VOMIT FOR SEX, PART 1
And now for a flashback to the heyday of my sexual shenanigans. Let’s turn the clock back to the eve of 2009.
December 31, 2008
Daria strongly encouraged me to hook up with Andy of ‘if it turns out you’re a bitch, i’d still fuck you’ fame.
Daria: you should hook up with Andy because he specified that he thinks watching girls get off is the hottest thing ever
Genie: i would be amazed if I got sex out of this. because our whole exchange was one of those “just kidding, but not really” things. my mantra.
January 7, 2009
A week later I asked him out.
Andy: what do you have in mind?
Genie: I don’t have ideas, only impulses.
January 21, 2009
We finally made plans for a specific night.
Andy: i hope you’re ready for friday
Genie: ready for friday? how do I prepare? by giving up compulsive masturbation?
He flaked out on me. Good thing I don’t believe in orgasm budgeting.
December 31, 2008
I would be remiss to tell this story without any foreshadowing. Remember, part of what attracted me to Andy was seeing the video of his vomiting up a bottle of soy sauce the night before we met. And after we tentatively agreed to fuck, he specified that he wasn’t into vomit sexually. Refer to ‘if it turns out you’re a bitch, i’d still fuck you’ for conversational context.
Genie: ha ha, you’re saying you prefer kinky and gross sex but you think I can handle it?”
Andy: I just meant altogether bad and weird, but yeah- sometimes that too. not vomiting or urination or anything but sure
Well, it turns out he isn’t into vomit during sex, but you gotta do what you gotta do to prepare for sex.
NIGHT OF (February 6, 2009)
On February 6th, 2009 at 3:20 a.m., I got home from a night out with my friends and methodically laid out the game plan for the rest of my evening: 1) ingest sleeping pill (Lunesta), 2) get off before pill kicks in, and 3) go to sleep. There is about a 15-minute window before the meds impair my ability to get off, and that is plenty of time. I completed step 1, leisurely brushed my teeth and washed up, and then my phone interrupted me! It was 3:30 a.m. Andy proposed, “Let’s have gratuitous sex.” I told him I wished he had called literally three minutes earlier because I had just taken my sleeping meds and I now only had a 12-minute window in which I could get off easily. I asked how soon he could come over. Was he right outside my window? Sadly, he was downtown and would have to take a cab to Midtown, which he insisted on referring to as the “Upper East Side.” Undeterred, he instructed me, “Puke. It. Up.”
_________________________________________________________________________________
I don’t think I’ve talked about this on my blog much, not because I’m ashamed of my past but because it is just that: my past. When I was in high school, I had a serious eating disorder. Let’s call it bulimarexia. It doesn’t affect my life in any way now. Some of the behaviors have lingered, like performing surgery on my food before ingesting it. The self-destructive thoughts are in the very distant past; eating is no longer a chore and my relationship with my body is delightful. Thank you, sex, for helping me appreciate what my body can do for me.
Because of my grisly past, I am an EXPERT puker. You know how in the cautionary (I mean, instructional) material they give you in health class, one of the telltale signs of bulimia (along with worn-off tooth enamel) is “bite marks” on the back of a hand? That is such amateur hour. Seasoned bulimics do not have to shove fingers down their throats to vomit. You just lean over the toilet, contract your stomach in a wavelike motion, and use your hand to break the fall to ensure there is no splashback. Hey, no one ever said eating disorders are glamorous. Soo orgasmic, though. Those rhythmic contractions and the ensuing feeling of emptiness and relief. Makes me kinda cream my pants a little.
_________________________________________________________________________________
I felt obliged. After all those years of puking for no good reason—irrational fear of fatness. Finally the opportunity to puke for a good cause: VOMIT FOR SEX! I would pay my dues for daily self-destruction. Redeem myself via the ultimate purifying ritual.
I told Andy I would call him back in two minutes to report the success of vomiting. Hanging up, I contemplated the situation: I had no choice. I was planning to masturbate my way to sleep before he called. If I didn’t have sex with him, it would be like turning down red-haired sex to masturbate. Don’t wanna be that kind of LOSER!
Entering my apartment, he grabbed me. Shoved me against a wall. Without any talking, we made out. I led him to my bedroom. He was assertive and amazing. Though things were a little fumbly and communication was a challenge because he was plastered. He literally smelled like a distillery. And his knuckles were bright red from being a drunk asshole who punched a cab because the driver observed the 4-person rule.
His penis was especially small but high functioning. Yes, I am using the term “high functioning” to mock him for incessantly bragging about his high IQ and Mensa membership, in order to compensate for his alleged lack of socioeconomic class. He had nothing to be insecure about. If nothing else, his penis was “brilliant.” Not to mention, he read my non-verbal cues fluently. He got harder than almost anyone I’ve ever been with. Within thirty seconds he was ‘you can break things on my dick’ hard. Which made it difficult to predict when he was gonna cum but also made me want it more. He had no refractory period. I sucked him to completion then fucked him to completion within rapid succession. After sucking him off, I was content with the idea sex might be off the table; he got rock hard again within two minutes despite his incredible wastednesss. The next morning he spoke about how sore his cock was. Probs because it was filled with sooo much blood. And who knows what he even did with it before visiting me.
Andy was a master ass fingerer. Makes sense because he mentioned ass fingering is one of his things. His technique was unique. I had received unsolicited fingers up my ass before, but never during sex. He slid them in during doggystyle; it was the ultimate enhancement. Though, like many before him, he forgot to spit on them first. PSA: asses are not self-lubricating! After adjusting for his blunder, things heated up quickly. We both got breathy and thrusty. He pulled it out of me and I got panicky like, “Fuccck, I’m getting close. Put it back in.” Then, in a split second, he shoved it my butt. Bluntly. No lube. I don’t think it was supposed to be surprise anal; he probably figured his fingers were prep enough. No matter how small a penis is, it’s always substantially bigger than fingers. You have to lube up and coax and asshole before you go to town. He thrusted feverishly and firmly, and after I could compile a sentence, I screamed, “I can’t handle that.” Immediately he exited me, but the moment was already ruined. Like I was in physical and mental shock. It would take me a while to get back to where I was. He committed the cardinal sin of anal: back-to-front. And with a few more thrusts, he was done. At least I got to enjoy his dick sucking. Though he was especially thrusty with that too, and I had to tell him multiple times not to face fuck me.
The most pitiful part of the evening is that he passed out almost immediately after cumming the second time. He was done and I was like, “Are you scared of dildos?” He responded, “No, I just want to make you happy. So I commenced dildo fucking. But the problem is, I am so weak post-sex when my arms are pre-used that I am a terrible dildo-fucker. I asked for his assistance and he was non-responsive. I asked again. Nothing. I moved his arm and it fell down limp. I realized he was asleep. Which was good in that I didn’t have to be self-conscious about the situation, but depressing in that it was so hard to get off and I felt so pathetic. I wondered whether all the shaking would wake him up. Nope. Unlike Davey of ‘Special Now?’ and ‘Mangina’ fame, he does fall asleep on girls masturbating.
He passed out on his back, uncovered, with cummy condom on. I considered condom removal and whether I should cover him. But I figured if I covered him and the condom slipped off, my covers we be slathered in spoiled semen.
InDefenseOfGettingOff's Blog 