Mom Don't Read This: Graphic Story Where No One Got Laid
Please note that i've incorporated older material into this story so some of it may sound familiar to those who read regularly.
Our story begins in the red light of the Magnet Field bar on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn Heights. I was attending a comedian acquaintance’s birthday party. At some point in the evening I conversed with a young man, young being a relative word as he was younger than my parents but he was still 42 years old. We didn’t exchange phone numbers or email addresses and though the conversation was pleasant enough I thought that was the last I’d see of him.
A month passes and I receive a Friendster message from him. My heart swelled. I gushed, “aww” because I know how I feel when I stalk people on the Internet; I knew he must really care. In his Friendster message he asked me to dinner. I replied, “sure.” We went to dinner. I had the penne alla vodka with salmon it was very good. The restaurant didn’t overcook the salmon one bit. It was moist. We finished consuming our dinner and then he asked me if I wanted to go back to his apartment for some tea.
“Tea?” What the hell does “tea” mean? Does that mean sex? I mean it’s not like he asked me to come back and look at his glow in the dark stars?—that of course is college speak for “It’s on!” I’ve never before been invited back for tea. In the movies people are always being asked to come back for coffee. I would never ask someone back for coffee because I don’t drink coffee—I’m bitter enough. I’m scared if I asked a gentleman caller back for coffee they might actually want coffee and then I’d be the lying bitch that didn’t have coffee. Or what if you don’t want to go all the way and you just want oral? Then what do you say? “Hey do you want to comeback for some decaf?” Or what if you’re on your period and you want to give him a heads up. He might not be into seeing red in the bedroom? Then what do you say? “Do you want come up for some coffee with me and my aunt flow?”
“I thought you’re Grandmother’s name was Flo?”
“Yeah, it is. Uhh. Who knew you were listening during dinner. Uhh. I guess my aunt is also named Flo.”
“Oh yeah, sure that sounds great I’d love to meet your family and have some coffee.”
“That’s gross. You want to have coffee with me and my aunt. Ew. She’s my aunt you pervert and she’s like 55.”
“Wow, why are you getting so angry?”
“Oh I’m angry because I’m on my period you misogynist?”
“Why do you have to call me names? You’re crazy.””Who’s calling who names? Fuc—“ And then no one has sex.
I guess I should be thankful that the penne alla vodka dude isn’t asking me up for coffee. I didn’t know if I wanted to go back for “tea,” so I said I don’t know maybe.” And then we walked to his apartment and went in—I guess I was having tea. (We go in and he starts boiling water. I’m thought to myself, “sweet we’re having tea.” I leave the kitchen and walk into the living room” I’m looking around the place passing the time as the water boils. My escort enters the living room and begins kissing me. The next thing I know we’re on the couch. Next thing I know his pants are down and he’s masturbating. I was like, “I guess this what tea means.” So he’s masturbating and I’m thinking “Fine. Go for it better you than me.”
We’re making out and he’s masturbating. About five minutes go by and he says,” I totally want you to suck my cock.” And I’m like, “Oh I would but I just had the penne all vodka with the salmon and it was really good. Can I take a rain check on the cock sucking? Like maybe in few days after I’ve had some asparagus and need to wash the taste out of my mouth. He doesn’t know what to say so he just stammers and says, “Ahh alright.” We go back to making out and he’s still masturbating and I’m still completely clothed. Another five minutes go by and again he’s like, “I totally want you to suck my cock.”
“I would but it’s so big, I’m intimidated. I’m going to need some time to build up the courage to put the whole thing in my mouth
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
(It was kind of funny to watch this guy go from super turned on to appreciative.)
