actuality.log

It was the second, perhaps the third, time that night. I had that sinking feeling of despair wash over me as I realised how little of a man I was. As I lay over that beautiful woman—wet and ready with her legs parted in invitation—I found myself doing the unthinkable. I was desperately holding my shrinking cock in my trembling hands and stroking furiously: I needed to be hard again. I needed to feel that wonderful sensation of her pussy lips wrapped around me once more. I needed to feel like the strong man towering over that delicate flower rocking rhythmically as I caressed her chest and face with my own.

I needed to be within her.

I am shrinking some more. Panic is beginning to set in. Her annoyed breaths are turning to sadness as she’s trying to egg me on. “Please,” she sighs, “don’t stroke yourself when you’re over me. Just enter me.” I could have died at that instant. I haven’t felt as little or as inadequate as I did right then. All I wanted to do was to show her how much I loved and needed her. All I ended up doing was to struggle to stay hard and convince her there was something wrong with her form.

I don’t deserve anyone, especially not such a gentle loving creature that adores me so. I don’t know what went wrong, but I am terrified.

Hey, wait a minute. That’s not how this story ended!

However the story did end, the moral of the tale is this: Don’t use newfangled muscle-relaxing, cock-desensitising, stay-hard-for-her-longer condoms.

I don’t know what I did to cause it—I sure as hell don’t lift heavy things—but I seem to have thrown my back. It’s been hurting like hell ever since I woke up last morning, and I’m having a hard time moving around. Or sitting. Or even lying down.

This wouldn’t be so bad if I had nowhere to be, but I’ve had a lot of itty-bitty things to take care of lately—like spending much of last morning in queues at the neighbouring U.S. embassy. Actually, it really wasn’t all that bad, it took less than a couple of hours in total—my back just made it seem a lot longer.

I was there applying for a visa to enter the States. I plan on spending some time at M.I.T. next month and later attending a cousin’s wedding in Georgia (I think). I’m pleased to report that there weren’t any problems or unpleasantries with the visa proceedings, and my travel plans are still on.

While I am in life news mode, I’d also like to report that my mom will be here in a couple of weeks, She plans on spending a few weeks in my home before heading off to the U.S. (separately, we’ll rejoin after my M.I.T. stint) to partake in the festivities of the aforementioned wedding. I need to make my home a tad more habitable (like buying a few chairs!) before she gets here, and figure out fun things to show her, but that’s not the direction I want to take this tale.

I gingerly broached the subject of her needing to draw as much enjoyment from this wedding as she could—for she wasn’t going to experience any of it at her own son’s. I’m nearly certain I’m not having a wedding wedding even if I ever were to get married, and she should have her fill of festivities elsewhere. At this point, I was expecting a disappointed tone on the other end of the phone, or at least a solemn talking-to—but nothing. Instead, she nonchalantly goes, “Oh, but I’ve always known that. You’ve been hinting ever since you were four that you felt weddings were a waste of time and money. And I tend to agree with you.”

I don’t know why people don’t believe me when I tell them I’ve always felt jaded and old.

I shot a small series while hanging out with some friends late last evening. With its old school colours and comfortable ambience, I kinda like how it turned out.