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Trust Your Gut

11-jul-2002

I was in tennis whites, with pigtails, a visor and bubblegum platforms. K was adorable in a mock food-service-industry uniform. Really, how often do you find a man dressed ironically in this city?

He squeezed my ass a few times, complimented my body hair and gave me his number. My tummy clenched. It felt like a warning, but I decided it was love.

A few days later, when I knocked on his apartment door, he shouted, “Come in!” He was at the computer, in a chat room. I spent five minutes standing in the living room as he tick-tacked away on the keyboard, ignoring me.

He signed off, finally, jumped on the bed and said, “Let’s start.” I should have said, “Let’s not.” I thought it was a date-date where we did something first, then had sex; but more than that, I wasn’t impressed with his style. Clothes good, comportment bad.

Instead of saving my sorry ass, I felt I had something to prove. I thought, Well, I’ll show you... the fuck of your life. And that I did.

His dick was eight inches long and nearly as thick, Stretching my mouth as wide as possible, I went down on it, vengefully, like a frog swallowing a snake. I did fine until I decided to deepthroat at the same time that he decided to push. I’m a drag queen, not a superhero. When my gag reflex clicked in, I couldn’t pull his fattie out of my throat fast enough. I threw up.

Mind you, it was a modest spill by any standards. I thought training my throat muscles was like a gym workout—you push your limits to see results. Sadly, sometimes in the face of over-confidence, you can hurt yourself.

At the time, all I could think was: Do I tell him, 'Oops, I had an accident?' Or do I swallow my, um, pride, and turn up the enthusiasm so that he won’t notice, or care? I don’t know if K realized that I’d upchucked on him. Something tells me it wouldn’t have been his first time; maybe he’d grown too blasé to mention it. Determined to champion the night, I lapped it up and kept my mouth shut.

For the next 20 minutes, we took turns fucking each other. Then the phone rang. Abruptly, he climbed off me, picked up the receiver and proceeded to make another date, for a half-hour later. I was still naked, and wet. It was a less than flattering moment. I wanted to lambaste him for his bad form, but, well, I’d spit up on him and not mentioned it.

That, sexy reader, is how I learned to trust my intuition. When your gut tells you to toss your cookies, toss ‘em with conviction. Better still, when you get the feeling that it’s not going to work, don’t choke on your pride trying to force it.

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