At this moment I’d just like to break the narrative and assure you all that I do in fact suck dick I’m not that Jewish. I’m not your mother’s generation of Jew. Plus, I’m half Italian. What I’m saying is I do the deed. I’m not any good at it, but I give the old college try. I’ve had oral with like 20 dudes. I mean I’ve only slept with six people, but that’s another story. The point is I do the oral. I just didn’t want to with him
I know. I know. You’re thinking, “Rachael if you weren’t going to go down on him why didn’t you just leave?” There is a very good answer to that question. I had slept with my ex-boyfriend, Ben, [using the not-completely accurate term boyfriend shortens this already long story considerably] the week before. During our tryst Ben informs me, this doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”
“Who asked you to get back together, you presumptuous dick! You’re a 30-year-old man who doesn’t own a pillow for his twin bed with no sheets on it! Please! The only reason I’m having sex with you is because I haven’t had sex in a year, we were drunk and I know you’re going to stab me.
The problem, though, is that despite me not wanting to get back together with my arrogant, self-loathing, ex-boyfriend my ego is bruised. Who is he to tell me that we’re not getting back together? I didn’t ask him to get back together. I’m not saying I would have asked him to get back together. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have—I’m not saying. However, I gave no clues to my position on the getting back together platform. In fact when the ex and I were in the cab on our way to some comedy party – which we never got to-- I acted like I was drunker than I actually was. I tilted my head back to rest the back of my head on the seat, stared at the cab ceiling, and let out “I’m so drunk” sigh. I was trying to convey, “I’m so drunk I have no idea what I’m doing. The alcohol has just taken control of my decision-making ability. Who knows if this is a mistake?”
Because of this drunken ex-sex and the multiple “we’re not getting back together” comments I need to have a second date with a forty-two year old man who is still using Friendster. I need this so when I run into the ex I can say, “I know we’re not getting back together because I have a date with Becky Yammoto’s boyfriend’s friend.” I know you don’t know who Becky Yamamoto is, but the ex does because I shat where I ate, people—which is always good advice, you should shit where you eat this way you don’t waste anything.
Now you understand why I’m still at this apartment making out with the Mr. Let’s Have Tea. Another five minutes go by he’s still masturbating and he again says, “I totally want you to suck my cock.”
“I thought we were having tea. (Sigh) I just don’t want to”
“OK. Can you lick it, then?”
(Sigh) Fine. So I’m licking his dick. I need the second date and I don’t want to make a scene. And he starts in with, “Oh that’s so good. That’s so good.”
Really? This fully clothed girl that you’ve badgered into licking your dick, that’s so good? Because it’s not like I’m porn star licking his dick. I’m not riding my tongue along his whole shaft. I’m just kind of tapping the tip of the head with the tip of my tongue. Kind of like a frog catching flies. And the whole time I’m sort of licking this guy’s dick I’m thinking, “Look how much I’m not getting back together with Ben. Look how much I’m not getting back together with Ben.”
At this point I’m just hoping that the “suck my cock” dude cums, so I can go home. I figure if he cums that’s a good point in the evening to make a graceful exit. If he cums, I can say, “Oh you’re done, great. I’ll see you for that second date.” But he’s not cumming which shouldn’t be surprising I’m barely stimulating his penis. I notice a clock which reads 11:30pm. So I say, “Oh man, it’s 11:30. I have to go my metro card is going to run out.”
He responds, “OK.”
[sarcasm]Obviously, I don’t have two dollars for the subway.
The Epilogue:
I never got my second date with my quasi date rapist. Ironically, it wasn’t because I didn’t suck his cock. Rather, it was because we got into a text-message fight. Yes, I got into a text message fight with a forty-two year old, father of two divorcee`. I was so disappointed because when I had sex again with Ben the following week, I had nothing to throw in his face.
Post Script:
Once telling this story on stage a comedian commented about how long the time was between cock sucking requests. I have to say I don’t know how much time actually passed. I didn’t notice the clock until the end of the evening and there was no music playing. I need music to judge time. I count the number of pop songs that have played. If a guy can last for 7-8 songs that’s pretty good. If he can last the entire length of both Beatle’s White Album that’s actually kind of chafing. I said five minutes because it felt like an open mic set.
