Abstinence Education

//by Keith Warren//

Three weeks ago I began an experiment in abstinence.

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Jerk-off abstinence.

And last night I stayed over at a girl’s apartment. I was looking forward to a pleasant evening of sex, however tame I knew it would be. She doesn’t let me press my thumb into her asshole.

She lives at UCLA and I work in Beverly Hills, so no matter how unsatisfying the night might turn out, I’d at least revel in the fifteen minute mosey down Wilshire Boulevard to the office the next morning. After a quaint dinner at a local eatery, we settled in for a movie at her apartment. I’d never seen Night At The Roxbury before, and it was as terrible as I imagined. The outfits were “fun,” if nothing else.

We headed to her bedroom not one head-ticcing moment to soon. The shared room somehow boasted floorspace for two fucking queen beds. And the roomie. Who was in. Instead of out. Should’ve been at a party, but there she was. 

Crying.

Fuck me.

That was my initial impression, but lucky for everyone it was only a case of the sniffles. Of course, tonight she decided to stay in and finish her philosophy paper, waxing abstract on “commitment constituted attitudes,” or some such nonsense. I didn’t have the heart to sexile anyone.

The inevitable truth of the case was obvious. Our fucking had been foreclosed upon. BANK OWNED. I could just see one of those creaky realtor hang-signs poking out of my relatively manicured bush: NO HANKY PANKY TONIGHT. TAKE A FLYER.

The red-headed vixen of a roomie is a virgin to boot, which made me uncomfortable shedding my clothes for an embarrassingly early bedtime. Sex or not, I am not about to give up that commute. I plonked my unsexed sex toboggan (that’s what I call my bod) down to sleep. Thirty minutes of pretending to be asleep before I relaxed enough to actually drift off in the presence of two academically commiserating coeds.

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In my sleep I was transported to a swanky house party. A bustling modern house with lots of glass and glasses being passed around. A very sexy lady partner and I were chasing each other around this house, looking for a spare bedroom to get away with a little somethin’. We pop through a door into a small bedroom, don’t bother to close it behind us. Hands clasped at her hips, lips locked, I push her so she falls backward onto the bed.

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We kiss those kind of kisses where our lips are the wet seals of a moist vacuum container, inside which our unleashed tongue-beasts thrash violently against one another. The deep blue neon heat of the moment flashes over me. I know she wants to please me. I pull my mouth away from hers, right myself, and knee-shuffle my way up the bed. I unzip my pants and pull my dick out, already convulsing, already on the brink. She instinctively opens her mouth, wraps her tongue and lips around my mushroom tip. I feel the searing sharpness of incredible arousal, the kind that feels like a pin right through the taint.

The passing seconds are countable on one hand and I’m ready to burst. The feeling wells up and then–– bwah?!

I wake up in Angela’s bed. I barely manage to mind-over-matter my cock muscles, stem the orgasmic flow as she’s quietly girl-snoring next me. Clock radio reads 3:05 am.

Check the equipment, definitely some seepage but this doesn’t need to be a thing. It’s been years–– I don’t know how many–– since my last wet dream. Certainly the first time in someone else’s bed.

Stifling my laughter as I change in her bathroom, I think about the power the mind has over the body. Wild how much more immersive a wet dream orgasm can be than the ones when I masturbate to porn. Obviously, the dream situation is being generated by my own mind, so it’s engaging numerous senses and levels of consciousness. Porn on the other hand is passive, extremely visual. I mean, sometimes I care a little about the porn stars’ moaning, maybe I can dig that. But more often than not they are plain fucking annoying–– she’s screaming like she’s been impaled by a javelin, or is spouting off plain weird shit: “I want to taste my ass juice off your cock!” Who says that? Wherever I can minimize the perception that Lifeless Fuckbot 3000 is getting cock-rocked, I do so. Via the volume-down key.

So having regained consciousness in the silent and sexless slumber party, I’m feeling frisky. I wake Angela with my hands on her waist. I tug her toward me and she obliges, pressing her too-firm ass against my crotch. I’m a little disappointed. Hers is not near as round and supple as the hindquarters of dream girl. Sure it pokes out all right, but it’s disconcertingly narrow like she sat down in a toddler’s booster seat for too long, which has permanently pinched her ass. Boxy is what it is. When I see her from behind, there is no exploding instinct to bend and spread. That’s got to be a deal-breaker.

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We have a sterile goodbye when I leave for work before 8 am.

I may have let out a gasp into Angela’s pillow when I came in that other girl’s mouth.

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