By this time in my collegiate career, I thought I had pretty much tried it all. Every position had been knocked out, every unique location on campus had been conquered and after having both types of threesomes, I didn’t think there was much more sexual experimentation left for a straight guy. Boy, was I wrong. I just hadn’t met the right girl yet.
It was a Friday when I bumped into her at Rulloff’s. We discovered we shared several mutual friends and hit it off immediately. We got to talking, got to drinking and later that night got to fucking. It was good, really good. She asked how open I was sexually, and I brazenly told her she could do whatever she wanted to me.
Using my belt for both bondage and beating, she was assertive and domineering in all the right ways. I was into it. We woke up the next morning and continued the drinking where we had left off. We went on an informal date in the afternoon and continued the chatting where we’d left off. And later that night, we continued having kinky sex, right where we had left off. But Monday morning was around the corner, and we both needed to stop drinking, stop fucking and get our respective shit together before reality set back in.
Tuesday arrived quickly, and I just as quickly found an excuse to go out. So did she. A bit of texting combined with drunken luck allowed us to run into each other again. I was sloppy though; and by the time we got back to her place, my performance had been impaired. I couldn’t get it up. It happens to the best of us.
She wasn’t fazed at all: “Get on all fours,” she ordered me with mysteriously seductive confidence. I was too drunk for my dick to work, so I was more than happy to simply follow instructions that might save me from complete embarrassment. I didn’t think twice and didn’t wonder what she was up to as I rolled over and haphazardly fell onto my hands and knees. Considering I had stumbled back from the bar like a toddler, it was more than appropriate I now found myself in a crawling position.
What wasn’t so appropriate was why I was in aforementioned child’s pose. I was facing the headboard, head directly above a pillow when I felt a slight tickle on — and then in — my ass. I wasn’t really sure what she was doing back there at first. Maybe she was trying to get me hard through some prostate stimulation? Nope, it was moist. That was no finger. She was eating out my asshole.
Okay so I’ve had a finger or two down there before, and there have been a number of times the lines between balls, taint and butthole have been blurred during an exceptional blow job, but this was uncharted territory. At first I wasn’t sure if I liked it, but I was sure I was a bit uncomfortable.
Apparently I did start to like it though, because the substance-induced impotence previously afflicting me was no longer keeping me flaccid. I was evidently becoming more comfortable with the concept of the rim job. But this was not just to get me erect; she clearly had other things in mind.
When I told her I was ready for sex (remember: communication is key), she just went in deeper and gripped my hips tighter. She then reached her hand fully around and simultaneously stroked my cock while still submersed in my anus. This went on for some time, and when I was coming close to coming; like an accomplished acrobat, she slid under my spread legs to finish me off with her mouth.
My mind — along with my load — was blown. While this was my first time playing around with ass to mouth, it clearly wasn’t hers. She was scarily good at it; and I must admit, I was mildly intimidated. My appetite is usually hard to satiate, but she was like flavor overload. While I’m happy to have had my salad tossed once, I’m not sure if I ever want to go there again.
I was definitely looking for a challenge when I met her, but I should have been careful with what I wished for. As we kept hooking up, things only got more and more out there. I had met my match. She was far kinkier and clearly more experienced than I was, continuing to do things that had never even occurred to me — and I have a pretty creative, fucked-up imagination.
Eventually we parted ways. The sex was consistently phenomenal, but it was likely due more to her talents than any chemistry we might have had. She was certainly the challenge I was looking for, but I learned that I have my own limits. I also learned what it’s like to have a spit-shined sphincter.
Slightly Above Average is a student at Cornell. Comments may be sent to email@example.com. Guest Room appears periodically this semester.