Our story begins in the red light of the Magnet Field bar on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn Heights. I was attending a comedian acquaintance’s birthday party. At some point in the evening I conversed with a young man, young being a relative word as he was younger than my parents but he was still 42 years old. We didn’t exchange phone numbers or email addresses and though the conversation was pleasant enough I thought that was the last I’d see of him.
A month passes and I receive a Friendster message from him. My heart swelled. I gushed, “aww” because I know how I feel when I stalk people on the Internet; I knew he must really care. In his Friendster message he asked me to dinner. I replied, “sure.” We went to dinner. I had the penne alla vodka with salmon it was very good. The restaurant didn’t overcook the salmon one bit. It was moist. We finished consuming our dinner and then he asked me if I wanted to go back to his apartment for some tea.
“Tea?” What the hell does “tea” mean? Does that mean sex? I mean it’s not like he asked me to come back and look at his glow in the dark stars?—that of course is college speak for “It’s on!” I’ve never before been invited back for tea. In the movies people are always being asked to come back for coffee. I would never ask someone back for coffee because I don’t drink coffee—I’m bitter enough. I’m scared if I asked a gentleman caller back for coffee they might actually want coffee and then I’d be the lying bitch that didn’t have coffee. Or what if you don’t want to go all the way and you just want oral? Then what do you say? “Hey do you want to comeback for some decaf?” Or what if you’re on your period and you want to give him a heads up. He might not be into seeing red in the bedroom? Then what do you say? “Do you want come up for some coffee with me and my aunt flow?”
“I thought you’re Grandmother’s name was Flo?”
“Yeah, it is. Uhh. Who knew you were listening during dinner. Uhh. I guess my aunt is also named Flo.”
“Oh yeah, sure that sounds great I’d love to meet your family and have some coffee.”
“That’s gross. You want to have coffee with me and my aunt. Ew. She’s my aunt you pervert and she’s like 55.”
“Wow, why are you getting so angry?”
“Oh I’m angry because I’m on my period you misogynist?”
“Why do you have to call me names? You’re crazy.””Who’s calling who names? Fuc—“ And then no one has sex.
I guess I should be thankful that the penne alla vodka dude isn’t asking me up for coffee. I didn’t know if I wanted to go back for “tea,” so I said I don’t know maybe.” And then we walked to his apartment and went in—I guess I was having tea. (We go in and he starts boiling water. I’m thought to myself, “sweet we’re having tea.” I leave the kitchen and walk into the living room” I’m looking around the place passing the time as the water boils. My escort enters the living room and begins kissing me. The next thing I know we’re on the couch. Next thing I know his pants are down and he’s masturbating. I was like, “I guess this what tea means.” So he’s masturbating and I’m thinking “Fine. Go for it better you than me.”
We’re making out and he’s masturbating. About five minutes go by and he says,” I totally want you to suck my cock.” And I’m like, “Oh I would but I just had the penne all vodka with the salmon and it was really good. Can I take a rain check on the cock sucking? Like maybe in few days after I’ve had some asparagus and need to wash the taste out of my mouth. He doesn’t know what to say so he just stammers and says, “Ahh alright.” We go back to making out and he’s still masturbating and I’m still completely clothed. Another five minutes go by and again he’s like, “I totally want you to suck my cock.”
“I would but it’s so big, I’m intimidated. I’m going to need some time to build up the courage to put the whole thing in my mouth
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
(It was kind of funny to watch this guy go from super turned on to appreciative.)
