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The Sex God

A couple years back, my struggling buddy Napolean began getting all into pick-up literature. His methods with women weren’t rendering any results, so he hit, and he hit it hard. Every new conversation we had brought news of a new book he’d just read and how he was already applying his new methods “in the field.” I’d read a couple books on the topic, but since I was doing fine for myself as a slithery salamander I didn’t feel the need to invest any more time learning about new pick-up techniques. Napolean sent me these audio interviews called “David DeAngelo’s Interviews With Dating Gurus,” so I uploaded them onto my Ipod and played a few during my drives to work, which was better than listening to the Black Eyed Peas-infested radio.

With the exception of a handful of interviewees, every “dating guru” sounded like a total dork, including David DeAngelo (who claims that one time he put an “L” on his forehead and mouthed the words “loser” to a girl, and she found him attractive). What gave these guys “expert” status made no sense to me. I will admit, however, that there was some interesting stuff on there. One of the gurus described a tactic in which he’d program his phone number under the name “Sex God” into girls’ phones. Though it’d been over a year since I heard that particular interview, while talking with a hefty 31-year-old blonde at Woody’s, I applied the technique hoping all that time spent in the car listening to these hopeless bozos would yield some results.

Her name was Pam. She was an inverted Butterface, so instead of having a hot body and ugly face, Pam had a hot face and ugly body. When I asked my buddy Axe if there was a name for that, his response was: “Fat.” Fair enough.

Pam was on her way out as I punched in my plagiarized cell phone name. A half hour later I began texting her:

Sex God: “Where’d you go?”
Pam: “WTF!!! Who is this!!!”
Sex God: “This is the Sex God, duh. Your lame friends just dragged you out of here. We’re gonna need to hang out asap.”
Pam: “HAHAHAHAHA!!!!! I’m at the Blue Beat!!! Come over!!!!!!”
Sex God: “Cool. After I finish my beer.”

I turned in an 0-fer at Woody’s, so I strolled over to Blue Beat sometime after 1 a.m., drunk and horny. I found Pam making movements on the dance floor in a swashbuckling mess, limbs flailing everywhere. I made the mistake of letting her see me while she was dancing, and she stomped over and plucked me like a Jurassic predator. While grinding on me, she planted a wet beer kiss all over the lower hemisphere of my face. Then her friends grabbed her for last call, leaving me standing stupidly on the dance floor, still unmoved since being seized, but now with beer-saliva on my face. I called it a night and went home to masturbate.

I texted Pam the following evening with a basic “Holy crap.” I could tell the “Sex God” thing had already seduced her, so I doubt it really mattered what I texted. Two texts later she invited me over.

It was a five-minute drive to her house, which she owned, yet she’d been unemployed for over a year. I later learned she used to be a scuba instructor or something, but was now spending time “finding herself,” which apparently meant eating KFC everyday and drinking five nights a week.

When I arrived, Pam and one of her unattractive friends were in the kitchen eating chips and salsa. I noticed one of the kitchen walls was a gargantuan painting of a chef. The chef literally was the wall, constantly reminding Pam to keep eating. “So you’re the Sex God?” her friend asked.
I smiled at Pam. “Geez, Pam. You’re such a blabbermouth.”

Pam laughed. “I know. It was just too funny,” she said between bites. “But you know? It probably wasn’t a good idea to say that because now you have a lot to live up to.”

“Oh, I know,” I fired back.

“I mean, you’ve really set yourself up for failure,” Pam continued, her eyes dilated.

“I don’t know about that.” I opened the fridge. “Will you drink a beer with me?”

“Of course.”

Her friend took off moments later, and Pam and I migrated to the couch. After she tried getting to know me and crap, we went upstairs, flopped on the bed, and made out. She’d been drinking earlier that day, so every kiss had a hint of booze in it.

