Fellati-UH-OH!

As the Gotty faithful are well aware, my sexcapades (sexual escapades), never run as smoothly/normal as they should. From erectile disfunction, to strange fetishes, to the rush of being watched, one could say I'm a little fucking weird. To prove this point, I am currently writing this post while listening to the "Closer to fine" by the Indigo Girls, nuff said.

Anyways, I'm starting to grow up. I'm living, happily, with the lady friend in an apartment that we split 30:70, I round out the Top 5 waiters at the Vinny Ts on Beacon St, and I jog now. Not the atypical American Dream, but God-Damnit, I'm making it, baby! Despite these strides towards normalcy, maturity, and adult-hood, my libido lingers in limbo. [Reader's note: Currently listening to "Come to my window" by Melissa Ethridge]

Though my sex drive accelerates faster than Tony Stewarts #20 machine coming out of turn two at Pocano, my erection goes down faster than a Red Wood felled by Paul Bunyon when it comes to oral. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure I could maintain an erection longer in a Quaker church than a could in a girls mouth. [Note to self: go to church on Sunday].

The lady, now very understanding of my issues, came (no pun intended) to my aide. Now I've never been a fan of jewelry, but cock rings are something else. For the first time in nearly 4 months, I was able to maintain blood flow to my penis indefinitely. I had saved face, or so I thought.

I had an erection, yes, but I was more desensitized to the friction than Mel Gibson to the Holocaust. For the first time ever, physical arousal could not compete with mental disgust. I couldn't climax. No matter how much I focused on the act itself, websites I viewed earlier in the day, or premonitions of Michael lingering in the shadows, the status quo of my penis remained unchanged. At that point I felt a feeling that I had never felt before--guilt. Guilt in my inability to perform, guilt that the lady was performing CPR on a lifeless victim, and guilt from not manscaping in months. I had an epiphany, a perfect storm of guilt, embarrassment, and genius surged upon my cerebral tissue and exploded in actions. Spastically, I reached to the bedside table and reached for a Klenex.

This is where I ask you to pay close attention, this is where I ask you to remember me for the martyr that I am becoming, this is where I ask you to believe. As if lifting a newborn from the doctors arms, I gently lifted the lady's head from my lap. I then rolled to one side and smothered my moistened groin with the tissue and tensed every muscle in my body in contortion. Eyes rolled back, whilst breathing heavy, I excused myself to the bathroom. I threw out the clean tissue, removed the ring, and returned to bed greeted with "I love you," and a smile of pure satisfaction.

When our children look back on the great escapes of our time, three will hang together, immortal to time: Tom Brady's tuck, OJ not guilty, and Gotty's fake fellatio orgasm. You're welcome.

Keeping it trill,

Gotty