In her Words
Ready or Not, Here He Comes
The receiving end of premature ejaculation
-AnonyBetty
After 10 months of working together - as FREELANCERS, mind you, meaning there is no co-worker buffer, and despite the fact that we "saw" each other for that first month before he decided to go back to his ex-girlfriend - the man who ignited sky-high flames of passion in my heart/head/loins, who sparked electricity that could fly Ben Franklin's kite - was in my apartment.
Taking his pants off.
We were only supposed to be working that day. We'd even met at a neutral location, the atrium across from my apartment building, where there was free WiFi and Indian food to boot. But then he asked to see my new place - and, well, maybe it was the chicken vindaloo, but soon I was lying on my bed in my skivvies as he struggled with the clasp of my bra.
And suddenly the entire cast of characters was exposed, ready, and willing. All that ran through my head was, "OMG we're going to have sex, OMG he has a girlfriend, OMG this is so wrong and forbidden, yet SO INCREDIBLY HOT!" As we were kissing, stroking, moaning, groping - nearly a year of desire finally indulged - I ditched my morals and reached toward my nightstand to retrieve a condom from the drawer when...
SPLAT!
He spilled his milkshake all over me. My stomach, my breasts, my entire torso was dripping as I stared down at myself in bewilderment, then looked up to find him staring at me - in complete horror.
"Oh...uh...it's OK," I reassured him, thinking I'd clean up, we'd have a little cuddle time and then another (extended) session in roughly 20 minutes.
He said nothing as I hurried to the bathroom, where I grabbed handfuls of Kleenex and sopped up the mess. Back at my bed, I found him standing there. Wearing his sweater. No pants. Petrified. Horrified. Speechless. I sat on the edge of the bed and smiled as he traced my nipple with his finger.
This is more like it, I thought.
And then...
SPLAT!
Again he unloaded his seed all over my breasts - which would be nice if, say, the seed were jasmine oil and my apartment the treatment room of a Balinese day spa. I looked at my chest and then at him, barely able to comprehend the hilarity.
"Are you still doing this?" I asked, biting my lip to restrain the snickers at the back of my throat.
Apparently rendered mute by multiple orgasms, he dashed to my kitchen counter, and frantically tore paper towels from the roll. I sat stunned as he wiped my breasts with Bounty. My eyes never left his face - I just studied him wondering what he was thinking and what had caused this massive ejaculation factory and was he really THAT hot for me and did he live on a steady diet of wheatgrass or maybe he had the world's largest sperm supply because he NEVER had sex with his girlfriend EVER, even during their recent vacation, when...
SPLAT!
Once more. With less feeling. And, to some degree, less volume.
At this point, I couldn't contain my amusement - nor my amazement - and burst out laughing. I mean, were we in a Peter North film?!
Still without words, he aborted the clean-up effort, stumbled into his pants, grabbed his messenger bag, and ran to the door - while I stood in my foyer naked, horrified, and bewildered. On his way out, he tripped on one of my red Steve Madden ballet flats, sending it careening into my hallway, and I was forced to make a brief streaking appearance to retrieve it - thankful none of my neighbors happened to be in their doorway at that moment. Back in my apartment, I stared at my clothes, strewn about the bed and floor. I ran my hands through my hair and wondered WTF had just happened. I slowly dressed - panties, bra, jeans, cami. I picked up the last item - a black mohair wrap top - and carefully began tying it around my waist when my hand ran through a spot of muck. What the...
Yes, SPLAT!
It seems the man had been ejaculating into my shirt while I was cleaning up in the bathroom. A never-ending supply of manbatter galore - forever embedded into Banana Republic. I opted for a cardigan, dropped the top in my dry cleaning bag, and...went to Staples. I may not have had a touch of six-inch penetration but I did need a ream of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch paper.
As for Mr. Splat, our working relationship ended three weeks later, when we delivered the final product to the client. Our good-byes were followed by a brief yet passionate make-out session - in the middle of Penn Station at rush hour, no less - but visions of the fire hose incident (and his girlfriend) had put a damper on any remaining flames, so I pulled away and bid him adieu. That was the last time I saw him. But I always think of him when I wear the wrap top. Or buy paper.
*Sometimes certain articles are just too juicy to put our real names on!
