Fickle boners.

Fickle. Boners.

That’s going to be the title of my memoir. “Sir, can you please keep your dick hard for the duration of this penetration? That would be great, thanks.”

I am so tired of small dicks and fickle boners!

M was coming over after work since the hurricane knocked out his power. Everything was closed and he was starving. I felt for him.

I didn’t have much at the house but I offered to make him pancakes. I smiled when he acquiesced; I love feeding men. With care and special attention to skillet temperature, I made him two pancakes, perfect and golden, fluffy.

He ate two bites.

What the hell, man? When a woman makes you pancakes at 4:30 a.m. still in full hair and makeup from work while you sit and drink the beer she brought home for you, you EAT THE FUCKING PANCAKES.

I don’t care if you’re suddenly not hungry anymore, if the pancakes suck, whatever. Eat the fucking pancakes.

But I would be considered a bitch if I said that, right? So I smiled and said “Its okay” as I dumped them in the trash and finished the dishes. God forbid I act difficult.

We talked on the couch for a bit, drank beer. Well, I drank beer. He drank beer and swigged from the bottle of vanilla Stoli he managed to find in the dark at his apartment. I guess he needed to stop and get it before coming over? But I ignored that, stashed it in the back of my mind. There had been too many times in the past where I was the one in his position, going to out of my way to make sure my blood alcohol level was kept sufficiently high before embarking on any sort of interaction with the opposite sex. Other men had ignored my red flags, so I figured I owed him the decency to ignore his.

My eyes wandered to his toenails. I wondered if he realized it was time for a trim about a week ago. And that green shirt he was wearing made him look a bit sallow. Slowly I realized I didn’t find his jokes as funny as I usually did. Found myself trying to muster up the desire to fuck him. Because not fucking him was out of the question. We had slept together before, so it wasn’t as if I could play coy. This was, in fact, why we had both agreed that he should spend the night. Sure, he had no power at his place, but we both knew that was just the excuse he needed to invite himself over. If I were to change my mind he would surely be offended, and then we’d both be in for an awkward night. In my mind I bit the bullet, resigned myself to feigning interest and hoped it wouldn’t take too long.

Surprisingly, sex started out great. He was hard as a rock—all four inches of him! We were were facing each other, my left leg straight down and my right knee up over his shoulder. Great positioning. Must be all that jiu jitsu he does.

But then he lingered. Forever. He did not want to move, and when I tried to squirm my way into a different bodily configuration he resisted, held on to me a little tighter. Like the dude knew as soon as we moved he would lose his hard-on. And sure enough, he did. So off to the races we go…

“Play with my dick.”

I hope he couldn’t see the look of fear in my eyes. Ugh, please don’t let this be happening again! I think I knew the second time he lost it that I was in for a long night of pulling on his sad, flaccid penis while he held his breath and desperately tried to will himself hard again. And he literally holds his breath when he does that. Lets out his air in short little frantic bursts.

Well about the third or fourth time, I’m just tugging away, silently promising myself that if it happens one more time I’m going to shut it down. I’m already thinking of what I can say so as not to hurt his pride any more than it already is.

Well, that one more time comes and goes (but he doesn’t!). When I suggest things are “just not working, maybe we should be done for the night”, he insists he’s so close! If I could just keep fluffing him for another minute, get it hard enough to try and shove into myself, he is somehow going to miraculously come. I’ve had enough. It must be close to 7 a.m. by this point. I’m tired and annoyed. Even kissing him is beginning to gross me out. Somehow I convince him nicely that we should hang it up for the evening.

I figured he would be embarrassed and leave like the first time this happened, when I wasn’t so nice. Nope. I go and wash off the seven layers of lube from my crotch, legs, and ass. I come back to see him getting settled in for a little rest. I suppose part of me was relieved. As annoyed as I was, I didn’t want to kick him out again. Didn’t want to be mean.

We fell asleep. Every time I woke up and moved, he snuggled me closer. And as weird as it sounds, I still wanted that.

I guess it must have been around 1 p.m. when he started touching and caressing me. We were facing one another again. He started at my neck, rubbed my shoulders and my back, kneaded my ass and the back of my thigh. I started getting wet again. Maybe now that the alcohol is out of his system, this will work.

Kind of.

No, not really.

We started out spooning. He knew I wanted it from behind, me on all fours, so he worked his way there through meticulous positional maneuvering aimed at NOT KILLING THE BONER. We made it there, but things didn’t last beyond a few pumps before his little man started to sag. Me reaching for my vibrator was out of the question. Goddamnit.

Fifteen minutes in, I’m yanking on his boy again, but to no avail. I know what will do the trick; I gingerly hold his little guy upright so I can put him in my mouth. I don’t think I’ll ever not secretly gag at least a little on the inside when putting a completely flaccid penis in my mouth. But women are troopers. (And we hope you appreciate the little things like this…and the pancakes we make for you.)

He gets hard! Hard enough for me to choke on it just a bit as it tickles the back of my throat. Oh boy, he likes that. He flips me back underneath him and hurries to shove it in again. Please let this be it!

“Are you ready? Are you ready baby? Tell me when you start to feel it.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Ugh, he doesn’t deserve that title.

But finally, he comes.