One Good Reasonbymdb913©
Before you read beyond this section, there's something you should know. First off, there's only three paragraphs worth of actual sex story in this entire article, so if you're looking for something along those lines, might I suggest "Chicago Hotel Adventure" by Lothario the Great.
What you're about to read is a bit of a rant written by a young man who isn't worth your time, but you should seriously listen to if you're just like him. If you're 21 years old and you know less about dating than the average 12-year-old, please take a gander. If it isn't motivation to go out and do something, then I don't know what to tell you.
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***** "The only difference between the champions of life and the meek is using that regret as motivation to get it done the next time. If there is a next time."
--Robert A. Porter, III *****
I always wondered why there are some guys out there who are flat-out against giving a woman head. Yeah, they're out there, regardless of the fact that every guy in every erotic story you've ever read is some type of pussy-eating prodigy. Now, personally, I've never done it, but I really don't see why that demographic of men exists--hell, it looks downright fun to me!
I said I've never done it, and there's a very good reason for that--I've never had sex. Fuck, I've never come remotely close. Never dated. Never kissed. Never did any of that fun stuff. Hell, my sister is 15 as of this writing, and I've already come to terms (or is it "peace"?) with the fact that she'll more-than-likely lose her virginity before I will. Well, there's good reason for that--she's cute, which is something I've never been, and she's a good student which, again, is not something I'd put on any resume. I'm an honest boy, y'see.
I've been fat my entire life, which is an indirect cause of my complete and utter lack of any type of experience. Yeah, I know, I know, fat people have had sex. I understand that having six-pack abs, jet black hair and biceps with more curves than Route 333 aren't prerequisites to having sex, much less making love (I'll get to the difference later, maybe). And frankly, I've done my damndest never to use my obesity as an excuse, but I may as well just give in and give myself some type of slack (that, while even typing that, I know I don't deserve).
I was fat in elementary school. The kids made fun of me. And when kids make fun of you in elementary school and you spend recess with no friends, watching the other kids play kickball and play in the grass and all that fun stuff, you're not gonna build any fuckin' self-confidence, are you? I spent my recess in a little nook on the side of the playground so that I wouldn't bother anybody. The kids always made sure to note--whenever I had the audacity to think that I had the right to make my presence known--that I wasn't wanted nor needed, and that I never would be. And I listened intently.
So I kept myself to myself. I made sure never to put myself into a position where getting a friend would be possible. Because let's face it--who wants a fat, unfunny and all-around stupid ponce of a boy (I'm American, but you might see me using one or two British slang terms--that's just me) as someone whom you regularly hang out with? If there were times where someone near me wanted to talk, I did what I could to ignore them. And if that wouldn't work and, for some ungodly reason, they wanted to befriend me, I did what I do best--I was a rude little shit and made them forget the meaning of the word "optimism". Sure, I was perceived in school as the fat asshole, but what difference did that make? Even if I wasn't, I would have somehow destroyed that person's life simply by being acquainted with them. They didn't know it, but I probably indirectly saved their sanity, and to this day, I believe I was in the right for it.
And then high school. Son of a bitch, high school. If middle school was Hell, high school was a Björk concert. Not only did I almost flunk out, but things only got progressively worse. The students hated me (the feeling was mutual), the teachers hated me (the feeling was mutual), and the vice principal was too busy laughing it up with the football and basketball players to really give a damn about anything else. The worst part of it all, though, was Stacy.
I'll never forget when we met. See, after a while, I just got sick of having my defenses up and all I basically had to do was shut up and work, then go home. In sophomore year, during English class (one of, I think, three classes I failed in high school), we were paired off for a paper or something. I don't remember what it was about, nor do I really care. All I remember is randomly being paired off with Stacy (not her real name--"changed to protect the innocent" and all that), looking to my right when she sat down in the chair beside me, and feeling as though I was sitting beside an honest-to-whatever-God-is-up-there angel. You can forget about her blond hair. You can forget about her blue eyes. You can forget her curvy, doesn't-look-like-she's-starving frame. And yes, you can forget her beautiful storybook breasts (I know a girl having large natural breasts is a cliché, but nothing ever became a cliché by being false). The two things about her that will be with me until the day I die, as she greeted me with a cheerful "Hi!", will be her smile and her voice.
That smile. Sweet Jesus, that smile. Seriously, if you can think of the perfect way to describe that perfect smile, you're better than me. I know that I'm a hopeless romantic because, even with her amazing body, nothing gets me harder or my blood pumping faster than just thinking of her angelic face and her thousand-watt smile.
Her heart matched it. That's the best part. Of all the girls I ever had a crush on (and there were many; I'd been having crushes since I was around five or six), she was the first, last and only one to even acknowledge my existence, let alone be the first person to say the first word. She was the sweetest girl I ever knew, and I never truly knew her until well after we graduated.
She was one of only five people to sign my senior yearbook. Of those five, she was the only one to leave her e-mail address. It took about a month after school ended for me to contact her. But once we got in touch, things changed for me. And as the old saying goes, "the more things change, the more things stay the same."
