I Have To Choose Between Alcohol Or Sex Or I Will Die

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Nice Move

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I didn’t know her name, but I’ll never forget the BJ. I didn’t want to tell her it was the best blowie of my life because then she would get cocky and expect me to reciprocate, but it was the best blowie of my life.

I was laying out, soaking in the awesome, when I felt a tingling sensation travel up my back. In moments, I went from feeling sensational to not feeling at all. I couldn’t feel my face. I couldn’t feel anything. I was numb all over, even Little Richard. I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t. I panicked as my vision turned fuzzy and dim, the edges going black. I tried speaking but barely managed to grunt. The grunt was confused for love noises and she redoubled her knob slobbing efforts. Things got worse. As I stared at the ceiling fan, wondering if it’s on or off because I legitimately couldn’t tell, the shroud closed in.

I woke up later with blowjob girl curled under my arm. I tried sitting up again and found that I couldn’t move, so I picked up my laptop.

Here’s where I interject with some background. I have a problem. It takes me forever to nut. It’s not like, “Oh yeah, I last forever in bed.” It’s like, “I can’t get it out of me.” And guys, I promise, it’s not as glamorous as it seems. When it comes to sex, girls can feel very insecure, and with this problem, they oftentimes feel downright inadequate. Mix in a little crazy and you got a storm brewing.

I was on my laptop and obviously tried to Google my problems. Apparently, this numb feeling is a common thing for people with my problem, which is a consequence of mental health concerns or alcohol/substance abuse.

Hmm. Well, nothing surprising there.

More reading convinced me to see my doctor.

Now, I haven’t spoken to my doctor since the 6th grade for fear of her identifying my alcoholism, so when she walked in to the room, I was unpleasantly surprised at how attractive I found her.

I tried explaining the purpose of my visit using the most clinical terms I could imagine, the room feeling uncomfortably sterile and quiet. She stared at me, professionally attentive. After I finished my story, she sat in silence, taking it all in. She finally broke the silence, asking if I would agree to a “physical.”

Casting off what remained of my pride, I pulled down my pants. She gave me basic information about testicular cancer as she went about her examination. I hear her droning, but I’m focusing on containing myself.

“Z-Y-X-W-V-U-T…”

I became suddenly too aware of the environment and, for some reason, blurted out, “You know what’s funny? It actually IS cold in here.” She let out a laugh; her body shuddering, my boys still in her soft hands. The boner-inducing attractiveness of this woman was turned up to 11.

“Z-Y-X-W-V-U-T…”

I tried imagining that big girl from my past. I bit my tongue, drawing blood. There was a small stir, but I succeeded.

“Everything checks out,” she said. “Seems okay to me!” Did I imagine her winking?

She asked if we could draw blood to send in for a workup. The blood coming out of my tongue wasn’t permissible, for some reason, so she drew some from my arm. I came back a week later for my results.

“I have good news, bad news, and worst news,” she started.

Well, tits.

“Good new: your, uhh, fainting/performance thing is reversible. Bad news: it seems to be a direct consequence of your drinking. So, if you cut your drinking, everything should return to normal. Worst news: there’s a certain threshold with this problem.”

I venture the question, “What do you mean by threshold?”

“You can’t really have it both ways. If you insist on remaining sexually active without changing your drinking habits, it could cause irreparable damage to your fun bits. Absolute worst case scenario would be a form of testicular cancer, but that’s not guaranteed.”

Gentlemen, I was given an ultimatum, to choose between the two most important things in my life: sex and booze.

Currently, I am drinking whiskey out of the bottle, laying in my bathtub, contemplating the futility of my future existence. As I pick my poison, so to speak, I recall all the fond memories of each. I cry.

Has ever a man felt so desperate?

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