At this moment I’d just like to break the narrative and assure you all that I do in fact suck dick I’m not that Jewish. I’m not your mother’s generation of Jew. Plus, I’m half Italian. What I’m saying is I do the deed. I’m not any good at it, but I give the old college try. I’ve had oral with like 20 dudes. I mean I’ve only slept with six people, but that’s another story. The point is I do the oral. I just didn’t want to with him
I know. I know. You’re thinking, “Rachael if you weren’t going to go down on him why didn’t you just leave?” There is a very good answer to that question. I had slept with my ex-boyfriend, Ben, [using the not-completely accurate term boyfriend shortens this already long story considerably] the week before. During our tryst Ben informs me, this doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”
“Who asked you to get back together, you presumptuous dick! You’re a 30-year-old man who doesn’t own a pillow for his twin bed with no sheets on it! Please! The only reason I’m having sex with you is because I haven’t had sex in a year, we were drunk and I know you’re going to stab me.
The problem, though, is that despite me not wanting to get back together with my arrogant, self-loathing, ex-boyfriend my ego is bruised. Who is he to tell me that we’re not getting back together? I didn’t ask him to get back together. I’m not saying I would have asked him to get back together. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have—I’m not saying. However, I gave no clues to my position on the getting back together platform. In fact when the ex and I were in the cab on our way to some comedy party – which we never got to-- I acted like I was drunker than I actually was. I tilted my head back to rest the back of my head on the seat, stared at the cab ceiling, and let out “I’m so drunk” sigh. I was trying to convey, “I’m so drunk I have no idea what I’m doing. The alcohol has just taken control of my decision-making ability. Who knows if this is a mistake?”
Because of this drunken ex-sex and the multiple “we’re not getting back together” comments I need to have a second date with a forty-two year old man who is still using Friendster. I need this so when I run into the ex I can say, “I know we’re not getting back together because I have a date with Becky Yammoto’s boyfriend’s friend.” I know you don’t know who Becky Yamamoto is, but the ex does because I shat where I ate, people—which is always good advice, you should shit where you eat this way you don’t waste anything.
Now you understand why I’m still at this apartment making out with the Mr. Let’s Have Tea. Another five minutes go by he’s still masturbating and he again says, “I totally want you to suck my cock.”
“I thought we were having tea. (Sigh) I just don’t want to”
“OK. Can you lick it, then?”
(Sigh) Fine. So I’m licking his dick. I need the second date and I don’t want to make a scene. And he starts in with, “Oh that’s so good. That’s so good.”
Really? This fully clothed girl that you’ve badgered into licking your dick, that’s so good? Because it’s not like I’m porn star licking his dick. I’m not riding my tongue along his whole shaft. I’m just kind of tapping the tip of the head with the tip of my tongue. Kind of like a frog catching flies. And the whole time I’m sort of licking this guy’s dick I’m thinking, “Look how much I’m not getting back together with Ben. Look how much I’m not getting back together with Ben.”
At this point I’m just hoping that the “suck my cock” dude cums, so I can go home. I figure if he cums that’s a good point in the evening to make a graceful exit. If he cums, I can say, “Oh you’re done, great. I’ll see you for that second date.” But he’s not cumming which shouldn’t be surprising I’m barely stimulating his penis. I notice a clock which reads 11:30pm. So I say, “Oh man, it’s 11:30. I have to go my metro card is going to run out.”
He responds, “OK.”
[sarcasm]Obviously, I don’t have two dollars for the subway.
The Epilogue:
I never got my second date with my quasi date rapist. Ironically, it wasn’t because I didn’t suck his cock. Rather, it was because we got into a text-message fight. Yes, I got into a text message fight with a forty-two year old, father of two divorcee`. I was so disappointed because when I had sex again with Ben the following week, I had nothing to throw in his face.
Post Script:
Once telling this story on stage a comedian commented about how long the time was between cock sucking requests. I have to say I don’t know how much time actually passed. I didn’t notice the clock until the end of the evening and there was no music playing. I need music to judge time. I count the number of pop songs that have played. If a guy can last for 7-8 songs that’s pretty good. If he can last the entire length of both Beatle’s White Album that’s actually kind of chafing. I said five minutes because it felt like an open mic set.
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