I had you over to my hotel room when I was in town to jerk it and watch some adult entertainment. I’m married, happily, but when on the road I find it fun to enjoy the company of another man while pleasuring myself. So….We email. Then we text. Then you blow up my phone with probably 30 texts within an hour. I assumed you were just eager and you seemed to be into the same stuff I am, so why not?
You come over. It’s awkward. We jerk ourselves to a pretty glorious completion, huge loads each, and then I politely indicate that the encounter is over and I’d like to get some rest.
Here’s where I don’t fucking understand you, man. You leave the hotel room and begin texting me each and every little detail of how our shared experience wasn’t what you were hoping for. Did you speak up when you didn’t like the porn? No. Did you ask to stay longer when you felt like I was kicking you out? No. I’m guessing you’re somewhere on the autism spectrum, because you seem to only communicate via text message and have no clue how to express anything toward others, or so I think based on a one-hour jerk session. You sent me literally 73 texts that night after leaving.
I know that it’s hard to be unsure of your sexuality. I know that sometimes fantasy is better than reality. But please, next time don’t act like a broken hearted teenage girl because I didn’t want to jerk off with you twice in a row. Fuck.
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