Well, that sucked

Nineteen days of orgasmless existence came to an end this morning with a pathetic squirt. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

It all started in the dark at about 4:30 when my Belle Fille woke me up asking if I was interested in sex. “Ermph?” I replied. I had made my advances the night before since it had been an even numbered day since my last orgasm and she had previously expressed an preference for non-odd numbered days. However, “nineteen” is also the title of a song Belle liked in high school, so we were going to wait until the 19th day. Yeah, super. OK. Let’s wait! I’m sorry, what was I saying about wanting her to be capricious?

<clenched teeth>Good night, sweetie.</clenched teeth>

Flash forward six and a half hours to her proposition. Seriously, now!? It’s the middle of the night. Well, let’s not look this gift-wife in the mouth.

I did my dead-level best. I’m not sure I was even awake for most of it, but I did manage to get her off by going down on her. And here, guys, I have to make a confession. Even after nineteen days, I more than half hoped she’d let me roll off and go back to sleep. Yeah, I was hard and she was ready, but this was going to be not just the first time in almost three weeks, but the very first time with steel installed through my unit. But no, she wanted me to go. The reptile in me seized the moment and told the fluffy bunny to fuck off as I groped around for the condom package in the nightstand.

According to my piercer, I need to use a condom for about 6-8 weeks. At my current rate of consumption, I’ll burn through exactly two rubbers in that time. Now, it’s been a while since I used one of these things. Shopping for them is a little different than in the old days. Instead of picking them up in a greasy gas station convenience store, I made my selection while standing in the wide and well-lit aisle of our local Target superstore while moms with toddlers pushed carts full of Christmas toys and toilet paper nearby.  Before me was a six by twenty foot cornucopia of brightly colored prophylactic boxes. Ribbed, studded, spermicidal, thin, ultra thin, and magnum – all available in quantities from three to ninety-six from three different manufacturers. I was overwhelmed. Who the hell needs dozens of condoms, anyway? These things do expire, right? Halloween’s over, so passing them out to trick-or-treaters couldn’t be it. Perhaps they were intended for fall-out shelters or the nightstands of terribly lucky and/or delusional men.

Anyway, up on the top shelf in a little black box with a sheep’s head on it was a pack of three condoms apparently made from the intestine of the aforementioned animal. The writing on the box said these all-natural contrivances were the very thinnest and allowed for the most sensation for the discriminating gentleman (who might also have a latex allergy). They were roughly three times more expensive than their non-animal-based counterparts, and I’m just shallow enough to equate price with quality, so I bought them.

As it slid wetly out of its torn little envelope there in the inky blackness of our bedroom this morning, it occurred to me that it felt entirely unlike a mass-produced marvel of modern petrochemical manufacturing. Instead, it felt like rolled up skin. Rather than stop and consider what I was about to put on myself and risk the blood in my swollen member rushing off to some quiet, out of the way capillary where it could go back to doing what the rest of my body wanted to do, I sallied forth and unrolled the cold, wet, skin-like animal byproduct onto my sex.

The sheep on the package could just have well stood for a wool sock since that’s what it felt like I had on my dick as I entered Belle. I felt warmth and pressure, but couldn’t really tell how much of me was in her at any given point. Maybe the sheep my condom had come from had unnaturally thick intestinal walls. In any event, it didn’t really matter since the curved barbell in the head of my cock slid back and forth and pulled uncomfortably on its still-healing hole. I had to withdraw, but was pleased to release my manhood from it’s sheepy sensory deprevation chamber. One might think I felt sad that the sheep’s life was thusly wasted on my unchristened condom, but one would not only be wrong but one might also be freakishly obsessed with the rights of thick-intestined farm animals.

Once the intestine was off, Belle let me masturbate. Honestly, I should have stopped and just gone to sleep, but I felt I had gone that far and, with the ghost of Wooly the Sheep hanging over the bed, I wanked my meat. Normally, I like to alternate from the base of my shaft to the head, but the area I like to rapidly stimulate is currently healing, so I could only stroke the bottom two-thirds of the cock. Eventually, I coaxed it to give up the semen. It didn’t feel good at all – it felt like a hell of a lot of work. Its volume was unremarkable which, in itself, is somewhat remarkable considering how long it had been. But no, it wasn’t fireworks and earthquake stuff. My cranium did not explode. I did not see lights. Instead, the orgasm weakly flung itself onto my stomach, barely making it over my belly button.

I felt like the guy who sat through a joke he’s already heard, but told with an overly long set up and a bungled punch-line. I’m hoping Belle isn’t too tired tonight because I’d like to call a mulligan and get my do-over.