A few weeks ago, I hooked up with a girl at a party, and we went back to her place where she told me she “practiced safe sex.” I told her that was great because I did, too. However, what she meant by her comment was she had a loaded gun by her bed at all times sitting on her nightstand. So, when I told her I practiced safe sex, I thought I had alluded to keeping a box of condoms of assorted colors and flavors at my disposal, but what she heard was that I like to have group sex with Smith & Wesson.
When I saw the gun in her bedroom, I didn’t panic and run away. My family raised me around firearms, and I didn’t want to get shot in the back. I decided to play it as safe as I could. I would have sex with this girl and try not to do anything to threaten her or piss her off. There was a problem with my plan, though. She said she wanted rough sex. I felt as though I had to oblige, but I was scared to death I was going to take it further than she wanted to go. I’ve found out the hard way that people have their limits, and this wasn’t one of those “hard knock” lessons I was willing to learn.
The night consisted of me continuously almost building up to an orgasm only to lose all that pressure when I’d start to imagine her reaching for the gun. I wanted nothing more than to cum and fall asleep in her protective arms, but the sex lasted for more than two hours culminating in me having an anxiety attack on top of her and effectually faking my own orgasm. For the next four hours, I was used as a body pillow while I stayed awake staring at her ceiling fan in a cold sweat.