The Best Sex Story You’ve Ever Read
There have been some incredible sex stories on this website. I love it. None of them drip with desperation for approval, yet they’re all sufficiently awesome. But I gotta say, with all due respect to this one, this one, and that one, I think I have the story to trump them all. The other night, something happened to me that I would call magic if I didn’t believe it to be a downright religious experience. Strap in, gentlemen, and try to put on some kind of hat, so the brains don’t go everywhere when I blow your minds. Here we go.
A few weekends ago, on a lark, my buddies and I decided to get hammered at TGI Fridays, because, what the hell? Every night in there is Friday, but this was an ACTUAL Friday night, like it would be in Alaska, or anywhere else. Anyway, we’re all a few Skinny Blackberry Margaritas deep, busting each other’s balls, when a lonely cougar sidles up next to me at the bar and says, “Buy me a Mango Lemonade?” I shoot a glance over at my bros, who are giving me the “What are you waiting for?” look, so I say to her, “How ‘bout a double?” And, I shit you not, she places her hand directly on my balls, under the bar, and says, “Make it a triple.” My buddies instantly see the possibilities ahead, give me a pat on the back and say, “We’re gonna head down to Chumley’s, maybe we’ll see you there,” knowing full well that the only place I’m going is on flight 69, with DickThrob Airlines, to the city of VaginaBurgh, in the state of IMGOINGTOBANGTHISFIFTYTOSIXTYYEAROLDWOMAN-ACHUSETTS.
I start to spit some game at her, and she says, “Shut the fuck up and let’s go to my place.” I close my tab faster than a 23-year-old girl giving up on her fashion blog. We get in her Isuzu Amigo, peel out, and head back to her condo. We’re barely in the door before she starts whacking me off — and the grip she has is incredible. It’s kind of firm, but not too firm, like she knows the exact pressure to exert before pain creeps in, and her grip is reversed with the thumb on top. I ignore the ecstasy for only a moment, and look down to see how Picasso was painting the masterpiece, and she whispers, “I have a mild form of palsy.”
My God. I knew genetics had to play a part in that kind of talent. Then she works her way down, and the hand job that I thought could not be topped was promptly forgotten as she gave me the most majestic nobber any man has ever been privy to. It felt like my dick was covered in peanut butter and dipped in a koi pond. Somehow, she nibbled a thousand separate areas all at the same time, and then…and then…the most amazing sensation. I look down, and for a moment I’m completely freaked. Her hair is on the ground. I repeat: her hair was on the ground. It was a wig. A wig! And she’s rubbing the bottom of my balls with the top of her head, with that little bit of stubble that feels really cool when you run your hand over it, except imagine that on your taint. Insane. My mind could not process. Nothing mattered. The sensation was something that eliminated the physical world around me. I was only a beam of energy, floating in infinity. This was officially the greatest night of my life. And we were only getting started.
Then she said she wanted to make things interesting, so she disappeared for like a half hour. The whole time I’m at full throttle, occupying myself with the copy of Jet she had thrown at me on her way out of the room. She comes back in a full on cat costume…and not just any costume, like Broadway’s-Cats-lifelike — fur applied with stage makeup glue and cat-eye contacts in her eyes. She started to purr and hop up on and off the desk, hitting me with her tail. Completely hot. And, as if that wasn’t enough, she goes into her closet and puts on a cop uniform ON TOP OF THE CAT COSTUME. I’ve got to say, that hit the sweet spot for me. Police Cat. Officer Whiskers. Like a sexy Richard Scarry character. And believe me when I say this; she wasn’t just tongue-bathing herself. No sir. I had the right to remain erect.
What followed can only be described as mind-blowing. She was rough, yet gentle, tossing me around like a rag doll and choking me just so. It’s how I imagine Prince has sex, scurrying around the bed as if it were a moon bounce, fighting for breath through the tears, crying for relief and yet…begging for more. At one point, when I think I can’t possibly do any more, she grabs a replica wand she’d bought from the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, points at my manhood, and screams, “Accio Erection!” What happened next would put Viagra and Cialis out of business for good. The blood was rushing so quickly down to my dick, you’d think someone down there was giving out free iPhones. “If your erection lasts for more than four hours, consult a doctor.” Well, what about if it lasts the rest of my life? We did EVERY position: helicopter, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, cowboy, cow, down dog, petting zoo (no sex, just petting and feeding each other), child’s pose, jazz hands, pumpkin-spiced-sideways-sweater-style…you name it. By the time we finished several hours later, she had swaddled me in a blanket and cradled me as I fought for breath. Then she put me down.
“Get dressed. I want to get out of here,” she said as she headed to the bathroom, “I’m going to grunt out a hairy one, then I want to grab some food.” I could only nod in agreement. I was in awe. Then I looked down at the sheets. So much blood. Was it mine or hers? Did it matter? No. It was the same. It was ours.
When we left and stepped into the darkness, I could feel it was the early morning — 4 or 5am, and a sheen of spring dew glistened in the streetlights. Cabs were starting up again, newsstands were sweeping away the night’s debris, and in my refractory period clarity, I felt the ache of life and the significance of each moment. My body felt like it was barely containing something inside me, and the brevity of my existence was at once heartbreaking and inspiring — the paradox of death inspiring life. In that instant, there was only me and her. The light touch of the hairs on the back of her knuckles, the sound of her breath gurgling through a little bit of phlegm, and all my insecurities, only a whisper of a memory. She looked at me with her cat contact eyes piercing through my soul and said only one word: “Ribs?”