I tried taking her clothes off, but she was being stingy, saying things like, “What about you? You first.” In the end, I was naked and she was in a tank top and soccer shorts. It wasn’t a fair exchange, but I figured only good things could happen if I was naked. As I lay on my back, Pam began caressing me all over. The caressing turned to a barrage of tickles–on my feet, arms, sides, neck, and legs. Because I’m abnormally ticklish, I began squirming like a little girl. My squirming sent Pam into a frenzy, and she began laughing like a maniac. She suggested handcuffs, which I immediately dismissed. As a compromise she put my arms back. With my legs spread, my body was now in a vulnerable X shape, making me look like the Vitruvian Man.

Pam went ballistic, tickling me slow then fast, and laughing normally then crazily. She’d been tickle-torturing me for thirty minutes without ever touching my penis. “I could do this all night,” she told me. “I’m kinda sadistic.” Since the tickling felt good at times, I let her go at it, taking the pain in stride, faking enthusiasm and paying my dues for an eventual copulation.

She finally began stroking my dick, but then returned to the tickling for another five minutes. Back and forth for another hour. I began to wonder if my dick would ever get wet, but then I remembered she was over the age of 25, which kept me at ease. It seemed every squirmy reaction from me made her cream. If anyone knows the sexual term describing the tickle-torture fetish, contact me. Even in all my porn watching, I had yet to see any video that involved tickling.

The tickling intervals eventually became shorter and all her attention focused on my dick–stroking then sucking. Finally. I got her naked and feasted on her triple D fake tits. After I slipped on the condom she said, “Sex God, huh? We’ll see about that.”

Due to her softball-player body size, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to begin plowing. A blowjob with a happy ending would have sufficed, but I guess I had to live up to my name. I slipped my condom-covered hard-on into her moist cave.

Things were going fine at first, but then everything started smelling. Badly. It was as if her pussy had eaten an order of spicy tuna rolls, and then let out The World’s Nastiest Queef. Within seconds, my wiener went soft serve, and I slowed down my thrusts like a puttering ’57 Chevy.

After I’d come to a complete halt, she looked into my eyes, dejected.
I spoke. “Sorry, uh, all that tickling wore me out.”

She looked away. “Yeah.”

I rolled off her and faked a giant sigh as if I was exhausted.
“Long day, huh?” Pam asked.

“Big time,” I said. “I think I’m still hungover from last night.” This was a lie of course, but I had to say something.

After “resting,” I took my condom off, laid in the Vitruvian Man position, and let Pam tickle me again to satisfy her sadism, eventually busting in her mouth. She swallowed because I told her it was “unsexy” for girls to not swallow (which is true). I left shortly after, leaving Pam to ponder the disappointment my Sex Peasant status. Maybe if she douched beforehand, I could have given it to her good. I think girls should meet once a month to inspect each other–make sure it doesn’t smell down there, shave off that patch of hair on their ass, etc. Then I could have been a real Sex God. Instead, all I have is a stinky excuse for going soft.


A month later, while drunk at Woody’s again, I ran into Pam. We said a few words and introduced each other to our friends, and then she took off. After turning in another 0-fer, I texted Pam (plan Z). She’d apparently taken a liking to my buddy Punchline and stealthily offered us a threesome at her place. Punchline took off, and when I told her it was just me coming over, she said, “Oh, OK.” I went over to her place, let her tickle me, and then she sucked me off. She never took her underwear off probably because either she was on her period or because she was self-conscious about the spicy tuna smell.

Since I’d cabbed it there, I spent the night. Sometime around seven in the morning I woke up with a furious case of morning wood. And I had to pee. I went to her bathroom and made a frantic attempt at urinating, but I was lazy with my boner-peeing and pissed all over the place. Because I’m such a great guy, I tried to wipe it up using toilet paper, but I’d put money on it that in 24 hours, yellow-orange crustiness began mysteriously sprouting on the peripheries of Pam’s toilet. I went back to bed for an hour, and then she drove me home. I doubt Pam will be contacting the “Sex God” anytime soon.

Published inDave Glenn