In the nineties, I was very into the downtown band scene in New York City.

It was a wild time, and I spent my nights at shows, lusting after this punk girl who fronted one of the more popular bands.

Punk Girl looked like she had just walked off the pages of a coloring book with her dyed red hair, porcelain skin, and doughy doll face. She was covered in stick-n-poke tattoos, and had a rotating wardrobe of leather catsuits she pranced around in onstage. Punk Girl was mouthy, mean, and sexy. We had friends in common, and all hung out in the same circle, but Punk Girl and I had never shared more than a few beers and drunken flirtations.

One night, post-show, Punk Girl and I were hanging out at the bar while the rest of our friends sat at some tables. I ordered us two shots of whiskey as she stubbed out her cigarette and suggestively rubbed her hand on my leg. Pretty soon the bartender was booting us out, and Punk Girl suggested we go to her place. She gave me her address and told me to meet her in half an hour. “People don’t need to know our business,” she said as she got up to leave. “See you there.”

On the way to her place, I stopped in a deli to pick up more drinks. Behind the counter, right next to the condoms, I noticed a small spray bottle that said it would make a man “last longer.” I don’t remember the exact brand name, but my mind screamed, “The Duration Xtender!”

It’s always been difficult for me to fuck a girl and not come in under 60 seconds, and this was Punk Girl, so I thought, What the hell? I bought the spray. (It was the nineties. We were all dumb as fuck.) The fine print on the Duration Xtender said it contained a numbing agent designed to desensitize your dick. It seemed a little risky, but I was drunk, stupid, and willing to try anything to keep my dick in Punk Girl as long as humanly possible.

When I got to her apartment, I dropped the drinks onto her messy coffee table and beelined it for the can. I took a piss and then read the Xtender’s instructions. The package suggested five to seven spritzes on my dick — focusing on the head — followed by immediate handwashing. I overdid it, losing count around 12 sprays. I hid the bottle behind a pile of laundry on the floor and made a mental note to get it before I left.

Minutes later we were making out. Punk Girl said she liked it rough, so I pushed her down on the sofa, ripped off her shirt, and gave her a few playful slaps on the tits. She laughed and writhed under me, twisting her tongue into my mouth. We were dry humping like prom night virgins when she sat up and whipped off my pants like a magician performing a tabletop trick.

“You have a nice cock,” she whispered before wrangling her tongue around it. I knew this girl was not fucking around. Worried I would repeat history and come faster than a cheetah on speed, I pushed her back down so I could get to work on her pussy. She slowly pulled my hair as I dragged my tongue all over her, lapping up Punk Girl with every taste bud I had. Suddenly, I felt her body tense up.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” she yelped.

“Yeah? Do you like it?” I asked between breathless laps of my tongue.

“Oh my God, wait, no… stop!” she cried. “Stop! Something is wrong with my face!”

I shot up from between her legs and saw her frantically pinching her lips.

“My mouth is all numb. Oh my God, I think I’m having a fucking stroke!”

Fuck me. I’m a total idiot. Of course, the Duration Xtender would numb whatever crossed its icy path, and that included Punk Girl’s mouth, damaged by proxy via my cock. Still, I needed to play it cool. I didn’t want to tell her what I’d done.

“You’re not having a stroke,” I assured her. “Just calm down. Maybe it was something you ate?”

“No! I haven’t eaten since the afternoon!” she barked. Punk Girl walked her perfect naked ass to the nearest mirror and started slapping her face like a mental patient. “I can’t feel anything. I can’t feel my face!”

Punk Girl wasn’t going to let me fuck her if she thought she was dying of a stroke. So, I came clean.

“You’re okay,” I sighed, walking over to her. “I put something on my dick that makes it numb.”

“What?” Punk Girl narrowed her eyes into angry slits and glared at me through the mirror. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well….”

“I can’t believe you let me suck your cock,” she shrieked. “What if it’s poisonous? What if I can’t sing anymore? Did you think about that? I think my throat is closing up!”

I tried to talk her down from the ledge of Mount Hysteria, and even brought out the bottle so she could look at the ingredients. She whipped the canister at my head and yelled for me to take her outside to get some air, where she proceeded to squat down on the sidewalk. Then she made me explain exactly what had happened to six different passersby, and ask them if they thought she would be okay.

After being reassured by a bunch of confused drunk strangers that her mouth and throat would be fine in a few hours, she told me to get out of her face and never speak to her again.

Illustration by Jason Johnson