It was the evening of July 8th, 2004. Using the website called ‘Fandango’, I had purchased a single ticket to the premier of “Anchorman” starring Will Ferrell. The film wouldn’t officially be opening until the following day, but avid moviegoers like myself sometimes like to catch the first, midnight screening of especially over-hyped films. In most cases, I reserve this type of geeky behavior for films such as the Lord of the Rings trilogy and similar big budget sci-fi or fantasy epics, but for some reason, on that particular night, I had an itch to see Will Ferrel say ridiculous things in a loud voice. Little did I know what kind of coming attractions this film would have. Or should I say, ejaculating attractions. Or should I say, ejaculating penis which is my penis. Take your pick.

I should take a brief moment to point out that, much as I am right now, I was quite tipsy at the outset of the encounter I am about to relate. This past summer, it seemed that tipsiness was my default setting. Much as it is now.

So. There I was. 11:30pm. Galumphing along Broadway, with absolutely no ‘free blowjob from a stranger’ expectations whatsoever running through my mind, lurching along awkwardly as I am wont to do, thanks to the combined effects of alcohol, flat feet, legs of unequal length, a disproportionately large skull, a beer gut and a weighty backpack. As I passed 83rd Street, and headed towards the entrance of the Loews theater there, you know – the one where you can usually catch movies that star a Wayans brother or Martin Lawrence, I caught a voice out of the corner of my ear. A female voice:

“Excuse me.”

I stopped, dead in my tracks, and turned to see a very ordinary looking woman. Even now, I could not begin to describe her, other than to say that she wasn’t particularly pretty or ugly, fat or thin, tall or short. She was probably a bit older than me, a bit frumpier than me, but healthy looking. She had a bit of a glow. She was dressed. Note to self: drink less.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” She said.

Normally, I would’ve brushed her off and continued lurching, but for some reason, I turned to her and said –

“Um. Sure.”

She smiled. She definitely had a very pleasant way about her.

“Are you married?” she asked.

“No.” I responded.

“Are you gay?”

“No.”

“Would you be willing to listen to an offer that will probably sound to good to be true?”

I shook my head and walked away. And that’s where my story ends. Thanks for having me Nick and Je-ust kidding.

“Okay.” I said. And she proceeded to launch into a rather elaborate explanation, which I’m not entirely confident in my ability to recollect, but this is what I can remember:

“I’m a yoga instructor from Chicago, and I’m in town visiting a friend just for tonight. I leave tomorrow morning. I’m trying to do some experiments with my energy right now, and I can’t do it alone. Here’s what I propose. We go upstairs to my friend’s apartment –“

- she gestures to the building we’re standing next to –

“you wash your cock (her choice of words). I give you head until you cum, and then you leave.”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“You can understand my skepticism,” I responded.

She laughed. “Oh, sure,” she said.

I put my smart consumer mind to work, and resolved to play the part of the tough customer. I wasn’t going to be a pushover. She was going to have to provide me with a few assurances before I consented to go upstairs with her and allow her to give me head until I came.

“I’m not going to get mugged or robbed or anything?” I queried.

She laughed again – “Oh no, no.”

Alright, I thought to myself. So far so good.

“There isn’t going to be anyone else up there?”

“No, we’ll be alone.”

“It’s not going to be videotaped or anything, like with a hidden camera?”

“Oh no. I would never do that to anyone.”

Hmm, I thought to myself. Those are all of the questions I can think of, and she’s aced every one. Everything seems to be on the up-and-up.

“Alright,” I said, “I feel like I have to do this just so I can have the story.”

So we headed into the apartment building. It was a really nice doorman building, with a very large, well-lit lobby full of colorful, awful modern art. We passed the doorman, passed the mailboxes, and entered an elevator. She pressed the button for the 22nd floor. Nice. Once the elevator doors closed, she began laying the groundrules. I had to remove my shoes before we entered the apartment. I was to go into the bathroom, “wash my cock”, and then proceed to the bedroom. Silently. In fact, once we entered the apartment, there was to be no talking whatsoever. And she mentioned more than once that the building had good security, just in case I tried anything inappropriate. As we reached the 22nd floor, she must have noticed me checking my watch, because she asked me if I had anywhere I needed to be – I told her I had tickets to see the new movie Anchorman, starring Will Ferrel at midnight. “Who knows,” she said, “maybe you’ll still make the start of the movie.” These words would prove to be prophetic.

We reached the apartment door. We both took our shoes off. She led me inside. It was dark in the apartment. She put my shoes on a large shoerack to our left, on which there were many other pairs of shoes. In front of me was a coffee table with a bowl of fruit. I remember all of the fruit still having the price tags on it.

She gestured to a door down a short hallway to our right. It was the bathroom. In the elevator, I had already told her that I was going to be taking a full shower rather than just wash my cock. I hadn’t taken a shower at all that day, and due to some wiping misadventures earlier in the day, my crotchital region was particularly rancid. So I shut the bathroom door behind me, disrobed, and holy shit look at all the oils. Lotions. Potions and notions. The bathroom counter was covered in small colorful bottles. I glanced at one. Oral Pleasure Gel. Tasting A Stranger’s Boner Cream. Anonymous Cock Glaze. Penis Mustard. Alright, I made those last three up. Still, if this indeed was “her friend’s” apartment, they apparently shared similar interests. I took a shower. As I lathered up in this strange apartment, I must admit, I began to find the whole situation kind of exciting. I began to plump up a bit. Just a bit.

