Everybody who shows up don’t always show out. At some point or another, a few fail to rise to the occasion. 

By Emoine B., edited by Ida Harris


The year was going by extremely fast and before I knew it, it was December. After a nearly seven month spell without the D, your girl was feenin’ for a man’s touch. I have always been a firm believer in women owning their sexuality and being sexually free, but personally — I never had an opportunity because I was always booed up. Now was the time, though. I was newly single and sex with my ex was just  meh. I was ready, willing and down for whatever. I felt like I owed  it to myself to let loose and be free from the judgment of my worst critic — me.

Taking the advice of a friend, I hopped on Tinder, looking for a whole Zaddy to help fulfill my sexual desire. I landed on this fine 20-something morsel whose body looked like it was chiseled by the hand of God. He was NBA basketball player tall with perfect charcoal skin. I decided to met up with him to do an official crazy check before I handed over the keys to the cooch.

During our initial meeting, I realized the differences between us. They were stark — and whew chile, the country. He had ‘Bama boy oozing from his pores. I mean he even wanted to live on a farm. Me, I’m a city girl who wants to see the world. We were polar opposites, yet  against my better judgment, I decided to gift these cookies the next day. It was just sex right?

At the end of our meeting we walked to his car and I admired how damn fine he was. We embraced and in that moment I kinda felt a connection. From the way he looked at me and the way his dick bulged, he was feeling one, too. I was turned on so as the liberated woman I aimed to be, I made my intentions known:

“Tomorrow I want to see you and I really want was some of that dick.” I said.

As brave as I thought I was, that next day, I was nervous as shit. I was overthinking and having anxiety about my Tinder dick date. I went panty shopping to make sure I was extra sexy. I was obsessing to the point my friend urged me to “chill.”

“It’s just fucking,” she said. “He won’t care; those cheekies will be on the floor do quickly.”

That’s when I realized I was being naive as hell. Here I was getting ready for a sexy date night when the reality was I was pressed for a one night stand.

That night I got the infamous “come through” text.

 

 

I headed to his place dressed in a t-shirt, and leather skirt with thigh high boots. I jumped in my car and hit my Love, Sex & Water playlist ‘cause that shit was a whole mood to get your pussy juices flowing.

 

 

Halfway there, I got an uneasy feeling to turn around, but I kept going. I hopped off the expressway, turned down a dark street, and peeped the dreaded blue and red lights flashing in my rearview. Apparently, I ran a stop sign. I flashed my pearly whites at the officer, told him I was lost and received with a warning. I was irritated. The stop doubled down on my hunch to turn my ass around and go home, but I continued anyway.  

I texted him as I pulled up to his apartment building. The nigga didn’t even meet me downstairs; that was a negative in my book. Once I made it four flights up the stairs and walked down a long dimly lit hallway, there he was leaning in his doorway with gray sweats on and a tight tee on. By the look on his face and the bulge in his crotch, I could tell he was ready. That was a plus in my book.

We walked to his bedroom and chatted while a Netflix movie played in the background. He seemed to be studying my every word and that made me comfortable.

“So you don’t do this often, huh?” he asked sarcastically, in a sweet southern drawl.

He kissed me with a force that instantly made my pussy moist. He pushed up my skirt and licked me all down my stomach then  used his teeth to pull off those cheeky panties. I moaned as this bearded stanger tongue-fucked me, going back and forth between my ass and pussy. He occasionally looked up at me with my juices all over his mouth just to turn me on even more. This man was a tease. As he ate me out, he pulled down his pants and rubbed his dick. The moment had finally come. That lump I had been feeling all night was going to work my pussy out with no mercy. He climbed off the bed to put a condom on that cock.

 

 

The room was dark, but I could see his silhouette fumbling, looking around for the condom. Then I heard the tear of plastic and latex snapping against his skin. Two minutes of adjusting, rolling, and snapping were followed by several “shits” until he finally made it back to the bed.

“Imma break your back.” he said.

He bit my neck and pulled my ass to the edge of the bed by my legs. I closed my eyes and held on tight for a back-breaking ride. The wetness of my twat would make it that much easier to slide up in me. To my dismay, the hardness I felt had disappeared. In its place was a lump of limp dick.

I didn’t want to break the mood so I tried my best not to appear pissed.

“Is everything ok, are you sure the condom isn’t too tight,” I asked.

“Yes, I’m sure”

He was clearly annoyed by my talking, but continued to penetrate my pussy with his unstiff dick. He failed. He took the condom off to put on another. Again, I heard the latex snapping and popping like he tryna squeeze his fist in the damn thing instead of a dick. He did this condom adjustment thing three consecutive times.

“Do you know your condom size?” I asked.

“Yes girl, my friend gave me one.” he answered.

I sighed and rolled my eyes up in my head. How damn lazy and cheap is a dude who couldn’t even buy a pack of condoms that fit.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this” I said.

“No,” he said as climbed back on top of me a fourth time with a dick that noodle soft. After a final attempt, he rolled off of me and conceded.  No dick for me. It was over.

We slid back into our clothing, and sat on the bed, mindblown about what-the-fuck had just happened. How could I be so willing to serve this dude pussy on a platter and still not get any?

We sat quiet in the dark, until he finally broke the silence: “Maybe God was telling me to slow down, I was doing too much.”

Maybe God is telling your dick is broken and you need to see a doctor for erectile dysfunction, I thought as I side-eyed him for that trash dick experience.

To some degree, though, he was right and what he said applied to me, too — the signs were all there: Our differences, the nervousness, second-thoughts, the stop sign, getting pulled over, limp dick.

It was all there.

Still I was leaving with a dry pussy. He assured me that never happened to him and he owed me — I told him I’d cash in soon, but who were we kidding? As soon as I left his place, I was gonna keep it moving just like those Tinder swipes, and I had an idea he would, too.

 

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