'Til The Cows Come Home

My Birthday Gift To You

Happy Birthday to me!! It's official...today is my birthday. I am 29 -- let the countdown to 30 begin! Let's all take a moment of silence at 7:59pm in honor of my mother's netherlands and its impressive exertions.

What birthday would be complete without presents? Yes, friends, on this my own birthday, I am giving you the gift of my Worst Sex Ever story, as told at the WYSIWYG Talent Show on Tuesday night. A little disclaimer - if you are easily offended by references to gay sex, or if you are a family member and you don't want to know - um, just don't read it. Yeah. So there.

So, without further delay, click below and knock your socks off.

Spawn. Of. Worst. Sex. Ever. - The WYSIWYG Talent Show

When I was asked to do this show, I was ecstatic. I started a mental list of all the juicy stories I had. Although, I wasn�t sure if it was a good thing that I had so many bad sex stories to share.

I mentioned on my site that I would be doing the reading and suddenly, my e-mail box was filled with notes:

"Please, please, please, you're not going to say anything about me, are you?"

"I know we didn't always have the best sex, but it was decent enough that I'm not going to be part of your story, right?"

And my personal favorite: "I'm arrogant enough to know that I was great in bed but insecure enough to be terrified that you thought otherwise. So tell me if you're going to talk about me. Or maybe I just don't want to know."

Well, crap. Not only were so many of my former bedmates reading my blog, but there wasn't much material left that I could use without fear of retribution. After all, my purpose wasn't to humiliate anybody - much - but to tell some funny stories that everyone would appreciate.

That left only one possible story to tell: the worst sex, that someone ever had, with me.

Okay, so I had been dating this guy. Our one-month anniversary was going to fall on the same night that he had to attend a big work-related gala. It was going to be a huge event- celebrity guests, black tie sort of thing. He asked me to accompany him, and I gladly accepted.

As a special anniversary surprise, he had gotten us a room at a swank and modern hotel located a few blocks from where the party would be. Now, one month might not seem like a big deal, but we all know that one month in gay time is equal to two years in hetero time (although it's only 5-7 days in lesbian time).

On my way to the party I stopped at the hotel to drop off my bags and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot - I knew next to nothing about champagne, but if that's what they drank on Ab Fab then it was good enough for me. When I got up to the room, I found that I'd been beaten at my own game. There was already a bottle of champagne on the nightstand, and rose petals strewn around the room.

I joined my date and some of his coworkers at their office. Since it was a special night and we all looked so pretty in our party clothes, it was only appropriate to have the first toast of the evening. A bottle of champagne and some very light heads later, we were on our way to the party.

To say that we had a good time at the party would be a gross understatement. For starters, there was an open bar. Did you know that when you generously tip the bartender at an open bar he'll generously tip the gin bottle in return?

Right, so: Open bar. Tiny little appetizers. Lots of gin and progressively less tonic. Lauren Bacall in the room, and me with a digital camera. How I made it through the night without getting slapped with a restraining order is beyond me, but I digress.

Fast forward to the end of the party. After no less than ten cocktails between the two of us, not to mention the bottle of champagne at the office, we were a wee bit drunk. We retreated to our romantic lair a few blocks away. The rose petals had made the room incredibly fragrant and the air was almost sickeningly sweet. Within seconds, the clothing was coming off. This proved a particular challenge, given the impact of the alcohol on our motor skills, but nothing a tailor couldn't fix.

Our first stop was the shower. It had been a long day for both of us, and a shower would feel great. Plus, there was clearly going to be some major sex going on. Why not scrub each other down and get spic-and-span for all the licking and sucking?

We were having a fierce make-out session in the shower, getting hotter and hotter - literally. The water was scalding hot, making our alcohol-thinned blood even thinner and kicking the drunk up another notch. We could have stopped kissing long enough to turn the water down and bring our body temperatures back into a healthy range. But it made much more sense to run out of the bathroom and grab one of the ice-cold bottles of champagne instead.

Back in the shower, we passed the champagne back and forth between us, using it as both a refreshing beverage and an invigorating body wash, trying our best not to smash the bottle and find ourselves in a scene out of Carrie. Once the bottle was empty, we fumbled our way through the thick veil of steam and back into the bedroom where we uncorked the second - well, really at this point, the third - bottle of champagne. I don't think we managed to have more than a few sips from the new bottle...because it was time for the Porn Star Quality Nookie!

Once again, my date had planned ahead. He had pre-positioned a box of condoms, a bottle of lube and some poppers in the nightstand drawer. So thoughtful!

Let me point out that, though we had been dating for a month, we had yet to have penetrative sex. We weren't waiting for any particular reason; it's just the way it happened. But this night was set up so nicely - big special party, romantic hotel room - it was the perfect night to finally stick it in.

Plus, neither of us would have to wash sheets the next day.

When it comes to the fudge packing, I'm happy to go either way. But for this, our inaugural session, I was designated as the top.

Now, in my personal experience, there are three situations when it's in one's best interests to call off anal sex:

1. When he's so small and pencil-thin that when he says "I really want to fuck you" your mouth says "Oh, you know what, I just don't do that the first time I sleep with a guy" while the voice inside your head is screaming "Are you kidding? With that thing? Do you want to fuck me or perforate me?"

2. When he's so big that you've started rehearsing in your mind what you'll tell the emergency room staff before you've even got your knees over your shoulders.

And 3. When you are so drunk that you can't feel your lower extremities.

Clearly, this is the category that we fell into on this particular night. Given how drunk we were, we should've said good night with a kiss and a hand job, but we forged ahead like troopers.

I lay down on my back and left him in charge of the hand-eye coordination. He suited me up with a condom, slopped on the lube, took it a hit of the poppers and passed them my way. I inhaled a hearty portion, and we were set. He straddled my midsection and guided Tab A into Slot B.

As he eased onto me, we shared the usual first time pleasantries:

"Go slow�"

"I won't hurt you, I promise."

"Oops, it slipped out."

And everyone's favorite: (whispered) "Just relax."

When everything was snug and cozy and felt like it was going to stay put, it was time to generate the friction. A little up and down, a little back and forth, a little side to side. It was all going fairly well...until I rolled my head back and closed my eyes.

As you'll recall, I'd consumed a hell of a lot of gin and at least two and a half bottles of champagne, with an amyl nitrate chaser. When I closed my eyes, the room started to spin and tilt around me. My color must have taken a turn to the green side, because he asked, "What�s wrong?"

"Uhh, I just need you to stop for just a second." Deep breath, deep breath. "Um, okay, sorry, continue."

And we were back to the rhythmic gymnastics...but I was at the point of no return. My vision had lost all focus and everything went into slow motion.

"Okaaaaaaaaaaay, I thiiiiink weee miiiight neeeeeed to take a liiiiiiittle break heeeeeere."

He stopped bouncing and gestured to the penis up his butt: "Um, EXCUSE ME?"

And that's when my stomach made a noise that sounded not unlike a wild boar in heat.

"Oh my god, get off, get off, get off!"

I lifted him up, removed myself, how shall I put it, not so delicately, and ran to the bathroom.

Honestly, I don't remember throwing up. I swear to god that it was just the dry heaves. All I remember is coming back to my senses on the bathroom floor, curled up on my side next to the toilet, while he rubbed ice on my back and neck. After all of that, he was far too kind to me.

But hey, it's not like I puked on him.

I must've done something right in time, because two years, one month and six days later, I've still got him on the right side of the bed every night...with a big old bucket on the left.

Posted by mak at February 17, 2005 10:36 AM