I toweled off. Took a deep breath, and strode out of the bathroom, stark naked. The apartment was still dark. Not a light had been turned on, and it was completely silent. I walked down the hallway to where she had told me the bedroom would be. As I rounded the corner, the first thing I noticed was the view. Floor to ceiling windows on two walls. No shades. No curtains. There were no buildings directly opposite either side, so no one could look in. Nice. The city lights stretched out below, glinting up at me.

The bed was right in front of me. A queen-size bed, I think. The bed was made, but on top of the existing bedding was a large white sheet that covered everything, including the pillows. Ah yes, I thought. The stage has been set.

The room appeared to be empty at first, but as I rounded the corner, I could see that my new acquaintance was standing at the opposite end of the room. Also nude. There we were. Two naked people, both of whom clearly needed to get to the gym, but only one of whom was claiming to be a “yoga instructor.” She gestured to the bed. I lied down on my back, putting my hands behind my head and parting my legs in order to give her ample working space. The ceiling was unremarkable. She got on the bed and sat between my legs, caressing my thighs with her hands.

Perhaps now would be a good time to say a few things about my penis:

My penis is a lot like Vincent D’Onofrio. Not huge, but putting forth excellent work in lower profile character roles throughout its career, despite a reputation for unreliability and quirkiness. Its not everyone’s cup of tea, but some people find it very compelling, and now, it stars on Law and Order: Criminal Intent. Alright, maybe I could have come up with a better comparison. But you get my point. Or maybe you don’t. How about this then – my penis is like Randy Moss during his rookie season. Capable of flashes of brilliance, but too often in its own little world, only rising to the occasion when it feels like it, en route to scoring 17 touchdowns for the Minnesota Vikings. No? Hmm. I need to work on my metaphors. Anyway…

Things got off to a promising start. Slow, gentle caresses on my legs. Moving up to my inner thighs. Very nice. She leaned down, her large breasts now dipping down below the horizon of my field of vision like the twin suns of Tattoine. She began kissing my inner thighs. My penis began to respond, and any worries I had of performance jitters soon melted away. Randy Moss had decided to bring his A game, I thought. She moved up to my love marbles, and continued gently licking. Things were moving along very nicely. Then, all too soon for my taste, she commenced the main event. The aforementioned blowjob. I’m sorry if that’s too much information, but if you’ve been paying attention so far, it should come as no surprise that this was leading up to me getting head. And at first, things were terrific. The same, slow, sensual, luxurious pace, Vincent D’Onofrio putting on a stalwart, riveting performance.

But then, she chose an ill-advised tactic. She suddenly shifted techniques, going from the slow, velvety pace that I was thoroughly enjoying, to a frantic, mechanical, unpleasantly jostling rhythm that soon threatened to send Randy Moss to the sidelines, that soon threatened to send Vincent D’onofrio back to his community theater roots. It’s a technique I refer to as the GONNA MAKE YA CUM!!! technique. Passionless and even ruthless in its goal-oriented, violent monotony. Perhaps this had worked like a charm for her before, but NOT on this guy. I enjoy the journey just as much as the destination, thank you very much. Soon, I was becoming flaccid, and she must have noticed, because she AMPED up the energy, slurping and wacking away with even more gusto, which I of course, liked even less. This dame was seriously putting the “owjob” in “blowjob”. This was going to be a disaster. So I broke one of the groundrules, and I spoke.

“You need to slow down.”

This was an almost irreparable breach of etiquette. She got kind of huffy with me. “Well, technically I’m in charge here, and my friend is going to be home by midnight anyway, and well, hmm, I suppose you could help if you wanted.” She practically said “harrumph”.

So I helped. I worked the throttle as she provided, at this point what amounted to token assistance with her mouth. I was so put off by her at this point that she wasn’t really a necessary part of the equation. I just wanted to get it over with. Which I did, even though I never fully regained rigidity. I finally ejaculated a disappointing, dribbling, burble, not unlike the last gasp from an empty squeezable ketchup bottle.

Now here’s where the story gets strange. This woman who was so eager to have me remove my shoes before entering the apartment, this woman who took the care to place a sheet over her friends bed, now also took great care to make sure that she got all of my ejaculate into her mouth. She harvested it, slurping it up, gathering it into her mouth with little sweeping motions of her fingers, until it was all in there. And there it stayed. She did not swallow, she did not spit. She merely stood up. And motioned out of the room. I was to get dressed and leave now.

I got dressed, and as I was about to put my shoes on, she tapped me on the shoulder, and still with a mouth full of my cum gave a pleasant tsk tsk signal with her finger, and gestured out the door. I stepped out of the apartment with my shoes in hand, and as I turned to look at her, the last thing I saw was her smiling and waving goodbye, still puffy-cheeked with a mouthful of semen. The door clicked behind me. I put my shoes on in the hallway and headed to the theater.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Any questions? Theories?