Uhmm…I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t like condoms. They make me go limp.”
Really mothafucka? You going drop that on me when I’m over here jonesin’ for your stuff?
I went from zero to off the f’in charts in less than a millisecond on the hot, bothered and seething with anger scale. I was so pissed I couldn’t even speak. People, I can’t even tell you how tired I am of hearing dudes say they don’t ‘like’ condoms. Who the fuck likes condoms anyway? (And now that we’re on the subject, let me use this time to give a quick heads up to all the
fucking idiots men – and women – who try to dodge using them. It’s never been about liking condoms, it’s about keeping your shit free of STIs – many of which are life long friends. Okay?) Needless to say, much to his chagrin our night together came to an abrupt end, when I pushed him off me, got dressed in silence and walked out the door; leaving him and no-condom-using-erection pussy-less in the city.
Strangely enough that was the last I heard from George for a long while. I thought I was free and clear of him and his special brand of bullshit until he hit me up the following text weeks later…
George – Look, I know I fucked up, but I really want to see you again, so we can finish what we started. Interested?
Me – Um no, I only play with men who use condoms.
George – Okay. Just get me some lambskin ones and let me know when you have time to meet.
Me – (scratching my head) No he didn’t! This dude is so for later. Buddy, you’re the one asking me to dance. So if you want me to play, you need to get your own damn box of condoms. Have a nice day.
George – Why are you so difficult? Fine, I’ll get some and get back to you soon.
Me – cemetery silence
Apparently, George took my radio silence to mean “Oh yes, contact me as soon as you’ve got them and we’ll do it again”, because since then he’s texted me 1 349 times been blowin’ up my phone with texts, in hopes of setting up our second rendezvous – even though I haven’t bothered to respond. I mean who wants to play with a grown ass man, who pulls little boy stunts in the bedroom to avoid using protection? Not. I. So, George is SOL – at least with me.
But, what scares me most about my train wreck of a hook up with George, is that he’s probably pulled that shit before with other women, who’ve probably succumbed in the ‘heat of the moment.’ After all, as Sam is always quick to tell me, men tend to do what has worked in the past with women.
So how does this all tie in with the line in the picture above? Well, the morals of this very troubling story are as follows (and this one is for the boys):
If you’re out there brandishing a special needs dick that can’t ‘man up’ while sheathed in a condom, ‘Um no’ you won’t get any play from women who credit themselves with having even an infinitesimal amount of this thing called common sense.
Your dude only works with a specific brand or type of condom, ‘you need to get your own damn box’ of condoms – and come to the party prepared.
‘Cause if you don’t there’s a good chance you’ll be left holding your very blue balls in your hands. Much like my FORMER buddy, George.
Want more IC posts? Then click away…
Ms. Man Shopper in Boozetown
Banana Cakes and Pretend Like It’s the Weekend
Insomnia Club Strikes Again: Get Your Own Box
Sharing is Caring – The Insomnia Club Strikes Again