Blue Balls Report 001 – The Receptionist

If it were only about the physical notch, then “blue balls” – proverbially speaking, leaving a man deliberately unejaculated – would be just transactional. But it cuts to the core of a man’s hunting spirit and it leaves him deflated like a kid’s balloon post-birthday party.

Here is a story of where a fetish of mine met with blue ball failure. The high and then subsequent low requires it own account on this blog.

The Receptionist

Let’s call her this because she was a brothel receptionist as I found out the night she sat on my futon). We had met some nine months before at a bar, where I had generously bought her and her friend a drink. I was not after anything – the friend had been fuming from being abandoned mid-date by a woman who claimed she “wasn’t feeling it”. Drinks bought, I let them go.

The Receptionist came up later and confidently grabbed me to dance as she had seen me dancing with a number of other girls. It was a close dance, a jazz ballad, and she remarked that she “definitely needed a drink”. A few drinks, a few dances, later a sojourn to a coffee shop for ice cream, a makeout, and an odd scene in front of a lingerie shop commenting on her favourite brands. At the drop-off she initiated some resistance as she had just moved into the new apartment and didn’t want to upset the landlord.

She surfaced and resurfaced over the months. I had rejected her by saying I was “seeing someone exclusively” (pre-non-monogamous days). The relationship I was in (Miss Nippon) had ended some nine months later as I was pursuing being a “lover”. I initiated contacted with her and we traded strange gold-diggerish texts and Beta tests about buying her watches and jewellery. One night, after sharing my number on Instagram, she called me – as I sat in a bar talking to a Spanish bar maid and pondering the direction of my Game and where it would take me. I picked The Receptionist up; we went for tea and cake; and she came back to mine for some honey-infused bourbon.

It was a strange, early-Game encounter. We did not make out at all through the evening – I couldn’t focus clearly on her face due to a thin revulsion for the ridiculous eyelashes and Rasta wig she was wearing. (I had tried to convince myself that I liked trashy women, but the hindbrain could not follow suit). At one point, sharing a story about her Christian upbringing, we broke into song – What A Friend We Have in Jesus. This girl, despite her unendearing gold-diggery, had some wit and banter.

I got her naked, not sure how, and asked her to lie on a towel on the ground for a full body massage. This I gave, willingly, and again I had an unconscious reaction to her oversized D-cup breasts, the kind a man would kill for, yet for me were just too much. She had a great figure, lovely skin, and I went down on her for a bit before fingering her clitoris. By this stage the honey-infused bourbon (a present swept up by accident from my Dad after Father’s Day) was dry and she was drunk.

And as I squatted over her, erection in tow, a mere inch from her vagina, she put up a wall of Last Minute Resistance which was to be expected. “I don’t like sex”, she mumbled. By that time the interaction had lasted hours and any thought of pushing through and notching my first black girl had subsided. I wanted this girl out of my house.

I told her to get dressed, she fumbled around and pleaded with me, asking if I was angry. I was cold, distant, and ready for bed. She then dragged her feet, didn’t want to leave the apartment and took some twenty minutes to get out the door. Her voice rose in the hall – I was mindful of the Hungarian woman down the end who left Soviet Bloc-ish oddity Christmas messages which included references to closing doors softly – and I knew the exchange with the Receptionist would build to a crescendo once on the street.

I got her outside, her partly stumbling, me partly carrying her like a potato sack. We stood there in the rain waiting for the Uber as she tested, tested, tested me with every comment, slur, complaint, and insult she could muster. I put her in the Uber – a patient Arab driver who read the situation immediately as I opened the car door – and she finally demanded a kiss. I said no.

“Are you breaking up with me?!” She shouted like a pterodactyl.

“Yes”, I shouted. I turned and left her in the Uber. Some minutes later the driver called me, asking me if I was happy for her to be redirected to the Casino. “Take her home!” And I went to bed.

Takeaways:

1. Don’t date brothel receptionists.

2. No amount of forebrain commitment can block the hindbrain’s revulsion to fakery.

3. Christian hymns have a place in the Game toolkit.

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