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I've never once imagined fucking Stacy. I've imagined making love to her, and for those of you who don't know the difference, I don't know what you're doing at an erotic story website, because it's roughly the same difference between porn and erotica. When you fuck, it's to satiate your libido. When you make love, it's to satiate your soul. You can fuck anyone. Hell, you can fuck your dog if you want to. But there's only a select few people that you can make love to. The biggest difference is intimacy. That one beautifully haunting word is the key to the world. It's one thing to masturbate to fucking Eliza Dushku as hard and as fast as you can in the back of a rental car until she passes out. That's all well and good (I'm assuming). It's quite another to masturbate, eyes closed, picturing yourself on top of your lover, going as slow and gently as you can, needing the person under you, and knowing for a fact that they need you as well.
I know, I know, it's still a sex story site. You want action. Tell you what--I'll give you a little taste, but only a little, because I want to get on with my story.
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As stated, I've only ever imagined making love to Stacy, but what truly gets me off is when I give and don't receive. I've imagined slowly stripping her of all her clothing, piece-by-piece, while I stay fully-clothed. I've imagined her straddling me while I sit up as I touch every inch of her body, gently grazing my fingertips across her tummy as she mews, slowly peppering her lips and face with kisses, going up from the chin to the lips. From the lips to the tip of her nose. From the tip of her nose to her right eye, then her left eye, then right directly between her eyes, and finally back down to her lips. I've imagined French-kissing her voice box, making it wet and cold and vulnerable to the air that fills the room. I've imagined using my lips to pull on her nipples, flicking the tips of them with my tongue while they stay imprisoned in my mouth.
While all this goes on, I've imagined my right hand doing what it was born to do--pleasing her. Rubbing across her labia as her hands clasp onto my head, her fingers running through my short, curly brown hair. Using only the top portion of my index finger to mercilessly manipulate her clit, as she rocks in my lap, agonizing. Finally inserting my index finger into her wet folds after endless minutes of teasing, slowly but surely moving my finger in and out, in and out. Surreptitiously replacing one finger with two after a little while, feeling her hands rub across the top of my back, hugging my neck and shoulders. Using my thumb to massage her neglected clit, making her cry out. Telling her that she is nothing less than the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life. Telling her how sexy her curves feel. Telling her that there's nothing about her not to love. Telling her that I want to just keep doing what I'm doing forever and ever, until she soaks my jeans with her girl-come. Telling her that her letting me do this--allowing me to pleasure her in the way she deserves, with someone telling her, and meaning it, that she is perfection personified--makes me feel like a god.
And as she is about to climax, after minutes, hours, days, months, years, of absorbing my praises like a sponge, I imagine looking her dead in her teary eye and telling her, as clearly and as decidedly as I possibly can, "I love you." And I've imagined feeling her velvet walls crashing down on my fingers as she comes, covering my jeans in her nectar as promised, sobbing loudly as her world stops for this one mountaintop of a moment where her pleasure was not only the center of her world, but of a man who loves her.
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OK, that's enough. As I said, I have a story to tell, and sex is NOT prominent.
Stacy only went to college about 45 miles or so away and, during holidays, she comes right back here into town with her family. Yet, even though we speak online a lot (through AIM), we haven't physically seen each other since graduation. Around September of that year (2003), her computer breaks down, and the guy who comes over to fix it turns out to be the guy she is currently engaged to. You'd think that I'd be upset, and you'd be half-right. The other half, obviously, is that I was and am legitimately happy for her. Hell, she's happy with him, and that's all I'd want if we were together--her happiness, so why would I be angry?
Because I've seen his picture.
Folks, I shit you not, this guy looks almost EXACTLY LIKE ME. If it wasn't for the fact that he had clear skin, I'd swear it WAS me. Of course, he's got a degree in computer technology and is pinning down six figures a year, so he's actually better at being me than I am. You never actually realize that kind of fucker exists until you indirectly know one.
Now, a little bit of a change in my story. The truth of it is, it's not like Stacy and I talk every day. When we started out, it was maybe a few times a week. It wasn't until one particular instance, where she started getting explicit about their sex life, that we didn't talk for the better part of a year. I wasn't used to talking candidly about sex (I'm still not, that little walk into my dreams up there notwithstanding), and I thought she was saying it as a way of saying "I don't want to talk to you anymore, so I'm going to shock you to the point that you never want to speak to me again." And I humored her until a year later, when she came up out of the blue and asked what happened to me. In all honesty, I didn't answer her immediately. I just thought she was bored and incredibly desperate to speak to someone, and she had hoped that I'd forgotten that little conversation.
Of course, later I found out the truth--she's just open about her sex life with her fiancée. She's an open person, and I had simply forgotten that. I also found something else out. Something that, to this day, I have some serious trouble believing.
According to her own admission, she wanted to go out with me in high school.
