I’m not one of those guys who considers himself to be a sexual dynamo.

The mere fact that I use the term “sexual dynamo” should be a dead giveaway. But just because I’m not smooth with the ladies doesn’t mean I don’t think about sex, like, all the time. In fact, I think that guys like me have it pretty bad: We’re always thinking about sex, but are unable to go out and have sex. It’s an itch that rarely gets scratched.

So, like most of us (I think), I get by on a steady diet of free internet porn. Free internet porn is weird. When I was a newbie, I would just click on one of the “recommended videos.” Then I got a little experimental with the categories. (Did you know that “mousy introspective nerd girl, glasses, banana tits, blowjob” is a searchable phrase?) Soon, I made it to the big leagues and came to the realization that porn is best left to the professionals. My go-to was a blonde porn star from New York with giant fake tits, a water-tight ass, and zero gag reflex. She was amazing.

After a little internet sleuthing, I learned that she moonlighted as a call girl in Manhattan… a short train ride away from the New Jersey town where I lived. This was an amazing discovery! I could actually be with her, like, in real life. For months I saved up, until I was finally able to scratch together the twelve hundred bucks it cost to book her for an hour. A few emails later, we had a date.

I admit it — I did everything wrong. For some reason, I thought I needed to impress her, so instead of booking a room at some shitty, cheap hotel, I spent more than I should have on a room at the W in Times Square. I showered, I groomed, I shaved, I put on a suit, and I rubbed out a few quick ones… to last longer. After what seemed like hours, there was a knock at my door. I looked through the peephole, and there she was. Radiant. Glowing. Amazing. I drew in a deep breath, exhaled sharply, and slowly opened the door.

“Well hello there, beau — ” I crooned. Before I could finish my sentence, some white, bald, muscled, goatee-wearing monkey kicked the door open, wrapped one of his hands around my throat, and pressed a gun against my temple. “What’s your name, faggot?” he screamed.

She smiled at me, dropped to her knees, and took my Jet-Puffed marshmallow into her mouth.

“Mar — Martin,” I replied.

“And what are we doing here, Martin?” he screamed.

Huh?

Turns out that my internet dream girl had been going through a nasty divorce and, for whatever reason, my booking triggered a whole lot of suspicion. I explained to the monkey that I was a fan. That I watch a ton of internet porn, and had seized an opportunity to be with my internet-porn crush. His grip was so tight around my throat that my pleas sounded like quacks. I quacked about my childhood, I quacked about my keyword preferences. I quacked about my insecurities with the opposite sex. Anything that would get this muscle monkey to lower his weapon and loosen his grip.

After about ten minutes of quacking, a brief search of my internet history, and a read of the email thread with her booking agent, Internet Dream Girl’s monkey released his grip, lowered his gun, straightened my shirt, dusted me off, and said, “Sorry, boss. Crazy times. Enjoy yourself. Be back in an hour,” and left the room.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

I was a wreck. I was shaking. I was mortified. I was not thinking about sex… yet I was alone with the internet girl of my dreams… having paid over a thousand dollars to be with her… and somehow expected to perform.
She took off all her clothes. She was beautiful, but I was flaccid. She smiled at me, dropped to her knees, and took my Jet-Puffed marshmallow into her mouth. It was wonderful, but my traumatized dick didn’t cooperate. It stayed soft in her warm, professional mouth. She sucked me while I was standing, she sucked me while I was sitting, and she sucked me while I was lying on the bed. She sucked me with her years of experience, but Jet-Puffed wasn’t having any of it. Forlorn, I pulled away… it wasn’t going to happen.

But in my absurd desperation, I pushed her onto the bed and started to eat her pussy. I was so distressed from my run-in with Muscle Monkey, that I actually thought it was a good idea to go down on Internet Dream Girl… the prostitute… and eat her pussy. Her blonde pussy. Her blonde pussy that she shaved bald.

I made my way down to her honey hole and did the best I could. I spelled the alphabet with my tongue, I purred on her clit, and I stuck my language muscle as far inside of her as I could… only to fish out a dark curly hair… from her bald, blonde pussy… with the tip of my tongue. My God.

That was my breaking point. I ordered her to get dressed, tossed her out of my room, brushed my teeth (for like an hour), took a shower, and went to sleep by myself in the W’s impressive feather bed. Twelve hundred dollars could have gotten me a kick-ass TV. Twelve hundred dollars could have gotten me a down payment on a new car. But instead, twelve hundred dollars got me choked, a gun to my head, and a random John’s pubes in my teeth.

ILLUSTRATION BY JASON JOHNSON