A Tale of Two Totts.

Breakup to Make-Up it's all we do...

Forgive me if I sound bitter. Forgive me for not being able to crossover into the unknown, the future, also known as “moving on.” Forgive me if I give you the most righteous middle finger you have seen this side of the Santa Ana River. Please. Kick rocks and when you’re done with that disappear into your irrelevance and I promise you that I will do the very same.

I stood there, like a damn stalker. There she was, Emma. Leaving me old and cold, chatting up Mr. Casey, yet another one of my friends was about to become a notch on her thong… that is if she ever cared enough to cage the unruly bush beast of a vagina she hid deep down. Remember, you’re supposed to forgive me for being miserable and bitter.

How did this all go so very wrong? Would a six gun sucker punch have removed my competition, or was it over long before? Perhaps it was over in Las Vegas. Perhaps it was after spending hours lip locked and tongue tied that she became bored and began her hunt anew… Was I simply a month’s old bone, ripped of all its meat? Dry, dull, uninteresting; did I have nothing left to offer then?

Perhaps it was in my car, on a breezy-cool autumn evening when I discovered that, no, she REALLY tasted like a basketball and rubber glue sandwich. No, I’m not bitter, just confused. Emma became bored after she pulled me into her kiss a venomous reassurance that she had game, the kind of game that I had not. With that kiss, I was in, even in spite of what I suspected was chronic halitosis. Still, not bitter; with me in her web, trapped, her legs gripped firmly one more piece of meat snagged from the wild, more fresh meat to gnaw on and dispense of, bones yet to be left in her wake; yet one more broken heart left to the wayside, one more wasted and trampled heart that belonged to Jeremy Caplan before me…

Denied. I tried to kiss Jamie, my lips met her cheek; this was not a pleasant introduction, for her cheek revealed a sudden adversary, one that was, until then, off the grid. Tears welled up and they were my tears. I had just been reduced to emotional fud. I could barely talk. Why was my love banishing me? What had I done? The last few years had been an unbearable cock tease, you see.

I learned at twenty two what I should have learned at fifteen, that there is a difference between felatio and sodomy… Yes, a very key difference. You see, upon receiving my first oral experience, in a movie theater of all places, I was obviously happy, proud of myself; ready to pat myself on the back for the rest of the year. As a man receiving his first beej, I wanted to make this declaration of my penises freedom to my closes brothers. Their looks were of horror and confusion. “Alex, you f*cking idiot!!! That’s not sodomy, that’s FELATIO!!!” You fail at sexual terminology.

The year I was with her, I learned that a guy could be given the gift of oral in many, many places if his partner in crime was particularly willing and creative. Road head; concert head; best friend party head; late night diner head. Like an AM/PM slogan, there, indeed, was simply too much good stuff. Confidence grew, as did my fondness; then love. Foolishly, I let this vixen punch a hole through that vcard, no refunds, no returns; all sales final. With that card, she also had a parting gift. My heart. It crumbled at her feet, as she kicked it to the side and made her way off into the sunset, hand in hand with Dr. Steve, how I wanted to “Story of Ricky” his head and hers and even mine. I felt so very futile and plain dumb.

It began innocently or, rather, unnaturally evil manner for me. I was young, horny and I had no plan. This vicious, years long, cock-tease tango would drive me to the breaking point, before I mustered the courage to be selfish and make a move; and moved I did! My lips broke through her friend-hug shields and shattered them to bits! I forced her into me. Passion exploded and it changed my life and set a path for my sexuality from that day forward. It was then that I was given the first two pieces of an unruly puzzle that I still piece together, even to this day.

Looking back, what little of the puzzle Jamie gave me wasn’t love; it was the art of being f*cked. Today, right now, I send a text message saying “I luv u.” Most importantly, the sentiment is reciprocated… Much more of the puzzle has been assembled as I write this

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Alex is the founder and managing editor at the Urban Dater. Alex also runs: DigiSavvy, for which he is the co-founder and Principal. Alex has a lot on his mind. Will he ever get it right? If he does, he'll be sure to write.

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    1. You know, that's entirely plausible given that the quality of the bj was about as good as I'd have for at least another five years. Since a guy really knows what a good beej is like it's conceivable that a man, in fact, did the oral heavy lifting instead.

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