The Greatest Show On Earth
This is a version of the story I told last night at my big comedy show debut. It was well-received and so was I. Thank you to everyone who came out to support me and to Richmond Comedy Coalition for making it happen. If you missed it, never fear, I’ve got a few more tricks up my sleeve.
I once dated a guy who was a 35 year old virgin. He had learned what little he knew about sex from pornography which, in theory, seemed totally endearing and somewhat hot. In practice, though, it left a lot to be desired. And it took a long, long time to get to the practice. You know, because of the whole “virgin” thing. When we finally got to it (my suggestion, naturally), I ended up the sadclown in a 3 ring shit circus.
We headed upstairs in his parents’ house, which was where he lived (hey! how ’bout them stereotypes?), for my first glimpse of his bedroom. It smelled musty, like an old man’s pockets, and was covered in stacks of comic books. Like, every square inch had not just a comic book on it but at least a foot of them. Also, Toy Story sheets.
He tried to undress me in a sexy way but I wasn’t having any of that. I had waited two months and it felt like this might take two more months, so I hissed, “Stop it! Just take off your clothes!” You know, because I’m a lady. Also, we all know that there was no way a virgin was going to figure out a bra clasp his first time out, right? Right.
So, we’re nude. He’s ready. I’m ready. We’re standing next to the bed. I’m a cowgirl and I’m trying to figure out how to get this guy to lay down. He’s standing there, awkwardly grabbing my breasts and kissing me, but in a weird half-mouth/half-face kind of way. Like he missed his mark but kept on trucking like a little trooper.
“Um, hey, you wanna lay down?”
“No, I wanna slide my throbbing love muscle into your beautiful flower.”
“I want to bury my throbbing cock in your secret garden?”
“No talking, okay?”
I finally got tired of standing there, naked, staring and kissing in a way that was making my semi into a bye-bye and climbed up on the bed. He was 6′ 7″, I am 5′ 6″. It really was a climb. I laid there as he sort of hung over me on all fours, unsure of what to do.
“Really, if you’ll lie down, I’ll take care of this.”
Still hovering. No laying. Just looking at me.
“Are you going to join me down here?”
“Can I talk now?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“I want to snake my tongue deep into your hot, juicy pussy…”
“I gotta go.”
I did. For thirty more minutes of Cirque du MakeMeGay. Porn had taught him such valuable lessons as “girls can climax from just intercourse”, “sixty-nine is fundamental so climb on up there and dangle it in her face”, and “hey, she’s got another hole, fill it!” The acrobatics rivaled those of a Russian gymnast and felt desperate and sad. Any attempts I made were half-hearted, at best. In the end, neither the throbbing love muscle nor the hot, juicy pussy met their bliss.
Not even I’m horrible enough to break up with someone after that shit show, so I hung in for another month or so. We never again attempted what he called “lovemaking”. Barf. We still talk from time to time. He says he lost his virginity with me but I contend he could still claim virgin if he wanted to. I don’t think he does. The good news is, I think he’s got a promising future with Ringling Brothers, should he choose it. Me? My future’s in the rodeo.