OK, I'm going to sidetrack a bit here. This is for all you ladies reading this (for whatever reason), especially those who are in the higher social circles (particularly those who are attending school). There's something incredibly important that you need to understand right now. If you meet up with a guy that you really would like to go out with, someone who is kinda meek and shy, someone who just plain will not ask you out, even if you want him to, DO NOT, under any circumstances, THINK THAT HE DOESN'T WANT TO GO OUT WITH YOU. There's a very good chance that the problem is that he simply DOES NOT KNOW YOU'RE AVAILABLE. Look, maybe you tell your friends that you broke up with Such-and-Such, and they tell their friends, and their friends tell their friends, but face it--not everybody is in a gossip circle in school. Stacy was the only girl in high school I ever truly considered asking out, and one of the biggest reasons I never did was because, frankly, there was no way a girl this beautiful wasn't seeing somebody. I only discovered later that there were good times and bad times. This is why it is incredibly important sometimes--and I know this is a lofty ideal, but try it sometime--for the GIRL TO APPROACH THE GUY. I cannot tell you how much guys actually WANT THIS TO HAPPEN. The cold, hard fact is, there's a guy out there who actually respects your privacy, and if he thinks that you're dating someone (and let's face it, if you're hot, you probably are), he's not even going to bother, no matter how much he wants to (and he does, debilitatingly so). We're not afraid of rejection. If they're like me, they're used to it. Moreso, it's HOW we're rejected. Are you going to tell us that you've got a boyfriend? Do you really even HAVE a boyfriend? Are you going to be a bitch about it and say "I don't think my boyfriend would approve"?
OK, I'm done with my little rant within a rant, and we're moving on. So, yes, she wanted to date me. Later on, the topic came up again. Here now is a paraphrasing of that conversation:
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STACY: I wonder why I fell in love with the computer geek.
ME: Do you really need an explanation as to why you fell in love?
STACY: I guess it just happens. I knew you liked me in high school. I just never knew how much.
ME: Well, in retrospect, you're one of the few people I never annoyed. One of the big reasons I never asked you out is because I knew you could do so much better than me.
STACY: But wouldn't it have been nice to just go on one date? What would have been the harm?
ME: There might not have been any at all, but in retrospect, I don't think saying "coulda, woulda, shoulda" is the right thing to do.
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She agreed. She then said something that shocked the shit out of me--she didn't think she was even that good-looking back then. This threw me for a complete loop. How could something so perfect not know it? It wasn't fair. I told her that it was exactly the opposite. I mean, I didn't tell her about the whole touching thing I wrote up there, but I at least let her know that she was easily the prettiest I ever knew. I didn't think things could get better for me. I mean, sure, I was putting a whole lot on the line here, but at least I had directly stated my feelings outright.
But then. Oh, but then.
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ME: You sat next to me and I said to myself, "Good God, this girl is beautiful. She'd never give me the time of day."
STACY: I can't believe you remember when we first met.
ME: That's one of the few good memories I had in school.
STACY: To tell the truth, I thought you were cute in high school. You were really shy, and I love shy guys 'cause when you smile at them, they totally squirm--it's adorable.
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She thought I was cute.
SHE THOUGHT I WAS CUTE, YOU FUCKERS!!!!!
That's like winning the lottery, but having your puppy run over by a semi, all within a five-minute period. To this second, I don't know if she was telling me the truth. Frankly, I hope she wasn't.
On the one hand, if she was, then, well, the girl of my dreams thought I was cute and that she and I might have been able to have something, which is more than most guys can say. Of course, the girl of my dreams is now madly in love with someone who's just like me, but ISN'T me, so I'm secure in the fact that I'll never, ever have her. Unless he fucks up royally, which I would never wish for.
On the other hand, she lied to make me feel better, in which case she's a damn fucking liar, and no better than those prissy bitches who sometimes spoke to the 'little people' to alleviate their own guilt. Worst of all, it's coming from the girl of my dreams, the same person who basically talks to me because she's sometimes bored, and there's no face to look at when she speaks candidly.
At least with the latter, I'd be able to get over it and move on. At least with the latter, I wouldn't dwell on the fact that I had a chance. But I know my luck. She would have loved to go out with me. And it was because of the very reason I wouldn't approach her: no self-confidence.
So, why do I write this? For a nice little pity party for Yours Truly? Hardly; that's the LAST thing we want. To get it all off my chest? Partly. But mostly, it's a message. It's a message to guys out there who are just like me: 21 (give or take), lonely, with seemingly (SEEMINGLY) not a chance in Hell. As it turns out, if you're like me, you might just have had ONE chance in Hell.
In a few months, I'm getting gastric bypass surgery. Will it get rid of the reason why I have no self-confidence? Yep. Will it give me self-confidence? Probably not. Hell, it's not like fat people can't have sex, so what's gonna change?
My message is simple: Don't be like me. If you don't have the confidence to do something to change your life, GET THE FUCK OVER IT. I don't care how fat, skinny, tall, short, hot or ugly you are, you deserve happiness just like everybody else in this world. Man up, walk up to the girl of your dreams, and ask her out. Are her friends around? Doesn't matter. Will she reject you? She might. But if you're like me, you're already used to that.
'Sides, what if she doesn't?