And then I jerked off

Bad sex is like a poorly written script: the more takes you force, the worse it gets.

The most recent novelty in my life is acting. While I'm trying to give my best to the poor bastard who picked me for the main role by random, I have these amusing moments of silence. The crew does what it does best, the other actors are sitting and chatting around so it is not precisely the type of silence you may think of, however the peace I find amidst this seemingly chaotic environment is almost as relaxing as jerking off while taking a shower. Almost. So silence creates peace, peace creates fertile soil for my thoughts, and finally my thoughts are... well, they form up to something clever. Or dumb. This time: both.

She was the hottest girl in the dorm. She was a bit short but nonetheless gorgeous. Had danced for over ten years, had the curves you won't find anywhere. She was somewhat simple-minded which she perfectly deputized with her emotional intelligence: the kind of girl you'd never like to discuss Wittgenstein with, just rather fuck her til the last breath. Or at least that was what I had thought.

First time was bad. She was drunk. Being drunk usually has two implications on women: either turns them into a sexual predator who feed on cock, or instantly switches off their "seductive powers" button. It was only later when I found out that her buttons were deactivated by the manufacturer.

So second time was bad again. We weren't drunk. Not being drunk often has two implications on women: either turns them into the sexual fantasy you had been imagining about, or become the authentic counterparts of what we call as a "piece of wood".

Third time was the last time. She was drunk. She ate some spicy soup with beans before she rushed into my room to grab me out of my late night trance, and to -finally- fuck me. Being drunk usually has two implications on women, but I've already told you that. And yet I still believed the sheer eroticism of her character won't die out once I start undressing her.

I was wrong again. Still, the bathroom seemed cosy enough to bend her over (roomies' peace shan't be disturbed), but undressing her brought the same disappointment. She tired to kiss me but all her mouth spoke to me was an ugly burp which chanted the exact ingredients of the soup.

I sent her out. She needed sleep, and she even believed it's better to rest. There I was, sitting in the shower, hot water scorching my skin; half stiff cock in my hand. I laughed.

And since there was nothing better to do, I jerked off.