The Loneliness Of The Long-Distance Cock Sucker

Posted: October 23, 2010 in Desire, Masculinities, Porn, Uncategorized

I might have to make this brief, and a bit rushed. I don’t really want to linger on the details any more than I have to.

This should have put me off internet dating, put me off sex altogether. I guess it contributed to a process…

It was summer. I met him in a bar after work in Manchester. I was living in Sheffield at the time, and I didn’t expect it to be an all-nighter. But you never know with these things.

When I saw him I was mildly pleased: he looked as cute as he had in the photos, emailed to me after chatting on the Ronseal of internet dating sites, SEX in the UK dot com. Cute in a slightly gay way. But the expresion on his face did not mirror mine. All I could see was  a look of unbridled horror and embarrassment staring back at me. Did  I look that bad? I walked over, smiling, ignoring the ominous sign.

‘I went up to a girl who I thought was you’ he said, not even managing a ‘hello’.

‘I even bought her a drink!’

‘Oh’ I said. This was not a good start.

‘After chatting for a bit I realised, and I said ‘you’re not Quiet Riot Girl are you? She said no. And you’re not James’.

‘Oh dear’.

The upshot of this confusion was that  I had to get my own drink, as sonny Jim had spent his quota of kindness on mystery woman A). And that he was so embarrassed and worried she would appear again out of nowhere to torment him, that I had to down said drink in one, and join him in running out of the bar as quickly as he could.

We retreated to his office, a loft conversion in Manchester’s hip Northern Quarter. He worked for a men’s fashion company. He showed me the Autumn collection, by way of foreplay. Lots of Pringle and pastel shades. Not gay at all then. There was a fridge with Stellas in which suddenly made the whole situation do-able, if not exactly heart-racing.  We sat down on the fake-leather sofa, facing the naked brick wall.

Our whole build up to this evening had centred round his ‘sex at work’ fantasies. I have never had sex at work fantasies. I have tended to find work, and co-workers, decidedly unsexy. If ever I have had the misfortune of being attracted to someone I work with, I have always felt utterly embarrassed and awkward. And they have always been married anyway.

But sonny Jim had the whole saucy secretary bending over the desk in stockings and suspenders thing going on. ‘Yes sir’. I expect it came from watching bad pornos. Don’t most men’s fantasies? I can’t say I didn’t play along, it was funny when it was all imaginary. But now it was real and nobody was laughing.

He sidled up to me on the sofa. He didn’t waste any time with small talk. I managed to finish my beer before he was all over me, pulling at my blouse, finding my crotch. I wasn’t complaining.  I was horny too.

One thing led to another and we found ourselves on the floor, between a desk and the sofa, and it seemed the logical thing for me to go down. I thought if I’d been in the porno that inspired this scenario, I would have gone down at this point. So I did. I like to suck cock when the mood takes me. Not if it is expected necessarily. I don’t always value that hand on my head, pushing, pushing. But this was nice. I felt a moment of power. Cock suckers can have power sometimes too you know. Anyway, I was sucking away, thinking about nothing, except how sex at work didn’t really seem that different from sex anywhere else. Then I heard a noise.

‘I’m GOING TO COME!’ he screeched. Well good. A little soon, maybe, but that was ok. Isn’t that what is supposed to happen? But he said it like it was the end of the world.

So I pulled my mouth away from his dick and sat up. ‘SHIT!’ he cried. Had he never had his cock sucked before?

And then I saw things through his eyes. The office. The desk right next to us where the middle aged secretaty sat, where she would be sitting again tomorrow morning. The sofa, the empty bottles of stella he would have to tidy away so his boss didn’t find out he had been there, naked with a strange tart on the company floor. The spunk. And as if on cue it arrived, finding its way onto me, the floor.

He jumped up and found a tissue and began cleaning it up frantically.

‘We’ve got to get out of here’ he said, as if we had committed a crime and the sirens were wailing outside. We had committed a crime of course. The crime of trying to turn fantasy into reality. Somebody had to pay.

So we got dressed as if our lives depended on it, clattered down the stairs and out into the Manchester evening. It was summer and it wasn’t even dark. We got in his car and sped towards the station. A kind of Bonnie and Clyde in reverse.

He practically kicked me out of the vehicle, onto the pavement, and left me there, alone, as he drove off home, not even saying goodbye, not looking back. Nothing.

Sitting on Picadilly station, waiting for my train, I wondered what all that had been for. I started trying to turn it into a funny story in my head, one to tell the girlfriends, in a Sex In The City kind of way. ‘You’ll never guess what..’ but it didn’t sound very funny to me. Because I was the one who had failed to deliver the goods. The whore who wasn’t quite whorish enough. The porno actress who fluffed her lines. The slut who couldn’t hide the fact that she was really just a woman. And the fact that a blow job is just a blow job, no matter how you dress it up.

Sitting in my seat, watching the Peak District tower above me, not giving a shit about the lives of the people below, I consoled myself with one thought. At least I wasn’t the one who had to turn up for work the next day, terrified the secretary or the cleaner had found bits of spunk on the office floor. 

I may be  a cock-sucker but I tend to cover my tracks. I put miles and hours and mountains between me and my evening with that silly boy. He had to face it all over again, over and over again.

I think that’s only fair, don’t you?

Comments
  1. I hate it when “coming” creates this huge shift in your perception of reality. Especially, when you’re on the receiving end of this shift in perception.

    Bah.

    Good story though.

  2. marc nash says:

    I feel ashamed on behalf of manchester, my urbs mater.

    You are quite right about the desultory nature of most male fantasies deriving from tired old porn tropes

  3. Hans says:

    1) You’ve got balls.
    2) This kind of story saddens me. Don’t let bad experiences tinge your view of men.
    3) Hilarious title, though.

  4. hmm says:

    You just discovered that

    The office sucks !

    (take it on many levels – the male character seems to be unable to escape the professional level)

  5. hmm says:

    oh god, here’s another sheryl underwood clip your dick sucking narrative may rub up against.

  6. Craig says:

    Fantastic narrative! So there are real people using sex in the UK. I thought they were all naughty school boys pretending to be willing women or hookers looking for a mark. Intriguing!

  7. Yep real people use sex in the uk! I got the t-shirt (with the cum on it) to prove it.

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