I Had It Screwed

He was like a dream out of my mind. Someone who strutted into my life like a male peacock with his showy tail plumage. He yak and yak and I was so taken up with his sense of self and of issues, I sat mesmerized, listening to his every conviction of how the world should be and how life should turn out.

From the corner of my faked hazel blue eyes, I could tell that this was a man of substance. A man of his word. A man who would conquer the world. And then whoops. It just fell to bits the moment we had sex and he went on a guilt trip.

Christ! Why do you have to bring on all the beautiful, intelligent, well-endowed, physiquely built and intellectual high-flyer and then as surely as the sun sets in the west, tease my cock and leave it cold, dried and shrivelled? I am still feeling down there for signs of an up-life.

God! What life game are you dicing with me? Why does he have to end it all and I have to had it screwed (some pickwickian humor here)?

It was one thing after another, things just fell one by one on a hot sweltering Saturday evening. Off with the belt, the suit, the Banana Republic boxers and it was moans, groans and amon. And then it happened. Irving stopped dead in the tracks of all that we were doing.

Guilt was written all over his face. He recounted to me the strict Catholic upbringing he was accustomed to and how all this did not fit in with his calling. I was like thinking "what calling", isn't this calling enough? The call of the wild and of the beasty beast within our gonads?

Irving sat dumbfounded on the sofa, defiled as he was by my paws all over his body and balls. GOD! He is a virgin? His mind clouded over and he went on a guilt trip. Everything just fell flat on its face. My erection drooped and became flaccid the moment his hit the deck as well. What a nightmare!

After he left my musky bedroom, I could feel the curtains drawing to a close, a chapter of my life ending, the great sex we had anti-climaxing into a cesspool of intravenous drips.

I had to continually assure him what happened wasn't an incident, it was an indulgence, much as I hated calling it that. It was more like wank, blow, poke, ram, smooch, hug, lick and ooo that stubble, you are tickling me Irving!

I remember the rolling and the frenetic frisky jerks. It was bliss! After a long and hard foreplay, he had one day's cumload that shot right out of his peehole all over me. It was bliss again! I shot on his shoulder and he squeamed with delight, slapping my dick over his face and slurping it up.

While I was entranced, the beeper beeped. It was Irving.

Before long, his text messages filtered through and I had the last pubic hair on my pelvis standing on end: "We are no longer an item. This is the end."

Me: GOD! Irving! Don't do this to me! You are making me faint and light-headed (reaches for packet of condoms, mistaking it for aspirins)

Irving: But there never was an "us". You dreamt it buster.

Me: Please don't say that! You can't possibly say that what we did in 45 minutes was just all scum in the bottom of the latrine? Irving! I am gonna kill myself! (Peers out of bay window - OH WOW! Look at that crane! - stepping onto precipe overlooking MRT station - hey and look at those bigots below us, if I fall, I am gonna squashed you all to death as well)

Irving (heartless, cold brute): Duh! Please! That is like so histrionics! Watch me! (Shakes his bon-bon and laughs)

Me: Ok Irving! Whatever you say! You are the boss! (Steps away from precipice and retreats into living room - you are spared another day, bigots! I swear if I have another incident/indulgence, you are gonna pay with your life)

By the way, I recalled an extremely hilarious cartoon I watched in the good-old-days of television. It was about a certain damsel-in-distress named Miss Penelope who would invariably be tied to the train tracks or hanging on to a fast untwirling frayed rope . Her signature tune for help was always :"Save me! Help! Please!" It was a riot of fun just to watch the antics of her white knight who had to risk his life in a variety of cliff-hanging adventures. So Miss Penelope is the epithet for damsel-in-distress.

Thus ended the final chapter of my seeing someone special in my life. I was that close to that elusive civil union in Belgium, Spain, Netherlands, Canada and some states in America! Damn it! Why did it have to be this way? Wasn't my balls huge enough and my dick long enough to drill a hole into the hearts of man?

Sigh! I swear there is another Irving somewhere around the corner somewhere. I just have to look hard and swift enough.